Work Text:
The last time he was here, Sheftu was still grieving Mara's apparent betrayal. Only a couple of hours have passed, yet now Mara is by his side and the only grief he has is for her pain. There is the briefest thought there too that this is no way to show his bride her new home: though she looks about her as best she can as their litter passes through the gates and down the palm-lined lane to the door of the main house, she is clearly exhausted and in need of rest as well as a physician. This is not the way a count should welcome his countess to her new home.
Also, Irenamon is going to give him so much grief when he finds out that his mysterious "young lady" exists after all. Ai, for all that he thought himself such the skillful plotter, he has been all too sloppy—for his majordomo to guess the exact cause of his distraction, for him to ignore the juggler's curiosity and not to think to conceal the charm on his wrist: truly he must have deserved for his plans to fail, and only the favor of Shai and his wife Renenet—he ought to seek out their temples and have offerings made to them both before another day passes—but most of all the fidelity of the maid at his side had kept him from death and Egypt from the ruin that he was certain had awaited it under Hatshepshut's vitiating reign.
The litter is set down without even a bump in front of Sheftu's front door. Mara, curled up against his side, is settled against the cushions, so her back must not pain her so much that she cannot bear the touch. Still, Sheftu hopes that the messenger he sent has found a physician by now, and that his truehearted Mara will not have to bear the pain much longer. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, and he pushes back the temptation to let himself remain like this forever and ever. If he lingers here long enough, the household staff will worry that something is wrong, and this is no way for them to meet their new countess. And she is too tired to meet them all now besides. He raises his other hand, the one that Mara isn't half lying on top of, and strokes Mara's hair. "Come, beloved, let me lead you somewhere that you may rest," he says. "Do you think that you can yet walk? You shall have the very closest room; you need not go very far at all."
"I think I could walk forever, as long as you are with me," Mara says without lifting her head from his shoulder. It is of course a complete untruth, and yet unlike the pain her previous lies have caused him, this one causes him to feel all warm inside. He can feel the heat rising even to his cheeks, and is glad his skin does not have the pallor that Nahereh's hateful Libyan had possessed, so that Mara cannot see how easily her words affect him.
Moving his hands carefully to her waist—not her shoulders, so beautiful and dear that not even the blood and ripped linen covering them can lessen their appeal—he helps Mara first to sit up, and then to step carefully out of the litter. She must have lost her sandals at some point in the night's proceedings, which Sheftu supposes is just as well. It will be good for her to be as comfortable as possible right now, and it will also probably be good for his staff's first impression of his wonderful heroic guttersnipe-countess not to be an artificial one.
Even as he leads Mara to the door, he sees runners entering his gates and hopes that one of them may be the physician. He helps her to the very nearest couch, tossing the headrest carelessly aside as they go, and eases her onto her stomach. This leaves all of the damage wrought by that damned Libyan on full view, and Sheftu clenches his teeth. This tumultuous night may have reached an end and their rebellion may be over, but he cannot allow his strength to give way quite yet. He must be strong for Mara, and make up in some small way for his part in the hurt she has borne tonight. For it was all for his sake, and if he had only believed her earlier in the evening—or not allowed his bait to be overheard by the jester in the first place, the more fool he—she might still be whole.
But she will soon be whole again, and until that time (and for all time to come) she shall have every comfort she desires. Sheftu kneels beside Mara as she lies facedown. "Beloved, is there anything you desire before the physician comes?" he asks, stroking her hair. "Food, drink? Shall I have someone wash your wounds, or would you prefer not to be touched until the physician arrives?"
"Just keep doing as you are," Mara says, and so he does not stay his hand as it caresses the back of her head. "I would prefer not to be touched right now, but you—I would have you touch me always."
"As you wish," Sheftu says, and rejoices that the one he values more than anything except Egypt should value him so in return, and still trust him after all she has endured. He runs his hand over her glossy black tresses again and again, smoothing away the tangles that show where she had been tossed about in the course of the night. Once her hair is dressed and her clothes changed, scarcely any sign of what happened will remain: only those terrible bloody marks on her shoulders, and even those will not last forever, and can be hidden if she so desires.
All will be well for Mara soon, just as all is now well for Egypt.
A man is ushered through the front door, bowing in haste. A slave scurries in behind him, carrying a basket with the tools of his trade.
"The physician is here," Sheftu murmurs in Mara's ear, for her head is turned away from the door and she would not have seen him come in.
Mara reaches up to where he is stroking her hair and takes his hand in hers. "Stay," she says. "I would not have you leave me alone."
"As long as you wish," Sheftu says. "Forever, if that is what you desire." His duty to Egypt is done: there is nothing to call him away from Mara for as long as she needs him.