The Vigil

[AMAL POV]

The question caught me off guard, spoken so quietly I almost missed it over the crackle of the fire. My fingers stilled on the page I'd been reading, the parchment crinkling softly in the sudden silence.

"What did you say?"

Idris shifted against the mountain of silk pillows, wincing as the movement pulled at his bandages. The firelight caught the sharp angles of his face, throwing shadows beneath his eyes. "I asked if I could feel the baby move."

The book slipped from my hands, landing on my lap with a soft thud. In all the months of our marriage, through careful conversations and strategic touches, he had never asked this. Never shown interest in anything beyond the clinical reports from the midwives.

I studied his face, searching for the calculation I'd grown accustomed to. But something was different. His dark eyes held an uncertainty I'd never seen before.

"Of course," I whispered, my voice catching slightly.

The chair creaked as I stood, my swollen belly making the movement awkward. The wooden floor was cold beneath my bare feet as I crossed to the bed. He shifted, making room, and I caught the scent of healing herbs and something uniquely him—leather and steel and something sharp like winter air.

I settled on the edge of the mattress, the silk covers smooth beneath my palm. "Here," I said, taking his hand.

His fingers were warm, callused from years of sword work, but they trembled slightly as I pressed them to the curve of my belly. The baby stirred at the touch, as if sensing the foreign presence.

We sat in complete silence except for the rain pattering against the diamond-paned windows. I watched his face in the firelight, expecting to see that familiar calculating expression. Instead, I saw wonder. Raw, unguarded wonder that made my throat tight.

The baby gave a strong kick, and Idris's breath caught. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like a boy discovering something magical.

"Strong," he murmured, his voice thick. His thumb traced a small circle on my belly, following the movement. "Allah, that's..."

Another kick, stronger this time. I felt my lips curve in an involuntary smile as I watched his face transform. The prince's mask slipped away, revealing something I'd never seen before—a man discovering he was going to be a father.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice soft with concern.

"Sometimes. But it's..." I paused, searching for words. "It's like having a piece of the future living inside you."

He looked up at me then, and I saw something raw in his expression. Not calculation or strategy, but something deeper. "I never thought... I never imagined it would feel like this."

The baby shifted again, and his hand followed the movement instinctively. I found myself leaning closer, drawn by the warmth radiating from his body and the unprecedented gentleness in his touch.

"The midwives say everything is progressing well," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Good." His hand remained on my belly, possessive now but in a different way than before. Not like a general assessing resources, but like a man protecting something precious. "I need you both to be well."

The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. I understood—with his injury, with the whispers at court about his fitness to rule, my pregnancy had become crucial to his political survival.

"I'm being careful," I assured him.

"I know you are." His eyes met mine, and I saw gratitude there. "You've been... you've taken care of everything."

The baby gave another strong kick, and I laughed softly at the force of it. Idris's eyes lit up at the sound, and I realized I couldn't remember the last time he'd heard me laugh.

"Active little one," he said, his voice warm with amusement.

"Especially at night. I think the stillness wakes him."

"Him?"

I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know. It just... feels right."

Maybe that... or maybe I thought that is what he wanted to hear.

He nodded, his attention returning to my belly. "A son would be advantageous."

The political reality crept back in, but it didn't feel cold this time. Just practical. We both knew what was at stake.

"The baby's most active in the evenings," I said. "If you wanted to feel the movement again..."

"I would like that." His answer came quickly, without hesitation.

I felt something shift between us, some barrier lowering. Not love—I wasn't naive enough to believe that—but something warmer than the careful distance we'd maintained.

"You should rest," I said, though I made no move to leave.

"The bed is large enough for both of us," he said matter-of-factly. "And you look uncomfortable in that chair."

I hesitated, then carefully arranged myself on the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight, and I felt him shift to accommodate me. The baby stirred at the movement, and I placed my hand on my belly automatically.

"There?" he asked.

"Yes."

