AN: Last chapter, everyone! Thank you for all the lovely reviews, favorites and follows, it means more than you think. Hope you like the ending!

Chapter Four

Ja'far didn't really remember most of the day after that. He vaguely recalled being led to his chambers, but everything else was a blank until he woke up the next morning. It was a bit worrying that he had slept through nearly an entire day, but not all that surprising. He hadn't slept for more than three or four hours at a time in a week, or was it two weeks? Or maybe three? He couldn't remember.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, squinting at the bright morning light filtering through his blanket. He poked his head out from under the covers, noticing that somehow he had ended up in his pajamas. He looked around his room, from the neatly folded robes resting at the foot of his bed, to the cup of water and plate of food perched on his nightstand. He looked out the window, which had presumably been left open by someone to let in the breeze, and estimated that it was close to noon. He suddenly sat up, a jolt of panic shooting up his spine. He usually got up at dawn, and even then he barely got his work done, and on top of that, he barely did anything the day before. He could practically feel the crushing pressure of the ever-increasing pile of work that was surely accumulating on his desk pressing down on him, making it harder to breathe or even think.

Ja'far took a deep breath in a vain attempt at fending off the mounting stress and swung his legs over the side of his bed, intending to get ready for the day. However, he was sidetracked by the meal that had left for him. He eyed it, his stomach clenching angrily, reminding him that he hadn't really eaten anything in. . . two days? Maybe three? He didn't eat when he was stressed, but the sight of food sent a pang of hunger through his gut that he couldn't ignore. He gulped down some water and set the plate in his lap, ignoring the little voice that nagged at him to get up already and stop wasting time. He couldn't serve his king if he didn't eat properly, right?

He surveyed his plate, stomach grumbling loudly at the sight. It was simple fare, just a few slices of buttered bread and a peeled orange, but he had never been much of a fan of the rich foods that most of his fellow generals adored. He gobbled it down, pushing away the thoughts buzzing around his head that warned him that he didn't know where it came from or who made it so it might be poisoned.

Feeling much better now that his stomach had been filled, he turned to set the plate back on his nightstand, but found that it was already occupied. A note sat where the plate had, likely pinned underneath it for safekeeping. He swapped it for the plate and unfolded the paper, recognizing Sinbad's handwriting in an instant.

Ja'far-

You have the rest of the day off. Don't worry, we'll be able to do without you for a day. Yamraiha will be doing your work because she feels bad for what happened yesterday, so you won't be stressed out about the paperwork piling up. Sharrkan offered to help too, but you've seen his handwriting, you know why he won't be.

Anyway, don't even try to leave your room for anything besides meals today. All of your cronies are under strict orders not to let you near your desk until tomorrow morning. You deserve to spend the day sleeping, or reading, or getting drunk. I know what I would do in your position.

If you want to talk about yesterday, you know where to find me, or Hinahoho if you'd prefer him. We'll both listen to whatever you need to say. We won't judge you, we promise.

-Sinbad

Ja'far stared at the paper, running his fingertips over each letter, the ink still wet enough that it rubbed off on his hand. He kept doing it until his fingers were stained black, clashing with his pale skin and the white bandages still wrapped around his hands. Carefully putting down the letter, he clenched and spread his hands a few times, testing them. When they merely ached instead of throbbed, he unwound the bandages on his left hand, then his right. In the clear morning light, his wounds looked better than he thought they would. If he ignored the layer of blood encrusting them, they actually looked. . . small.

Ja'far let out a laugh, one part bitter to two parts relief, at how tiny those eight little cuts were. He had been worried that they would be gaping wounds full of dead skin and pus, that they would prevent him from picking up his household vessel, or even so much as a pen, for days, or even weeks. But in reality, they were minor. They would heal in time, like all wounds did.

He tied the bandages on again, making a mental note to stop by the infirmary for some new ones later, and flopped backwards onto his bed. He wriggled his way back under the covers and curled up into a ball, making a conscious effort to relax all of his muscles. Unthinkingly, he reached out and grabbed Sinbad's letter again, tucking it underneath his pillow before laying his head down on it. His eyelids began to slide closed, since he was somehow still exhausted despite the frankly excessive amount of the sleep he had already had. He may have work to do, and he knew that he would have to go back to it tomorrow, but today, he could rest. And so, for the first time in quite some time, he did.