Archive of Our Own

A desert rose is elegant, beautiful, yet not quite a rose, at all. It thrives beneath a powerful sun, pink petals tapering to sharp points. Yet behind its beauty lies a dangerous poison; if mishandled, if too close, the poison proves fatal to the body. Take caution when approaching, the texts warn, for such roses need no thorns.

It is like her namesake.

Did her parents anticipate this fate when they named her? Perhaps they named her with the thought of youth or spring's first light. Simple, hopeful.

Primrose is both beauty and poison, and her dagger has tasted a thousand thorns' worth of blood. A strike here, a twist there, and a murder of crows slain by her hand. There is little rot left except what lingers in the heart.

Sunshade was her living hell. She thought Marsalim's sun would remind her of the darkness from proximity alone, but it is not the case. Basic needs are more than met, from her spacious palace room to the finest food and drink. The city revels in the arts, with travelers near and far discovering and honing their creative pursuits. Now the jewel of the desert is her new home, and she can start to cut away the rot, filling dark hollows with light.

Two summers after that performance among the sands (and a most loving ending), Marsalim surges forward with progress. The newly-constructed amphitheatre overlooks the city as Primrose strolls along its wide paths. She involves herself with the local arts — choreographing one morning, rehearsing the next. When she feels the fatigue of the day’s events, she rests on one of many benches constructed throughout the city. Ice stones are embedded into their frames, which radiate spheres of cool air to offer relief from a searing sun. She rests her feet and lets her mind wander with the townspeople. The days pass in peace.

Dear friends visit her, on occasion. She remembers Olberic’s visit with Erhardt at his side, from his smiles to the red marks adorning Erhardt’s neck (when asked, he obscured the marks with his hair). She chuckles, glad that they could reconcile in the ways they deemed fit.

Then there are the others, from Tressa and Alfyn, who add warmth wherever they go, to Therion, who goes wherever his feet take him. Alongside the personal visits, she exchanges letters between friends who live across the realm. Cyrus sends his best regards from his mountain of riveting research, and Ophilia shares preparations for becoming the new Archbishop, hoping the title won’t go to her head.

As for H'aanit… ha, what can she say? In short, she and her letters mean the world.

"I am not good with words," H'aanit once wrote, and attached were gifts catered specifically for Primrose. Breathable fabrics to protect against the sun, handcrafted quills for writing, and even a bow and quiver bundled in furs. According to the letter, H'aanit once wielded the bow when she was honing her ways of the hunt. That time was summers afore, when the size and weight suited a younger H’aanit. They now suited Primrose, and thus, she gifted it to her with care. For protection, for safety, for love.

“I hearen work on the theater hast continued apace,” the letter continued. “Shouldst thou performen, I shall travelen there and watcheth thee.”

A smile, an inward promise to make this kind gesture a reality.

”I am happy for thee, mine love. I am happy thou hast this home amongst the arts, where the people canst sharen thy wealth of knowledge and passion. Within thy name lieth great promise. We aren here, and we believen in thee.”

I’m happy for you, my love.

Within her name lies promise.

Primrose holds the words close to her chest, sending her love across sand and sky.

Parchments adorn the tavern walls with casting calls for the ampitheatre’s series of plays, a communal project befitting of its grand opening. Alongside the calls for actors, requests for scripts call to Primrose’s soul. From stage veterans to newcomers, anyone was welcome. Primrose stares at the prints until the barkeep gently ushers her off for the night. Not a drop of ale, yet she feels lightheaded from possibilities.

As Primrose unrolls the crisp parchment, accompanied by scents of evergreen and a tuft of leopard fur, she smiles. Within her hands, H’aanit provides updates from the Woodlands: a boy and his tiger cub visited from Duskbarrow; Linde has taken a liking to them; Z’aanta is Z’aanta. At the end is a treasured gift of company:

"By the time thou hath received this, I shouldst be on mine travels to Marsalim. I shall see thee soon, mine love."

She holds H’aanit’s love against her chest, promising to do her best in the meantime — for her own sake. Within her name lies promise.

With every dance completed, Primrose contemplates how she can elevate her craft. Dance, for all its freedom, has its limitations. She feels ready to put words to her movements, words penned by her hand and performed by another. Many others, from young hopefuls to veterans of the stage. Through this medium, she loosens the vise around her heart by entrusting her story to those who want to understand.

Perusing the hanging amulets hanging off the jewelry stand, Primrose remembers the oppressive gold that once burdened her neck. The metal jostled against her collarbones, bruising her skin after each intense dance. Among bloody sands, she stared stone-faced at the rot in lord's clothing. He boiled with anger, but she was angrier, a rage that pierced through his flesh. One stab was enough for efficiency. A kick of his corpse for finality. The blazing sun beat down on her. She felt so cold.

As if nothing occurred, she dropped the pain into a shopkeeper’s palm, glared, and fled town. Everything would be a distant memory.

Now, Primrose knows that some memories never leave.

“Yusufa…” she says in the mirror, shadows of the past in her eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I couldn’t stay long after I laid you beneath those sands. I’m sorry.” The last word lingers as she breathes in, out. “I wish we didn’t have to meet under such duress, but the time I spent with you… know that I appreciated our time together. You always looked out for me, worried for me. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

It feels wrong to speak like this, to forgive herself when she doesn’t deserve it yet.

Yet. She tries to be kind to herself. How can she truly honor Yusufa’s memory?

Primrose walks to her palace room balcony and watches the people pass. Groups of people dance on the streets. Musicians sing, pound their drums, strum their strings. Crowds gather and applaud and cheer.