We lay in the growing darkness, listening to the rain against the windows and the soft crackle of the dying fire. It should have been awkward, but it felt natural. Like something we'd done a hundred times before.

"Amal."

"Mm?"

"When the baby comes..." He paused, and I could hear him choosing his words carefully. "Things will be different. More complicated."

"I know."

"Do you?" He turned his head to look at me, his profile sharp in the dim light. "Because I need to know you can handle what's coming. The scrutiny. The expectations."

I met his gaze steadily. "I can handle whatever is required."

He studied my face for a long moment, then nodded.

The baby kicked again, and I felt Idris's hand brush mine as we both reached for the spot. Our fingers tangled briefly before he pulled away, but the contact sent an unexpected warmth through me.

"Thank you," he said quietly. As if he was embarrased.

"For what?"

"For letting me..." He gestured vaguely at my belly. "For sharing this."

I turned to face him fully, seeing vulnerability in his expression that made my chest tighten. "It's your child too."

"Yes." His voice was soft, wondering. "It is."

As sleep began to claim me, I felt his hand rest lightly on my belly again. Not possessive or calculating, but protective. Gentle. And for the first time since our wedding, I felt something other than careful distance between us.

The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows in golden shafts, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the warm air. I sat in the chair beside Idris's bed, the leather-bound trade reports heavy in my lap, my voice steady as I read aloud about grain imports and tax assessments.

The sound of approaching footsteps made me look up. Master Kaira swept into the room with her usual brisk efficiency, her assistants trailing behind like ducklings, their arms laden with supplies that clinked and rustled with each step.

"Your Highness," she said, dipping into a precise curtsy before directing her attention to me. "The Prince's wound requires attention. Perhaps you would prefer to take some air in the gardens while we work?"

I glanced at Idris, who was watching the interaction with those sharp, calculating eyes. Despite his injury, despite the fever that had left him gaunt and pale, his mind remained razor-keen. I saw the slight tightening around his eyes—he was measuring my response.

"I'll stay," I said, marking my place in the report with a silk ribbon.

Master Kaira's eyebrows rose slightly. "The sight might be... unpleasant for one in your condition, Your Highness."

The baby stirred restlessly in my belly, as if sensing the tension in the room. I placed a protective hand over the movement, feeling the solid warmth of life beneath my palm.

"I've seen worse," I said simply.

From the bed, I heard Idris make a small sound—not quite approval, but acknowledgment. When I looked at him, something flickered in his expression. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or recognition.

"As you wish, Your Highness," Master Kaira said, though her tone suggested she found my decision questionable.

The young assistant who stepped forward couldn't have been more than sixteen, her hands trembling visibly as she approached the bed. She fumbled with the silk ties of his sleeping shirt, her inexperience painful to watch. The fabric pulled taut against his skin, and I saw Idris's jaw clench, though he made no sound.

I found myself rising before I'd consciously decided to move. "May I?"

The girl stepped back with obvious relief, her face flushed with embarrassment. I moved to the bedside, my movements sure and economical. The knots came apart under my fingers with practiced ease, and I eased the silk away from his wounds without causing additional pain.

"Useful skill," Idris said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.

You've witnessed it before.

Up close, I could see the full extent of his injury. The sword wound was healing, but slowly, the edges still angry and red. The stitches pulled tight against his skin with each breath, and I could see where movement had stressed the healing tissue.

"He's been moving too much," I told Master Kaira, my voice clinical. "The stitches here and here are showing strain."

She leaned closer, her experienced eyes assessing the damage. "Yes, I can see that. We'll need to be more restrictive about movement."

"I'm fine," Idris said, his voice flat with irritation.

"You're healing," I corrected, not looking at him. "But healing takes time you don't want to give it."

I caught the ghost of a smile on his lips at my blunt assessment. "Patience was never my virtue."

"No," I agreed. "But it's necessary now."

As Master Kaira worked, cleaning and redressing the wound with efficient movements, I found myself cataloguing details. The way he controlled his breathing to minimize the pain. The white-knuckled grip he maintained on the bedsheets. The careful way he held himself utterly still despite the obvious discomfort.

