Narseh

Whenever laoshi granted him a day of rest, Narseh would usually fly straight to Eranshahr. But this time, he steered the bird toward a small valley to the southwest.

It had been over ten years since he last set foot here, too afraid to face his ghosts.

More than anything, he feared finding skeletons among the ruins — skeletons he would recognize. Yet, wanderers from other clans had passed through this valley. Someone, mercifully, had gathered the bones and laid them to rest in a sacred well. A part of him burned with shame that, after all these years, he had never found the courage to bury his own kin. Another part, however, wondered if even now, he would have been capable of it.

A cold early-spring wind tugged at the edges of his cloak. The air smelled of damp earth, of juniper berries scattered across the ground, of budding leaves and the season’s first flowers.

“Look, dear Fluffy,” he murmured, stroking the bird’s soft head. “This is where I was born and raised.” The bird let out a gentle cluck. Would he ever find the courage to show Juniper Land to Lyn himself?

His feet carried him, unbidden, to the great walnut tree at the edge of the village. He and his childhood friends had raided it for nuts countless times. The lower branches were broken now, but the tree still stood, its roots gripping the earth with stubborn defiance.

The place others might have called a marketplace — though among the Arya, at least within a single clan, money had never been used — was gone, swallowed by time. Only the stone square remained, overgrown with brittle grass, along with the remnants of stalls whose stone slabs were chipped and worn. He remembered so well the weight of baskets filled with mushrooms and bundles of fresh cheese, the feel of ceramic cups placed into his hands by the village potter, still warm from the kiln…

The hearths, those terrible hearths from his nightmares, still stood among the charred ruins, their pale stones stark against the young greenery. But they were not as dreadful as he had imagined them.

Narseh slowed his steps as he approached the place where his home had once been. Here, between the courtyard walls, he remembered a patch of sunlight that always lingered — his parents had planted a tiny garden there, a fragrant cluster of herbs. Now, among the sunken stone foundations, only weeds had taken root.

In the corner where the kitchen had been, he saw the faint tracks of animal paws. Kneeling, he brushed his fingers against the damp earth, and for a moment, he sensed it — life stirring beneath the surface of reality. And then, he saw it: a small nest, woven from dry grass and tufts of fur, nestled between the stones. A speckled jay darted out, startled by his presence, its wings flashing as it disappeared into the trees.

He let out a quiet breath, then rose and moved on.

There had never been many stone houses in the village, but the ones that stood had endured, weathered by time yet unbroken. Swallows had made their nests in the cracks of the walls, chirping, busy with their own small lives, oblivious to what had once been here. Near the remains of the forge, he found a wolf’s den — scattered bones, flattened grass, tufts of shed fur. Everywhere he went, life had taken root — not the life he had known, but life nonetheless. As it should be.

New people would be born here someday. New homes would rise.

He needed to speak with Lyn at last. For nearly six months, he had struggled to find the right words. And still, they eluded him…

Climbing onto Fluffy’s back, Narseh wrote to Lyn — told him he missed him, asked how he was. The mirrored parchment remained blank for so long that Narseh began to worry.

By the time they were flying over Eranshahr, he wrote again: Are you all right?

Only then did Lyn reply. He had nearly been arrested!

Well. Narseh knew Lyn had a way of slipping out of trouble, and if things ever became truly dire, he had the means to fight back — if not to kill, then at least to hurt enough to escape.

And how’s your day going? Lyn asked.

I’m in Eranshahr now, Narseh replied. Almost the truth — the bird was already descending. Not that he didn’t want to tell Lyn he had visited Juniper Land. Quite the opposite — he longed to. The need to speak of it had been growing within him, an aching, burning weight. And yet… Would Lyn even care? Would he understand what it meant to Narseh?

After all, Lyn had never truly had a family. A monster for a father — one so vile that even his mother, by contrast, might have seemed good. And then there was Ilithyia…

Hesitantly, Narseh wrote: I’ve been thinking about my family all day…

Lyn didn’t respond.

It was fine. Lyn had enough to deal with — Narseh’s old, faded sorrow was the last thing he needed right now.

Trying to smooth over the awkward silence, Narseh added: And I still can’t stop thinking about that issue with the properties of blood — remember, I told you about it…

No reply to that either.

It stung, a little. But Lyn was probably just busy.

Eranshahr always had something new to marvel at — something to admire. The settlement was changing so rapidly.

Still, the first thing Narseh did was return to the home he shared with Lyn and Ardashir.

In the beginning, Lyn and Ardashir had almost seemed to compete, weaving magic into the very structure of their dwellings — rare, strange spells borrowed from unknown peoples. They had linked their three separate grottoes across the settlement with interwoven pathways, so that stepping through the threshold of one could bring them into another.

The shared grotto was filled with rare and beautiful things — books, carpets and tapestries from distant lands, peculiar magical devices. Narseh had contributed as well: delicate sea corals, a collection of rare bird feathers, preserved insects, dried leaves and herbs.