Yusufa once acknowledged that she had to improve to thrive in this world. This often cruel, unforgiving world. Despite everything, performing was an act of courage many dared not attempt. Despite everything, she wanted to be seen. Heard. She wanted the world; she deserved it.

The world didn’t love her back.

“I have an idea. If it’s all right with you, I’ll help you see the world, the one you weren’t able to see. They can hear your story, how you’ve been a light until you were lost, and too soon.” A long pause. The winds are still. “If it’s all right, I’ll bring you back beneath the stage lights — brighter ones. Happier. Warmer.”

Marsalim welcomed her with open arms, from the palace to each stage across their sands. Now comes the grandest stage to grace the realm, one in which she can properly pay her respects, and her thanks.

A slight breeze touches her cheek, then dissipates. Another, reaching out, struggling.

“I feel you.” Primrose whispers, eyes shut. “I won’t hurt you.”

Again, stronger, like a wind blown from a flourish of fabric. Deep blue fabric, swaying gently.

Primrose nods. “It’ll take some time to figure out, but I'll find a way. I always do.”

A desert rose harbors poison, but in the proper hands, its poison becomes a panacea. It is a remedy for ailments of the body, a source from which healing spreads. When given the best care, the desert rose blooms in cascades of pink and red, full and vibrant.

The palace room is comfortably warm as she pens her first draft, crisp parchment as her company. She uses plenty, most of which rests in a haphazard stack at the corner of her table. Words are hard, she learns; they are even harder when they are her own, written from years of blood and shadow. Life is a mess, and for once, she makes peace with that. Only ink flows.

Scribbles lead to somewhat coherent thoughts, then legible words. Thoughts connect, and she chooses her idea: a series of vignettes based on her life. While not entirely devoid of the hardships that shaped her, she wishes not to carve herself out and lay bloodied and bare before the masses. No, she wants to focus on the kinder acts, even when she felt that she deserved none.

With renewed energy, she makes a list with each friend. What acts of kindness have they generously given her? Putting an eager quill to parchment, she begins:

Olberic: I could see the darkness in his eyes. He could see mine. We didn’t ask. I trust few men. He is an exception. He showed me the ways of self-defense, using another person’s size against them, all without touching me. I asked. He respected me. How unfortunate mutual consent feels unnatural, these days. But he helped me with a warrior’s honor. I’m grateful.

She remembers the pivotal moment during one of their training sessions. “You can touch me this time”, she recalls. Olberic nodded and checked in frequently, his hands always gentle, touches never lingering past instruction. She knew what to expect, all while feeling safe.

Cyrus: Aloof, sure, yet his magic is nothing to laugh about. He scrutinized my noble blood without a blink, yet didn’t press further. I appreciated that. He showed me how to hone my skills with shadow: how to conserve my energy, how to channel my latent powers without hurting myself. They were somewhere inside, he said. I was doubtful, but I see it now. Shadows cannot consume me.

Tressa: She was so innocent when I met her. She still is — I say this with affection. I felt like I’d drain the energy from her, show her the world had its darkness. But I needed her vigor, her hope. Her eye for leaves and high quality were impressive. She taught me how to strike bargains and spot counterfeits, all to ensure none would take advantage of me. She really knew how to sell it. If anyone tried to hurt her, I’d end them and dance on their grave.

Ophilia: We were like opposites living in opposites. Darkness and sun, light and frost. Displaced and sheltered. I kept my distance because I thought I would poison her light. But no, she had enough light to warm the world, a rare thing. Faith is fickle. My only blessing comes with my knife, my only boon a quick death. And she had someone to protect. I couldn't do that.

A sigh of remorse. She couldn’t protect her; she blames herself. Why didn’t she do more for her? Primrose can't answer. She doesn't know if she should answer, if she’s in the position to ask. Haunted by her own demons, nursing bruises and welts, enduring the torment, all for the slight chance for a crow to kill. She wonders if she knew what Yusufa wanted, at all.

That empty head of yours. Empty, empty.

No, shut up.

Oh, the tragedy! It moves me to the depths of my soul!

No, it’s no tragedy. It’s hope. Through her words, she can give hope. And damn them for believing she can’t.

Heated, Primrose sets the quill down and caps the vial of ink. She stares out the window the rest of the day, a break to break the voices in pieces.

Late in the evening, Primrose lights an oil lamp and returns to Ophilia's notes, apologizing for getting distracted.

Ophilia never pushed her own faith onto her, no sacred flame to smother darkness by force. Rather, she asked if her house’s faith was her own, that she could have faith in something else, too. Someone, if needed. A shield in tangible form.

Primrose closes her eyes, and images of said shield appear. In place of metal is tanned leather and a beast’s hide; the shield is strong, both hardened and humbled by her way of life. Bold, electrifying, yet ashful with ways of love. Primrose smiles. She welcomes the light. She should probably focus now.

Alfyn: He was so nice that I couldn’t trust him at first; surely that axe wasn’t just for show. I spoke too soon. How strange to witness someone new to darkness. But I wasn’t that cruel of a woman to push away his feelings. I had enough of that. I did my best, and he always let me know. In turn, he taught me how to heal, from stab wounds to the wounds in my heart. Another to whom I entrust my life.

Therion: He taught me how to protect myself, how to survive. Purely practical, detached. Distrust of others, mutual respect for one another. I know that loneliness in his eyes. Pushing others away, only for them to come knocking, pleading to let them in. I know it well. I worried about him the most, rotten apples from the same tree, owned but never loved. I hope he knows he has a home with all of us.

A home with everyone… yes, that's what they told her, too. Two apples cutting out what rotted them, making themselves anew.

