Title: Sentinel
Author: myria-chan
Rating: T, for assassination attempts
Summary: Arabian!AUThere is no greater honor than dying for His King. But his perpetual devotion stems from a different root. He understands it now.
It flashed briefly out from the corner of his eye—hiding behind the sand dunes, an arrowless bow, three o'clock, poised to kill, His Highness.
The subsequent events were a tumultuous rush of instinct and blurs as his body moved in volition and lunged. This was what he signed up for. He lived to protect this man for the remainder of his meager life.
But despite his best intentions, he realized that he had reacted a millisecond later than necessary, and the result was less than spectacular: tackling the Sultan out of his chariot in the middle of a grand parade. Certainly His Highness deserved a bit more refinement as opposed to landing squarely on his backside on the dusty roads of the Capital, a glorious mass of fine robes and tangled elegance, the top of the ornate turban askew from the royal tumble.
The imminent danger he felt had ceased to be replaced by roaring confusion and cold dread. But the inanity was he still possessed the presence of mind to ask, "Are you alright?"
A stifled gasp, and the Sultan's voice rose, "You've been shot!"
A baby cried from the muted crowd, finally someone screamed, the castle guards thundered into motion, and in the midst of all the katzenjammer, a desert lizard croaked.
He cocked his head and stared where the arrow penetrated his armor and felt pain pulsate over his right shoulder. His wound seemed small but deep, nestling deep and through above his right breast, just below the shoulder. It was peculiar that such a small wound could cause so much pain. He touched the area where he was struck and marveled at how his blood was coating his hand in river of red rivulet.
"Apparently so…" he murmured weakly, swaying dangerously, landing to the cushion of His Highness's arms without further ado.
"Ai…!" He read, more than heard, from His Highness's lips. It occurred to him from the receding consciousness of his mind how inappropriately close he was from royalty that he could smell the sun, the desert waters and the earth, he could note the stark contrast between the scarlet hair and the alabaster skin, a breath that smelled faintly of wine and fruits mingling to his staggering own.
Such thick eyelashes, his last thought before the world dissolved to pitch-black darkness.
He woke up to an unfamiliar ache over his right shoulder, a sharp throbbing consistency shooting pin-pricks of burning agony to the rest of his body. His head was nestled in a pillow, he realized, body lying supine in a bedding of the softest quilts, fleeces and pelts. The scent of expensive incense and crushed mixed herbs was thick in the air. When he opened his eyes, the sight of diaphanous silk hang overhead, a canopy of amethystine connected to four posters, shielding him from the flicker of candles and moonbeams in a soft cocoon.
"W-where…?"
"The Royal Quarters," said a soft murmur, and he craned his neck to have a clearer view from where the sound originated. A figure stood by the bedside, a glimmering incandescence of a man dressed in fine robes and silk embellished in gold filigree and gemstones.
"Highness…" With courtesy and manners imbedded deeply into his system, he dared to lift his body and pay his respects.
The Sultan hushed him to stillness. "Be still." Later, when he had quieted down, the Sultan arranged his position propped against pillows and headboard, gently and slowly, as if he would break with the least of movements. The beddings were far too munificent for his liking, he thought; he felt as if he was suspended in thin air. He'd rather slept on the cold hard floors of the infantry instead.
Later, a cup close was brought close to his lips.
"Pain killing herbs," the Sultan told him.
The liquid tasted vile, though the Sultan smiled approvingly when he finished the whole cup. He was grateful for the goblet of water that followed. The clear liquid was manna to his parched lips and throat. He didn't refuse the invitation for a refill; swallowing every droplet greedily.
A sigh of utter contentment passes his lips, settling back to the cushions—comfortable, a bit lightheaded now that the pain killing herbs were taking in effect. Amusing, he'd only been awake for a few moments and he was ready to fall asleep again. What had happened to him?
It wasn't until he had taken a good look at the Sultan that he remembered what happened.
"Are you alright?" He bolted out of his comfortable position that pain blossomed from his right arm and the room spun with his great intentions in dizzying circles; suddenly the tiniest movements were torturous, and he groaned to the unfairness of it.
The Sultan offered him an expression of incredulity, jaw dropped momentarily, shoulders shaking as he shook his head in disbelief. "You have been asleep for five days," he said, "in and out of feverish delirium, on the brink of death from the arrow's poison, and the first thing you ask of me after all those grueling hours is if I am alright?
"You almost died…" Banks of fire alit in startling shades of crimson, the regal lips set in a fine thin line, and jaw was fixed and tense. He was unfamiliar with that expression. If he dwelled long enough, he might even say that His Highness was in the verge of tears. "Who gave you the right to die for me?"
It was then that he understood it finally, this unwarranted devotion he carried. He loved the Sultan, one that did not involve romance, one that was past the point of adoration and loyalty, one that would transcend over the course of time.
Natural. Instinctive. As natural and as instinctive as placing your life at the other end of the line. The Captain once said that His Highness would be the death of him. He understood it now.
I love you was what he desperately wanted to say.
"You are my king and I am your shield," was what he said instead, because despite the fact that the Sultan deserved to hear those three words from him, he could not bring himself to speak of the sentiments out loud. What the Sultan needed was not his love. Not yet, at least. In this troubled time of rebellion and secrecy, his Highness needed his unquestionable loyalty and his dedication to the ruling throne.
Love would have to wait another lifetime.
He swallowed the lump of sentimentalities down his throat, and continues, "For that I am disposable, and you are not."
"You are not disposable to me," the Sultan growled in his ears, so raw and effortless, it took him an entire minute to grasp that those words were strung together in a harmony of a sentence meant for him and for him alone. A hand closed to the left side of his chest were his heart rested, beating a steady continuous pattern that was suddenly too loud for his ears. The touch brought him back from his wayward thoughts to the reality of this moment.
"This half belongs to me. This half will live for me. For as long as you are mine. Promise me."
His smile quivered at its edges; his emotions threatened to erupt to a pool of tears. "I promise."
The Sultan smiled finally, in the room of dancing shadows and moonbeams, it was a glittering luminescence that rivaled a thousand of desert suns.
A/N: It was awkward writing an Arabic-themed setting while the names were in Japanese so the best decision was to give them titles instead. This is written in Ai's POV. I still called him Ai, though, because I think that name is universal and it is sooo endearing when Rin calls him by that. :DD
BTW, Captain is Seijuurou. He will always be the Captain. *clenches fist in the air*
This was supposedly for Rintori Week (why yes, it's nearing two months and still not over it~~~), which then became part of an AU fic I'm planning for these two, that became on-hold because… life and stuff happens. But I will write that fic! Eventually! In the near future! (prays fervently it happens before the year ends!)
Well, everyone, thanks for tuning in!
Thoughts? Reactions? Suggestions? :D