But now, the first thing he noticed was neglect. A fine layer of dust lay over the furniture. A half-empty jug of wine sat on one of the tables — long forgotten. No need to sniff it; one look was enough to know it should be poured out.

Had no one been here for so long? Lyn and Ardashir were always away, always busy with something. Even at night, they seemed to sleep wherever they happened to be, avoiding this place as if by silent agreement.

Would they still do this when Narseh’s studies were complete and he returned for good?

And once again, the thought crept in, the one he usually pushed away: Is it my fault?

After all, it was he who had once drawn Lyn and Ardashir into this strange threefold relationship — one that, despite their undeniable attraction to each other, clearly brought them both a measure of unease. And then, after all that, he had been the one to flee from it, leaving them behind and vanishing into the land of Chin...

Your bed still smells like you, he wrote to Lyn.

But even as he did, his fingers idly brushing over the dust-covered shell of a sea snail, he found himself thinking — building a family was far more than romantic letters or even filling a home with beautiful things.

Perhaps, deep down, he hadn’t only wanted to become a better healer. Perhaps he had hoped that distance would make things easier, give them space to breathe — that it would be simpler than the reality of forging a life together.

Was he afraid, in some hidden corner of his mind, that sooner or later, a choice would have to be made? Or that this relationship would consume him, force him to give up his work, his passions? Or… that in the end, it simply wouldn’t work out with either of them, and it would break his heart?

But no — why was he thinking about this at all? Everything was fine, wasn’t it? They had been together for so long now, always trying to support and delight one another.

His decision to study in Chin had been wrapped in a tangle of emotions he wasn’t yet ready to unravel.

But no, it hadn’t been fear of their relationship.

Maybe they still had work to do, but they were ready.

They were ready to be a family.

But how was he supposed to talk to Lyn about it?

He hadn’t expected to find anyone home — Ardashir had warned him he would hardly be around these days. But suddenly, Narseh felt him nearby. A shift in the air, an undeniable presence.

Ardashir had appeared in one of the rooms.

Narseh’s heart lifted. He turned, ready to greet him with an embrace, with a kiss — but the sight of him made him freeze, as if he had walked into an unseen wall.

Ardashir was no longer the High Prince of the Arya and had long abandoned his white robes — the symbol of the clans’ unity. These days, he wore a variety of colors, and he usually looked wonderful in all of them.

But if there was one color that did not suit his fair, warm, open features — it was black.

Narseh had been certain he would never again see Ardashir in Arya battle dress.

And yet…

Black leather and metal gleamed with an eerie sheen, like the carapace of some enormous insect. His dirt-spattered skirt swept the floor.

He had just removed his beak-shaped helmet — and looked at Narseh with clear surprise. He hadn’t expected to find him here, either.

“Oh, what a mess…” Ardashir sighed, glancing around as he set the helmet on the table. “If I had known you’d be stopping by, I would have cleaned up.”

“You don’t have to — I can do it myself,” Narseh replied quickly. “I’m not a guest here, after all.”

He was willing to say anything, anything at all, if only to avoid asking the question that was pressing against his tongue: Why are you wearing that uniform?

Almost every time he had seen Ardashir in that attire — years ago — he had been wounded, exhausted.

Narseh’s eyes flicked across the dark fabric, scanning for more than just dirt — searching for bloodstains. And on another level, beyond sight, he examined the flow of life within the body beneath that uniform.

But no. Ardashir was unharmed.

Nothing terrible has happened, Ardashir reassured him silently, catching his gaze. Just reconnaissance. I’m helping Soraya with a small matter. The Arya armor conceals and protects better than anything else. That’s all.

Narseh knew that. His father had been a weaponsmith — well, a tailor, really, but in the final years of his life, he had been forced to work with armor, weaving protective magic into it as he had once woven other patterns into ordinary garments — those that gave comfort, lightness, joy. The Arya had only recently begun truly studying this craft, art of Unraveling — before, its secrets had been passed down without anyone questioning how they worked.

Ardashir wasn’t lying. That knowledge eased Narseh’s mind — just a little.

At last, they embraced.

Narseh didn’t just kiss his lips — he pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his eye, traced his fingers over freckled cheeks, over golden curls that fell across his forehead, smoothed a thumb along the darker arch of his brow. Finally, he pressed his lips to his temple and simply held him there.

Every time he held Ardashir in his arms, he felt overwhelmed by tenderness, so vast it swept everything else away. Once, he had thought he could stand like this forever, wanting nothing more. But in the end, he needed more than the right to hold him. He needed to share a life — truly share it. With Ardashir. With Lyn. And somehow, not lose himself in the process.

Was that even possible? Or was he simply asking for too much?

"You are so beautiful," Ardashir murmured with a gentle smile, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Every time we are apart for too long, I begin to wonder if I simply imagined you."

Narseh felt warmth rising to his cheeks.

"We've only been apart for four days."

"Four days? Truly?" The genuine bewilderment on Ardashir's face — like a man whose own calendar had marked at least a month — unsettled Narseh more than the sight of the armor.