H’aanit: My love.

A wistful sigh, then another glance. Well, that’s too short.

She dips the quill in a half-full vial and tries again.

H’aanit: My love. My light. She showed me how the world could help me rather than hurt me. It started with the practical like everyone else: how to maintain my blade, how to shoot an arrow, how to let the land feed me, sustain me. She showed me how much I didn’t know, yet I always wanted more. I wanted her. She let me in, wanting me, too.

Slowly, the practical became personal. Steady hands guiding the path of her arrow, holding her as they traversed steep cliffs[, tending to her wounds…

She rests a hand over the scar on her side, long-healed but fresh with memories. Painful ones. Primrose remembers the long nights where H'aanit brought her back to earth from the torment in her head. Empty, empty. Tragic, how tragic. Theater is life, and life is theater. All she can do now is let herself feel her feelings, to let them in and flow out.

Oil lamps dance gently through the long nights. Ink stains her hands, and as the words flow, she smiles.

With the last of the thoughts out her head, she caps the ink vial and sets down her quill. A stretch of her wrists, and she looks down at her notes, satisfied. Through fresh eyes, Primrose may plot her script, revise and revise again, adding kind acts until gratitude expels the poison from past wounds.

Primrose doesn't mention Yusufa’s name on paper, yet her monologues bear a heavy, cathartic weight. Upon reading through the script, the casting director suggests Primrose herself narrate the play.

“Such words are best spoken from the playwright themselves," they say. "It is clear that someone needs to hear them, whoever they are."

“Truth be told, I didn't intend to act in my play,” Primrose admits. “I just… wrote, and this is the result.”

“And a beautiful one. Of course, the decisAion is yours in the end, but I’ve seen the power of having your words heard, untwisted.”

Untwisted. When others listen for the sake of listening, not for a piece into which to sink their teeth, she feels that she belongs.

"I’ll think about it. No promises, though."

“I thank you, Primrose.”

Ah, but within her name lies promise. She owes Yusufa that much, doesn’t she?

Days pass, and she returns with her resolute answer.

“Have we met before, I wonder?” Primrose asks herself as the play’s auditions conclude. The parchment on her table reads “Helena” of Sunshade; at the bottom, it reads: “I wish to perform here so my father may return to see me on stage.”

From Sunshade? And her father?

She shuts her eyes, and slowly, the memory of years past returns.

Primrose stands in front of a sand-swept dormitory. She sighs, her broken sandal a somber reminder of the honor she discarded. Nearby, a youth professes she will be a beautiful dancing girl, a star of the stage, and all will admire her. “Papa, papa!” A sing-song tone, a giggle. She turns to Primrose and calls her beautiful. The father glances once at her and grimaces. He quickly shuffles his daughter away, her hopes of fame a fool’s dream.

From this memory emerges another; a young, innocent Primrose dances in front of her lord father. Her dress swishes and spins, and she laughs, ecstatic (she practiced so hard, after all). He claps for his daughter, praising her to the sun and back.

If Helena’s father needs to return, then where is he now? Does he care not for his daughter’s dreams? Is he even of this world?

“Does your father enjoy the arts?” Primrose asks, choosing not to pry.

“Well, sort of,” Helena shrugs. “He’d view my dreams of being a stage princess as childish, but everyone’s talking about this theater now! I’m hoping he’ll come.”

“Being a princess is not all roses and sunshines, you know,” Primrose says, regretting her spoken words. How cynical for a director, or perhaps it is just realism. Her former prince nearly charmed her into the grave.

“Don’t worry! I’ve read more than those tales.” Helena stands taller, proud. “Sometimes, the princess has a hard life, but feels happy in her own way. She doesn’t always need a prince!”

Stage princess, stage darling — Primrose knows all the titles. She also knows the harm they may bring to any actor, especially youths like Helena. They may lose themselves to a stage image they cannot match. If not, then adults prey upon such youth, exploiting and tossing them away when they have served their purpose. Primrose remembers Yusufa (how can she forget?), how life dealt her the cruelest hand from a young age. If she can do anything, she can protect those who perform at her side. No raised voices, no strikes. There’s a chance to make things right.

“A fair point,” Primrose smiles, giving Helena the monologue to perform. “Whenever you’re ready.”

A desert rose is elegant, beautiful, yet not quite a rose, at all. It thrives beneath a powerful sun, both flower and crystal. The latter’s petal-like formation builds over time with layers of sweeping sands. Keep one nearby to process emotions, to instill clarity where it may have been lost.

Auditions conclude, and deliberations begin. She is thankful for the casting director 's communication on her behalf, as she is unused to rejecting others. With the cast of her play eventually set, she receives King Khalim’s invitation to enter the theater for the first time.

Within the amphitheatre, a golden spiral path draws her eyes like a spotlight on center stage. Theater staff walk and wheel themselves up the path, brimming with excitement about what they’ll create. The upper floor branches into two sloping paths that converge to the main stage entrance. In place of steps, the lower stage gently slopes upward to form the upper section upon which actors may access. Ramps slope toward stages left and right, while a final ramp connects the stage to the audience.

Everhold was nothing like this.

Everhold was a crumbling castle of old spirits, rebuilt into a theater to break her down. The puppet master twisted his strings, all to parade her demons on stage for the masses. She entered like a rabbit entranced by a hunter’s snare, barely avoiding his death grip, almost succumbing to it.

Simeon went out of his way to mock her, words sickly sweet to mask their poison. The blade through her side, driven in so she walked the line of life and death, was part of the act. The stage darling crawling on hands and knees, sated only by vengeance fulfilled — all part of the act. He didn’t care about the outcome. He didn’t care about her. He made her doubt her own memories, her own beliefs. Strung along like a marionette, twisted, almost broken. Almost.

