While Ibra was whisked away, Faraji found himself surrounded by concerned family and servants who whispered behind his back some ridiculous story about how the Gods themselves called him away to save that poor woman. By the end of the night he was being hailed as some kind of prophet - he had survived the storm on horseback, while injured, and still managed to save her.
It was ridiculous. It was obviously spread by his mother. But people left with the take firmly planted in their heads by the time the floods receded and the rains stopped.
Faraji's shoulder was broken, as he had suspected, and the cut on his leg had needed two stitches but was otherwise nothing terrible. His tea had been laced with so much pain killers he didn't even remembered them setting the bone when he awoke hours later in his own bed.
With Saanvi sitting beside him.
"Are you to have a mistress even before we wed?" She had asked him. Hakeshna it would have been easier if she had just been dumb, but even though she was young she was perceptive, strong.
She would make a fine wife to someone else.
Now it was his turn to sit beside the bed of a wounded lover. Ibra had been changed, cleaned, and attended to and looked to only be sleeping if he hadn't known better. His dominant hand was tied up in a sling, but that didn't stop him from holding her hand with his other while he waited.
He turned away all food and drink and just...waited...hoping that she would wake.
Hoping that this hadn't all been in vain.
