Prince of Knights (An Arabic Love Story)✓

Prince of Knights Chp51

She knew their memories together will haunt her. Raghad knew her fate would question her of his absence, and she would not have the answer. Her eyes fell on Faris's filthy, wet thobe, and she lifted her head. "You will come back to me," the bride took his left hand in hers. Her hand was much smaller than his large, rough hand. His fingers almost enveloped her hand. She stepped back and walked to the cot on the other side of their chamber. "You will come back to us." 

Raghad knelt before him when Faris sat on the cot, observing her, taking her in. "You just came back to me," she repeated tears brimming in her big brown eyes anew. "Do not eclipse my world with darkness again for the sun just shined upon me, prince." Her words were a whisper because Raghad knew if she raised her voice, she would break down. 

Faris did not reply; he could not reply, for he did not have the answer to her plea. After a moment, Raghad stood up, walked up to where the clay pot and steel basin sat on the chest by the windowpane. She poured water in the steel basin then walked back to where Faris sat, merely observing her with those inky eyes. "Allow me to aid you to prepare for the war," Raghad requested. 

Faris did not respond again; he speechlessly gazed at her as if he had not seen her from ages. He could still not understand that she forgave him. Yes, he was not a sinner, but what he did was a sin. However, this woman with a naive heart forgave him with a blink of an eye. Something in those dark eyes permitted her, and Raghad placed the basin down and knelt in front of Faris again. The bride grabbed the end of her clean scarf then soaked the fabric in the water. Raghad wrung out the water then faced her spouse. 

Not moving her gaze from Faris, Raghad gently rubbed her damp scarf on his right cheek. Once the dirt was clean, she did the same on the knight's forehead and throat. "You have a wound on your shoulder." She whispered, shocked. Like she just took note of the blood on Faris's shoulder.

"Must have occurred while battling Badr," Faris murmured, matching her low tone. He watched as the light of the oil lantern touched Raghad's face, not at all bothered by the wound on his left shoulder or the blood and gore that coated his kandoora.

"I should have come earlier." Raghad frowned her eyes fixed on his wound.

"You should have." The corner of Faris's mouth lifted upward. Recalling how he once had said the same thing when Abdelaziz had charged at her with his sword.

"Does it hurt?"

"What do you think, bint-ash-sheik?"

"It does!"

"Worry not. It is but a scratch." She nodded at his word, a frown marring her beauteous face. "Raghad," the knight held her chin between his thumb and index finger. "I have seen far worse than this wound, so do not fret. Now, see that;" he jerked his head slightly towards the window. "The wooden trunk by the shelf, you will find my thobe and helmet there." Faris inhaled as she blinked those enchanting eyes.

Raghad stood up and promptly pushed opened the trunk, she grabbed Faris's helmet, and the white thobe her heart compressing with dread. As minutes ticked by, the time of battle came closer to them. Oh, how she had once dreaded Faris's presence, but now she feared for not having his presence in her life.

Too soon.

Everything was appearing too soon for them. Raghad was yet to see her married days with Faris. She was to see how it felt to be his real bride. She was to see how it feels to be treasured by a man like Faris. Blinking her tears away, the bride turned around to face her spouse. However, she stopped from the sight in front of her.

Faris had taken off his torn, dirty kandoora and sat bare-chested on the cot with his head bowed. A sharp inward breath hissed past Raghad's lips. Raghad had seen her brother's bare chests when she tended their wounds after battles, but Faris took her breath away. The sheer size of him conveyed his purpose in life. His chest a hard wall bearing thick, broad shoulders. His stomach was flat and unquestionably defined, indicating hours of toil. His arms were enormous with scars that were proof of countless battles he had fought and triumphed.