He is no longer of this world to mock her. Theater is life, and life is theater. There is no need for such tragedy.

A polite “excuse me” breaks Primrose out of the mental spiral, and she meanders toward the side of the entrance hall. She sits on the nearby chair and steadies her trembling hands. The past memories are part of her new reality, one that she accepts.

Following the tour of the theater, she joins the meeting with her now-colleagues: fellow directors, theater staff, and the King himself. They discuss logistics, rehearsals, and share advice for collaborating with actors. No role is too small; everyone plays their part. Treat everyone with respect and understanding. Primrose finds that she has plenty to learn within the theater, from terminology to teamwork. Especially teamwork. As a new director, she works alongside one of the stage managers, who advises her on appropriate times to give critique. They work with each other, never against. The days pass.

Backstage, Primrose passes groups of actors playing games as they await their cues. Others belt their fellow performers’ high notes and play-fight with loaves of bread. Once their cues arrive, they assume their roles like flickers of a lamp, and the show goes on. So accustomed to tension and held breaths, Primrose doesn’t know how to act, at first. Part of her wants to join them; the other part manifests as a nagging voice in her head. No distractions, or you’ll pay. Now go earn your keep, kitten.

“You all right, Primrose? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A young man in the ensemble cast, she says to herself. Thick wig hair obscures his eyes, and silk fabrics drape over his form.

“I’m all right, thank you for asking,” Primrose assures. “How is the play coming along?”

“Oh, I’ve been loving the costumes!” he beams in spite of the midday heat. “We’re still working on getting them on and off quickly, though — I get stuck. Hey, do you want to play cards with us?”

She follows the gesture of his arm toward an adjacent room, where cast members in costume swiftly pile cards into a chaotic stack. A hand slams down, then a second against the first. They holler and laugh in delight.

“Maybe later,” Primrose says, shaking the previous thoughts aside. “Still figuring out some lines, so I’ll need to focus.”

“Sure, no worries,” he smiles and bows his head. “If you change your mind, let us know!”

She appreciates his energy.

From the rehearsal room comes daily practice on the main stage. By now, Primrose knows the names of all within the theater — personalities, skill sets, and quirks. Both actors and stagehands praise her personable directing style; such praise is still foreign to her compared to Sunshade, with rot who commanded through shame and force. The touches disgusted her, yet she could only endure. Just one more night, and maybe, just maybe, a crow shall come. She lost many nights to unsated vengeance, but now, she creates new memories through sleights of card hands and high notes cut off by laughter.

The amphitheatre’s walls are warmly familiar with time. Primrose speaks her lines at center stage, exiting as actors take her place. The cast performs as her dear friends, embodying their mannerisms and cadence of their voices. They enact her vision, listen to her comments with an eagerness to learn. Fear does not fuel them. It does not fuel her. She occasionally stumbles across the floor, but the breakthroughs are sunbeams through the clouds. They invigorate her. They give her life, and she gives this light back. They all work together, exchanging kind words as they leave at dusk. Primrose bids them a good night.

On the way back to her quarters, she stops at a nearby market stall for goods. People clamor and part into two lines nearby. Surely it is no procession, not at this hour.

Across the open path strolls a leopard, tail swishing with familiarity. Her fur is damp with stream water, and she shakes the water out, much to the displeasure of patrons. It is all pleasure to the lovely Linde, an emotion Primrose shares with open arms.

“Oh Linde, you’re all soaked!” Primrose feigns distaste as she embraces her dear friend. “It must have been hot, coming all the way here. Oh, you’re so sweet, you’re—”

“She hath been playing in the waters all day,” the voice of her heart calls. “We hath arrived in the morning, but I was informed that thou worketh in the theater.” The strong figure approaches, a telltale braid over her broad shoulder.

“Kept me waiting all this time?” Primrose’s jest falls, affection taking its place. “Heh, come here.”

H’aanit is like hearth and home: her sturdy presence, her comfort, her warmth. The dips and curves of her arms are wonderful as ever, and Primrose can’t help trailing her hands across them. An amused laugh, and she feels herself pulled closer into H’aanit’s arms.

“I hath missed thee, mine love,” H’aanit murmurs against her hair, then kisses her lips. “I hath kept mine promise, I hopen.”

“You have,” Primrose says, full of mirth. “Things are finally coming together. I’ll tell you about it later, though. Lodgings won’t be a concern here, though you probably knew that.”

“Aye, I do. I hath informed His Majesty about mine visit, and Linde and I hath a humble room within the palace. Ah, but Linde, where did she—?”

They spot the excited flick of a tail toward the smoked, savory meat stall. After emptying their coin pouches to an ecstatic chef, they regale each other with recent events amidst lively city streets.

Moonlight streams through gaps in Primrose’s curtains as street musicians entertain the late-night crowds. A sleeping Linde curls up on the edge of the bed, her tail swishing to the rhythm of sweet dreams. Against soft cushions, Primrose comfortably rests her head on H’aanit’s chest, their bodies aglow with gentle candlelights. Her chest is quite soft as well, though she doesn’t say that out loud.

“So much for the guest room,” Primrose says, her voice low and content. “Thanks for coming to stay with me.”

“ ‘Tis mine pleasure. And that of Linde, too. She hath missed thee greatly.”

They stay like this, two hearts as one. Primrose sighs as H'aanit runs a hand through her wavy hair, and conversation flows from one topic to the next. They soon land upon the subject of Primrose's play.

"How dost thou feelen about thy rehearsals? I senseth they aren more than dances alone."

