Zahi's hand rose against the bright light then fell before it could shadow his gaze. Gold flecks picked out in his gaze and he dropped his lids, clung to Anat's side who, strength of the desert sands, did not move, though she threw her head and snorted in alarm at the wash of scents coming through the door. Still, she was her master's strength. He, who had taken her into his home, who had slept at her side, she was an uncommon creature and her delicate, tulip ears held straight ahead. 

When it seemed to her that Zahi was going to enter into the world of children's cries and smells of lyme covered death, the mare stepped as lightly toward the bright opening as if the floor under her hooves were made of glass. 

Perhaps it was the collective call buttons. A rushing sound of soft soled shoes and two nurses walked quickly through the door, stopped in shock not as much at the open door as at the filthy man in the middle of a germ-free zone. The older woman gave a soft gasp while the younger woman clicked her tongue and moved into the room, only to stop once more, for it was at that time Zahi entered with Anat at his side. 

He moved graceful and composed, as if he were not injured in the least. His arm tucked about his waist might have been Napolean's hand in state paintings. The prince's head was up and in the pale light of the hospital, he was a wild jackal let into a nursery. Beside him, his opposite hand holding her mane tightly enough his knuckles were pale, Anat flared gold, her color brought to life away from the growth green of the halls behind her. They might have carried the scent of dry winds and spices, if not in reality than to the imagination. Anat tucked her chin and looked about her with white rimmed eyes while her master gave a slight bow from the waist, almost hiding how the very action caused him pain. He touched his fingertips to his brow and gave his greeting to the assembled children and the women. Then his dark gaze turned on Dorian. 

“You have brought me to a women's space,” Zahi said by way of asking, but did not look at the nurses. “This place is a great one, filled with many children.” He did not dare ask about which of the women was Dorian's [i]ra'it al bayt[/i], the mistress of his home, nor was he fully certain that Dorian's wife was one of these, nor that these his children. Dorian had said it was a healer's home. But was it that the women here were the healers, even of a man? He flushed under his sun-darkened skin and kept his eyes on Dorian over all others. Dorian's features were not like those around him, he'd seen the sloe-colored eyes and black hair on traders many years back, gifting Zahi's people with a bolt of cloth and spices they did not use but which his mother had chosen to have because it would have been unwelcoming to not purchase something from their visiting traders. But those people had gone again, worn and exhausted, and going to the cities on the other side of the desert. There was talk that they had not made it all the way, but that the sands had swallowed them. 

The children were chattering and Zahi's head ached, but he did not understand anything they said. They spoke quickly, fluid, like water over rocks, and Zahi kept himself upright and without complaint as the children moved restlessly on the bed and whispered, giggled together. All about them, the white was overwhelming and in amongst the white, splotches of color, images painted onto the walls. 

Anat, in response to those nearing her, laid her ears back flat against her skull. She snaked her head forward and snapped at the air near one of the women who approached, but did not bite. No – she was too well behaved for such things, though she would not allow anyone near her prince as he swayed and was unwell. Zaynab alone, she would have soothed Anat, made it so that healers could reach him, but without his sister's touch, the mare was tense as stone and her protection would keep away any who might hurt him. 

Zahi took a step in close to his mare and lifting the hand at his waist, he pressed it to her neck. It marred her hide with his blood, but she would not give any opportunity to aid in her attempt to keep him safe. “Ssaa, ssaa Mistress of mine. Ssaa,” he murmured to her. “We must give our hosts our best of intentions and not bring strife into their home. Ssaa, my desert flower. Ssaa, O wind daughter. Bring no trouble.” 

Still, he did not look on the women, but as Anat snorted and tilted her muzzle to trail hot breath along his arm, the desert man gave his attention once more to Dorian. “If I die, will you take her back to her home? The Djinn would like their child back.” 

He slid, then fell as gracelessly as any other who had lost consciousness, other than he had shown no signs of it. With a sigh, he fell to the floor in a heap, a puppet whose strings had been cut. Anat lifted her tail high and stepped near him, her nose against his neck and whickered in concern. She tossed her head then stepped back from the man dying on the floor. With thin skin shivering as if by invisible flies, the mare stamped her forehoof and licked her lips. Her unease was plain, now that her master did not lean on her, but she made no more against those around her.