"You're very attentive, Your Highness," Master Kaira commented as she secured the fresh bandages. "The Prince is fortunate to have such a dedicated wife."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. I felt Idris's gaze on me, measuring my reaction.

"I do what I can," I said simply.

After they left, the room fell into the comfortable quiet of afternoon. I returned to my chair and picked up the reports, but I could feel his attention like a physical weight.

"You handled that well," he said finally.

"Thank you."

"The court will hear about it within the hour. How you stayed. How you helped." He shifted carefully, testing the new bandages. "It projects strength. Unity."

I understood. Every gesture, every word, every moment of public interaction would be dissected and analyzed by the court. My presence during his medical treatment sent a specific message—that I was committed to his recovery, that our marriage was solid, that the succession was secure.

"I thought it might," I said.

"Good." He was quiet for a moment, studying my face. "You think strategically. That's... valuable."

The praise was minimal, but coming from him, it felt significant. I returned to the reports, but I was acutely aware of his continued attention.

"How long?"

"Before you can return to normal duties? Weeks, at least. Perhaps longer if you don't stop pushing yourself."

"Too long."

"But not forever."

He looked at me then, and I saw something calculating in his expression. "You're not particularly comforting, are you?"

"Would you prefer comfort to honesty?"

The question hung between us, and I saw him consider it seriously. "No," he said finally. "No, I wouldn't."

Yet, you thought I would.

I turned back to the reports, but I could feel him still watching me. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who understood each other, who had found a working rhythm.

"Read to me," he said finally. "About the grain situation. I need to know what's happening while I'm... indisposed."

I began reading, my voice steady and clear. But I was aware of his attention, the way he absorbed every detail, filing away information for future use. Even wounded, even confined to this bed, he was still calculating. Still planning.

Still ruling.

The afternoon light gradually faded to gold, then amber, then the soft purple of twilight. And through it all, I read to him about trade routes and tax assessments, about the mundane details that kept a kingdom running. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't tender.

I woke to the sound of rain drumming against the windows like urgent fingers, turning the morning light pearl-gray and soft. My neck ached from sleeping in the chair, and the baby was restless, adding its own discomfort to mine. I straightened carefully, my hand instinctively moving to my belly to soothe the movement within.

Across the room, Idris was already awake, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. His hair was wild with sleep and fever, his beard unkempt, and illness had carved hollows beneath his cheekbones. But his gaze was sharp, missing nothing.

"How long have you been awake?" I asked, my voice rough with sleep.

"Long enough." His voice carried the rasp of fever, but there was something else in it—frustration, barely contained. "I feel like something that crawled out of the gutter."

The blunt honesty caught me off guard. I studied his appearance, taking in the wild hair, the hollow cheeks, the way sickness had stripped away his usual commanding presence. He looked vulnerable in a way that made my chest tight.

"You look..." I paused, searching for diplomacy.

"Like hell," he finished flatly. "You can say it."

"I was going to say tired."

"Liar." But there was no heat in it, almost amusement. "I look like a beggar. Like someone who belongs in the lowest tavern in the city."

I stood, moving to the window where rain traced silver paths down the glass. "I could call for servants."

"No." The word cracked like a whip. "Absolutely not. Half the court would know within hours how... diminished I've become."

I turned from the window, seeing the way his hands clenched the bedsheets. Not from pain, but from humiliation. The proud prince reduced to this—dependent, vulnerable, weak.

"I could help," I said carefully. "If you'd allow it."

His eyes sharpened, and I saw him analyze the offer from every angle. "Why would you?"

"Because it's practical. Because it maintains privacy." I met his gaze steadily.

"That's not what I asked."

I moved closer to the bed, close enough to see the fever flush on his skin, to smell the sickness that clung to him. "I've done worse things than help my husband bathe."

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, perhaps. "Have you."

"Yes."