Primrose tells her about the grand amphitheater, from the history painted on its walls to the way that the magic stone clipped to her dress amplifies the voice she once held back. Words flow out like a powerful stream, eager to push forward as Primrose shares with enthusiasm. H'aanit’s form catches the moonlight, the glow of distant stars caressing the indents of scars.

“If you’ve seen me mumble to myself, I’ve been rehearsing lines. A lot of them. I wrote them myself.”

“A speaker of the stage, then. And what wouldst thy subject be?”

“Well, it’s…” Primrose speaks quickly before the thoughts stop her. “It’s for Yusufa. My play, I mean. It’s a message to her.”

“Yusufa.” One breath of her name holds all of H’aanit’s understanding.

“She always worried about me. Every time I stepped off the stage, she checked on me, held me when I was losing myself.” A sniffle, restrained. “I didn't thank her enough. I didn’t tell her I appreciated her, and I should have.”

Should have, should have. The phrase haunts her, all the regrets. Another sniffle. Damn.

“Is that so?” H’aanit murmurs. “I thinketh Yusufa wouldst looketh fondly upon thy decision to honoren her kindness. ‘Tis a most noble goal.”

“Noble? I don’t…”

Primrose retrieves her dagger from beneath the cushion. Her fingers meld against the hilt, and she cradles the blade like a child holds her stuffed doll.

“Mine love?”

Faith shall be your shield, she tells herself in her head. Her family’s words. Her story. Through harsh sands, biting frost, and hell among high cliffs, she endured the pain, the dishonor.

“Am I just a killer, H’aanit?”

“I am… unsure of thy meaning,” H’aanit says, caution in her voice. Even so, she is not perturbed by the dark question.

A sigh. “I don’t know where that came from all of a sudden. I’m sorry.”

“Thou needest no apology. Something lieth on thy mind. We canst talketh through thy concerns, if it helpeth thee.”

H’aanit grasps Primrose’s hand where it holds the dagger. Only H’aanit can impart kindness through the touch of a blade. The way her thumb moves across the metal, brushing over each letter of Primrose’s journey.

“I mayst not understandest all of thee, but I am here, and I shall listen.”

She feels H’aanit’s smile in the dark, and she remembers. Within her name lies promise, and she always keeps her promises.

"I often ask myself if it was worth it. Everything I did."

"Dost thou meanest the act itself?"

Primrose hums. “It has been done, all that I’ve set out to do. Still, his words haunt me. His mind games. At least with the physical, it…” A short breath. “You can see the damage fade with time, at least in my case. But mentally, I can’t see it. Not all of it.”

“Dost thou holden regret for thy deeds?”

A deeper breath, drawing the very air out of the room. “No. No, I don’t. What I regret more is what they’ve taken from me. They took my light, so I ended theirs. But mine didn’t come back — not without hard work. Painful work.”

“Primrose…” H’aanit grasps the hand that holds the dagger close. “Sheathen thy weapon, wilt thou? I want to holdest thee close, if that is all right.”

It’s a gentle request, always gentle. H’aanit never forces her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. The dagger, a comfort through tumultuous years, feels strangely cold. Weary. She returns the dagger to its spot under the pillow — an ingrained habit, though no harm shall come to her tonight. H’aanit welcomes her in her arms, and amidst the sands, Primrose thinks of evergreens and forest earth.

“Comfortable?”

“Mm-hm.”

Their legs loosely intertwine as Primrose relaxes in her embrace. She closes her eyes, and the sounds of the city disappear. The musicians’ drums are lingers of notes in the sky; the market stalls are the wafts of leaves in the air. It is just a heartbeat, then another.

“About thy words earlier…” H’aanit starts to ask.

“Ah.” She doesn’t waver, for H’aanit has seen her lows upon lows. “I guess… I was thinking how it felt so cold, so hollow after my hunts. Does that happen to you?”

A foolish question, she tells herself as the words leave her lips. H’aanit hunts by trade, but not people. Not without a good reason. Was her own reason good enough?

“I cannot sayest with certainty, love. Mine hunts aren… different,” H’aanit starts. “A different intent, a different fruit of mine labor. I enteren each hunt with intent to honoren mine catch, to honoren the life they hath given to us, to sustaineth us. ‘Tis not a game, but an act of respect. Keepeth the act swift, and thanketh them.”

Each plunge of her dagger tore her further from her hinges. Yet each hunt seemed to ground H’aanit, to further her resolve. All Primrose desired was balance, a sturdy ground where her knees no longer buckled from winds of rage and shadow.

“There’s nothing to honor, is there?”

“Thou wouldst be correct.”

“It still hurts.”

“Aye.”

Primrose feels a hand stroke her hair, and she leans closer against her hearth and home.

She thinks of the way H’aanit sits beside her hunted prey, silent and head bowed. She thinks of the way H’aanit transports a carcass over her shoulder while sharing how the village wastes nothing. They use everything: hides for leather, claws for tools, meat for stews. They take only what they need.

As for her own life? That crow played with her life, reveled in her suffering. They struck and struck, leaving prey in pools of blood. No remorse, only theatrics.

“I always respected your trade, how you stay grounded despite everything.”

“Grounded?” H’aanit says. “ ‘Tis interesting.”

“How so?”

“Some days canst be difficult on the spirit,” H’aanit says with a sigh. “I oft see the plight of nature at the hands of humans who holdeth little respect for life. It hurteth me to see one in pain, one who didst nothing. And so, I cutten the life short, quickly. A mercy kill. But for thee, ‘tis not the same.”

