The Silver Sparrow

No Other Way

'There are things you cannot have in this world, and my heart is among them,' she had said to him once. 'It is beating to see you die, never for you to claim.'

And it was beating now, heavily, violently, as he lay dying in that cave. Standing a few steps away, Zahara watched, as she had promised herself she would, the process of his death with too many questions she hadn't been prepared to answer. There was a finality to that promise that went both ways she couldn't deny. What happens to my heart, my life then, when he is dead? Would it still beat or would it end with him? What do I live for, after this? Would there ever be a reason as powerful for her to draw her strength from again?

He was breathing more faintly now, the three arrows still embedded in his body rising and falling more and more slowly the longer the day stretched on. The arrows that should have been dipped in Zyren which would have killed him in less than an hour somehow hadn't been. By sheer luck or fate or divine intervention, they also hadn't penetrated the organs that would cause him to die quickly. But he was losing blood. A lot of blood. People died from that, slowly, unless someone were to interfere. Someone who knew how.

She did know how. Had been trained for it long before her capture. It was how she knew the arrows hadn't penetrated important organs, how she knew they hadn't been dipped in poison, how she also knew that he would die eventually if she did nothing.

The chance of someone doing something about it was why she was still here, with him and Ghaul who had taken them out of the city and hid the salar in this cave near the border of Samarra. Being a Samarran himself, Ghaul knew the terrain; where to hide them, where to get water, and likely where to find help. There had been opportunities for her to run, plenty of them, in fact, given how Ghaul had been more concentrated on saving the salar than to keep her in sight as per his master's instructions. He could be expected to do that to make sure she was safe. Muradi didn't like to fail, and he had come to save her, after all.

Zahara didn't take those opportunities. She, too, didn't like to fail. He might live, and she had to be here to make sure he died, to see it, as she had promised herself.

The reason why he'd come to save her at all was irrelevant. It didn't matter. It shouldn't.

Muradi was resting against a wall, breathing slowly but steadily and wincing every time his chest moved. The pain must have been great; she could feel it in her own chest watching him, in the satisfaction she gained from it. Somehow, the air around her felt rigid, barely breathable. It must have been something in the cave, or the anticipation of seeing him dead was getting to her. Eighteen years of suffering was about to come to an end. This pain, this anger, this wound that seemed to be tearing open now in her heart would be gone when he died. If only she had one moment alone with him, it would end sooner than later.

"Ghaul," he said in almost a whisper and even that much was an effort. "Go find water...food... some firewood."

Ghaul looked at her, all forms of hatred and distrust on his face. She didn't blame him. All this had happened because of her. He might kill her after this. She knew he wanted to. "Yes, my lord," he said, then took her wrist and began to pull her along with him. "You're coming with me."

"Leave her," said Muradi, command seeping back into his voice despite the state he was in.

"My lord," the giant Samarran grimaced, "it isn't safe."

"Ghaul." The tone was final, leaving no room for objections, implied no further explanations were to be given. When he did that, you obeyed without question or you suffered grave consequences. He might not be in a shape to offer that consequence, but someone who'd known him as long as Ghaul did would know there was no point in arguing with him when he used that tone.