Primrose waits with a held breath. Unknowingly tense, gentle strokes of her hair bring her back.

“For thee, the crows who hath fallen by thy hand… they hath continued their torment with nary a thought of guilt. They hath taken thy peace for selfish gain. To calleth them ‘beasts’ wouldst be an insult to the beast.”

Primrose lets out a shaky breath. “I didn’t deserve it. It took me a long time to realize it, but I didn’t.”

“Thou didst not,” H’aanit agrees. “Sometimes, the beast is man.”

They lie there, two hearts as one, to process the words. H’aanit has a way with them.

“If I mayst offeren some comfort, mine love.”

A hum, a nod to continue.

“In S’warkii, we holdest this perspective: cutten away the source of rot, or the whole shall fester. We thinketh of the days ahead, and ‘tis better to liveth another day than to letten the rot harmeth thee. Thou hast done thy duty, and nary a soul shall enduren their rot again.” H’aanit gently brings Primrose flush to her body. “Even so… I wisheth thou didst not needeth to enduren such a fate. Thou deserven only the best.”

Only the best. Primrose inscribes the words within her heart, another shield of faith.

“You’re right, love. You’re right,” Primrose breathes out. “I needed that, thank you.”

“I thanken thee for sharing.” H’aanit kisses her forehead gently. “Have faith in thy resolve, mine love. I do.”

Primrose’s eyes grow weary with the weight of catharsis. With her words spoken aloud, perhaps she’ll be free. Yusufa, as well, who may dance among heavenly sunbeams. A question enters the back of her mind, a yearning.

“When this is all done, would you have enough space in S’warkii? I… I want to be with you.”

“Thou wisheth to accompany me?” H’aanit asks. “Ah, pray not letten mine hesitance leadeth thee astray. Mine home is, how thou sayest, a mess.”

That earns a much-needed laugh from Primrose. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Then, it is settled. I wouldst be most happy to have thee. Thou art always welcome.”

A hearth and home, no matter the distance.

A desert rose is soft yet stands its ground. Despite a strong will, its softness renders it vulnerable to breakage. It is a vivid reminder to move through the world with gentleness, to bid farewell to those who no longer help one thrive. With proper care and love, it shall radiate light tenfold.

News of the amphitheatre's grand opening spreads across Orstella. Through penned letters and word of mouth, scores of travelers stream through Marsalim's gates, and the city is alight with festivities.

Locals and travelers roam the market stalls for confections, and lines upon lines wait for the amphitheatre's doors to open. Crowds stir and clap joyously as the doors of grand stone open and theater staff usher them inside. The wondrous sight of citizens traversing the spiral ramp is one for historians’ tomes; several collect firsthand accounts of the theater and scribble eagerly into their journals.

Eventually, familiar faces appear: the ever-cheerful Alfyn and Tressa, a pleasantly content Therion, and Olberic with Erhardt at his side. Ophilia arrives later due to weather, and Cyrus blames his tardiness on issues with paid leave ("they wasted my time, those fools", he bemoans). They're all here to see her, and her heart is so full. A last round of best wishes, and Primrose leaves their side to prepare.

Backstage in the cosmetics room, Primrose secures her shining hair in a single braid that hangs down her back. Mixing dark pigments and oil with a thin brush, she paints above her lashes with a steady hand. A final look in the mirror, and Primrose recognizes the image in front of her. It keeps the nerves in control. Most of them, anyway.

A series of knocks, followed by the voice of her heart.

“Come in.”

H’aanit enters wearing hunters’ attire most suitable for the arts, and a string of hand-carved beads adorns her neck. The exposed arms, those dips and curves…

“I hopen this is fanciful enough,” H’aanit says bashfully.

“It’s perfect.” The words earn Primrose her love’s smile. So wonderful.

“I wanted to check on thee before the show. Needest help with thine attire?”

“Just the back here,” Primrose says, reaching behind to point at the laces. “Not too tight, just enough so it doesn’t fall.”

The two stand in front of a body-length mirror, and Primrose feels the gentle pull of laces against her back, just above the waist. She sighs, relaxes. Another slight pull, then a noticeable pause.

“H’aanit?”

“Ah, forgiven me. ‘Twas…” She hears her take a breath. “ ‘Twas simply admiring thy radiance.”

“Oh, stop.” She wants her to keep going.

“ ‘Tis the truth! Looketh at thineself — I feelen both pride and power.”

Sunlands silk drapes lovingly over Primrose’s frame, deep red and shining. From the jewel-embellished torso to the flared pant legs, she moves with noble elegance and comfort. A flowing red gown drapes down the back to accentuate sweeping movements without hindering the front. She feels like a new self, reborn anew.

“I feel it, too. I’m so grateful.”

She lets H’aanit envelop her in a hug, and time stills like they are the only two in the world.

“Ah, I shall letten thee preparen. We aren in in the front, watching thee. May the spirits favoreth thee, mine love.” H’aanit pulls back, kissing her on the forehead, then the cheek, then lips. “Faith is both thy shield and blade. Seizeth the light.”

H’aanit shuts the door as Primrose finishes adorning herself with bracelets of glimmering gold. She meets her fellow actors backstage for a rallying cry befitting of stars.

On stage, King Khalim greets the full audience with heartfelt gratitude, thanking them for taking the time to join him on the magical day.

“I hope you may all enjoy what our beloved performers have prepared for you here, at the Desert Rose. So much passion in the air that I shall not make you wait a second more! Now, let us begin!”

Primrose rehearses as the first performances conclude with resounding applause. One round of lines, then another, then the last. Having memorized other actors’ lines from mere proximity, she knows that her cues approach.

At last, King Khalim introduces the premise of her play: a message to a loved one, and a love letter to herself. Promise lies within her name, a promise she shall keep. Primrose Azelhart.

Resounding applause, then the crowd descends into silence as the first lights descend upon the upper stage. A young girl twirls in place, stepping lightly back and forward. She spins faster, longer. She is Helena, playing the role of young Primrose. Fanciful, immersed in her own thoughts of prince charmings and midnight escapades.

“Hee hee, I can’t wait to show Father my new dance! It starts like this, mhm! Then this, and this!”

The true Primrose walks across the lower stage. Lights drift from Helena to her.

"You once told me that I didn't say much." The spotlight is bright, warm. She lets her voice linger, to be taken in. "You were right, of course. I didn't, my words carefully clipped like a rose without thorns. Any inflection of tone, any wrong word earned another's ire, and that bled into the rest of my days. Those days included you, a light in the darkness."

The light dims, and the theater feels closely intimate.

"I am sorry. You deserved more than I could give you. Know that I am speaking now, safer and taken care of. Who would’ve thought?”

Lights shift from white to a warm orange, like falling autumn leaves.

“You would tell me how you worried about me. After each stage, each moment. But you need not worry about me anymore, and I’ll show you why."

The light dims, returning to the upper stage. Her actress, dressed in Sunlands attire, takes her place. She wanders across the stage with an aimless look in her eyes, dark circles accentuated with makeup. “Anywhere but here, anywhere but here,” she repeats. Arcanists work their magic, warming the air and shining lights like heavy beams of midday sun.

“It felt cold for a long time,” Primrose continues. “With a purpose and without one, all at once. I went wherever my feet took me. But then they came, one after the other.”

As Primrose speaks, the actors playing her dear friends cross the stage in a wordless montage. Back, forth, and back again. Primrose’s actress looks left and right, unsheathing her stage dagger, suspicious, prepared to strike. Slowly, she sheathes the weapon.

“They’re all searching for something, just like me. A calling. A purpose. An end goal. Maybe they can help me, and then, they’ll never see me again.”

Primrose smirks, lights focusing back on her. “Ah, but they stuck by my side. I was unused to the company — at least, unused to people who wanted to be around me, who didn’t want to use me. They didn’t pry into my past, but rather, respected my needs. My space. I needed a lot of it, until I let them in myself. And then they knew everything.”

A montage of actors portrays the kindness Primrose received from each person, from the practical to the intimate. A tall warrior teaches his ways of defense, demonstrating how to use a foe’s weight against them. He tumbles, rolls himself over an imaginary shoulder. Self-defense without a single touch. A scholar with a penchant for the arcane shows her how to embrace darkness. A young merchant’s eye for leaves gives her the advantage so none take it from her.

“Is your house’s faith your own?” Ophilia’s actress asks. “It’s all right to have faith in something else — someone, if needed. A shield you can hold.”

“A shield I can hold…”

Primrose smiles as she listens to the dialogue, soft and assuring. Music slows, allowing their words to be heard in full. The air shifts with the atmosphere.

“Hey. Here’s some medicine for your wound,” Alfyn’s actor says, holding out a vial. His voice is quiet yet still warm for her sake. “Once in the morning, once in the evening. Let me know if you need help, or just a listening ear. I'm here for you.”

Then, two people draw daggers. They exchange sharp glances, dark and distrusting. Slowly, they sheathe their weapons and step closer, closer. A flurry of snow materializes in the air, drifting in a slow dance. Soon, they sit side by side; the crackle of a fire takes the snow's place. He leans, and she comforts.

"I can do this, right?" Therion's actor asks, subdued. "Just a little more. I've made it this far."

"You have. And you won't be alone. We're here for you, and we'll see this through. You have my word."

They step off stage, and H'aanit's actress takes their place. She lowers herself to the ground, satchel at hand, and removes its contents: smooth stones, a small stage knife, and wooden arrow shafts. She mimics the carving motions of a fletcher at work.

Primrose's actress returns from the shadows. "What are you making?"

"Arrows for the hunt. Caren to joineth me?"

She joins her side with intrigue, picking up stone after stone, smoothing them with careful hands. Together, they craft the arrows and share fond glances until the task is complete. Lights fade and shift.

"What can I say about her? So many good things, wonderful things. I think you would've liked her if you two had the chance to meet. To say it was love at first sight makes it seem like a child’s tale, and yet… it is not far off the mark. Perhaps the second sight, or third. She taught me how the world could help rather than hurt me. She was grounding in the chaos, so kind that I felt like I deserved none of it. I had much to learn from her, but I always wanted more.”

The pair embrace, a lone spotlight upon them. Soft fabrics rustle as one rubs circles against the other’s back, grounding, reassuring.

“I’m sorry, I just… I need a moment.”

“Taketh thy time. I am here.”

“Sometimes, it’s the simple words that say the most,” Primrose says from the edge of the stage. “There is no room to twist them; there is only the truth. Through such truths, I could find mine.”

H’aanit’s actress parts ways with her beloved. The true Primrose joins her own counterpart; she faces the front, and the latter faces the back.

“They say one’s inner demons can consume you if you’re not strong enough to fight. This journey was not as simple as the manner in which I tell it. They almost took my light, devoured me.”

The air thrums and darkens with stage shadows, engulfing them in a lightless void. The dark cloud swirls, hovers, and disperses. Shadow-cloaked crows dart out, taking the darkness away to reveal a single figure. Her back faces the audience as she stretches her arms. Sleeves of purple shadow color her veins and cloak her forearms, flowing down, down. Smooth and supple, like silk. Like water.

“They put on quite the performance, but in the end… I won.”

Water soothes. Water surges. She flicks her wrist, and sleeves arc through the air with renewed light. Like the beautiful performance of years past, she claims the present and seizes her light.

Lights shift, and H’aanit and Primrose’s actresses reunite upon the upper stage. They join hands to recreate the beloved dance: the spins, the smiles, and the kiss. Oh, the kiss!

As the audience erupts in cheers, Primrose smirks with the knowledge that they are a couple off the stage. Theater is life, and life is theater.

The pair twirls slowly, the swishes of their fabric a gentle visual of their love. They cross the stage in a final flourish as Primrose begins her cathartic finale.

“And so, this tale ends, but the memories shall not. These memories shall go on, for heart and for hope. The seasons may change, but darkness needs not repeat with the cycle. I am in a better place now, so don’t you worry about me," Primrose exhales, voice thick with emotion. "May these words — and my truth — travel through sands and sky to reach you. And may you continue to watch over me, on and off this stage of life, vast and limitless.”

Primrose ends with a deep bow, and the applause is overwhelming. Claps and cheers abound, and when she finally looks up, the audience stands for her. She makes out the faces in the first row — where are they, where are they?

Oh. Oh. There they are. One dear companion after the other, together, standing and cheering for her.

On cue, the actors cross the stage to join her side, and together, they bow deeply with gratitude. As they leave, Primrose looks beyond the theater walls. A kiss of her hand, and she sends her message to her dancer of the skies. Her mind floats among clouds, so her muscles move for her, guiding her gently off the stage.

King Khalim takes her place with tears in his eyes to thank her for her beautiful performance. Intermission starts, and rows slowly file out of the theater. Costumed actors emerge from backstage to greet loved ones, and Primrose thinks she sees young Helena calling out to her father, calling and calling. The man responds in kind, and they embrace like the world no longer matters. And so, another happy tale can begin.

Weaving among the crowd, Primrose finds the group first. They clamor and speak over each other and praise and cry. She responds with close embraces, so full and grateful. They step back to wipe tears with their own sleeves, not daring to stain Primrose's beautiful clothes. H’aanit earns kiss after kiss, followed by an “oooooh!” and a gentle elbow in one’s side. Primrose simply laughs, her own eyes wet with tears.

After collecting herself, she joins the group in the audience to enjoy the day's performances, from the heart-rending to the riveting. Seeing the efforts of her fellow performers unfold brings her such joy — all the rehearsals, all the long nights. She leaves their side to partake in standing ovations, and the sun smiles upon them all.

Over time, the Desert Rose builds a stellar repertoire of plays from creators across the realm. From the succinct to sweeping epics, the King can entertain for years to come.

Primrose ponders creating her first full-length play in the future. Days in the theater reserved for her vision alone, her words? Oh, the possibilities! The prospect would take substantial work, yet it’s something she welcomes, something that keeps her going.

For now, she enjoys quality time with H'aanit in her quiet forest home. One of many homes, to which she is always welcome.

H'aanit lights a large candle and hunches over her workbench, its surface covered with beads and cord. A small hunting knife, its blade coated in fine powder, lays next to carved stones. Outside, the elder spins riveting tales around the bonfire, which grows as new travelers join the circle of locals.

"I hath been creating this since two summers afore, love," H'aanit says fondly. Her eyes fixate on a curved tooth as she bores a hole through the center. "From a master hath I learned the art of jewelcraft, and I hath collected the adornments from mine hunts and travels. 'Twas not mine specialty, and still ‘tis not, but I tryeth mine best, as thou sayest."

Seashells from the Coastlands’ shores, hand-carved stones, bright gems that shine with strength — and all for her. Beautiful does not, and cannot, begin to describe it.

"I… could you put it on me?" Primrose asks, her voice soft. "Could you?"

" 'Twould be mine honor."

With shaky hands of anticipation, Primrose lifts her hair up to expose her neck. Vulnerable under any circumstance, but with H'aanit, she feels safe, always safe. A gentle " 'tis done", and she hears H'aanit step back.

"Does it suiteth thee well?"

The string of beads hangs below the collarbone, so gentle that she barely feels its weight against her skin . Crystal beads glimmer against the candlelight, adorning her neck like a noble's finest golds. This is beyond gold; this is H'aanit's affection, her hands imparting all her love.

Primrose laughs, smiles, laughs again. A sniffle with joy as she smooths over the beads. Every facet, every smoothed stone — all for her.

Gentle arms embrace her from behind, and Primrose leans close. They move in a slow rhythm, savoring the calm of the night.

"Couldst thou showeth me the steps of the dance? From the years afore, when we…" A fond chuckle. "When we hath shared our affections on the stage."

"I would love nothing more."

Primrose leads H'aanit out the door and into the night. As the fire lights their figures, they feel like stars on a stage, limitlessly wide. Even when H'aanit accidentally steps on her toes, Primrose laughs and spins her again. A step forward, a step back. Forward, back. In time, movements are synchronized and seamless; their joy is full like the moon.

"Art thou weary yet?"

"Ha, I can dance all night."

“Then letten us.” A kiss against her lips. "I loveth thee so much."

A kiss in return. Only the best for her hearth and home.

"I love you, too."

They sway gently beneath the moonlight, two hearts as one.

A desert rose is elegant, beautiful, yet not quite a rose, at all. She thrives beneath a powerful sun, yet a rest beneath evergreens is always welcome. She stands her ground, settles the unsettling, and instills confidence in those who hold her. An embrace, a kiss. No matter the home, no matter the distance, she is welcome, and she may smile. Bright, like a sunbeam.