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The misty melody pulls Arslan out of his dreams, and the endless, tinkling plip-plip-plip of raindrops hitting against the thin walls when the winds howl desperate and wanting keeps him away from sleep.
It has been raining incessantly since this morning, and from the looks of the night sky – tinged with a hint of red and thick with clouds – it doesn’t look like it has the intention to stop any time soon.
Even so, Arslan, shivering a little despite having already wrapped himself in a thick woven cloak of maroon and golden yellow threads, is walking along the deserted corridor without a particular direction or destination in mind. His footsteps echo in the empty hallway, though they’re partly dampened by the pitter-patter of the heavy rain outside.
This kind of spring shower is usually an overture to an arid, hot summer.
As he nears the court garden, the sound of the rain much closer and increasingly insistent now that the corridor leads him to the backyard, he hears muffled notes from a stringed instrument. The melody wafts through the chilly, moist air, a trail of familiar warmth curling around the tips of his fingers, urging him towards the source of the music.
It doesn’t take the Shah long to realize that it’s probably the wandering musician, who’s apparently still awake at this late hour. Since he travels so often, Gieve has no home to return to even in the capital city, and so every time he returns from a trip, always bringing with him useful information and beautiful exotic gifts that has Arslan’s eyes brightened in pure curiosity and intrigue, the young king will often invite his friend to temporarily reside within the palace until his next journey.
Gieve’s back is angled towards him when Arslan finds him. He’s leaning against one of the ornately carved pillars in the undercover area of the courtyard, his willowy frame wrapped in a paisley-patterned blanket of rich purple and indigo. He sits cross-legged with his beloved oud in his lap, slender fingers of his left hand dancing languidly across the fret board and loose strands of his violet hair, sleek with moisture, flutters in the wind.
His eyes are closed and a relaxed, almost peaceful, smile grazes his lips – an expression much softer and kinder than his usual sharp and calculating visage.
The quilt slips off one of his shoulders when he readjusts his instrument, and Arslan, still entranced by the lovely but simple melody so that he has unknowingly ventured closer to the other man, picks up the hem of the cloth, still warm from Gieve’s body heat, and drapes it back on his shoulder.
The music halts, and the abrupt silence rings in their ears, the emptiness only filled by the tinkling of raindrops overhead. Gieve opens his eyes when he senses the younger man settling down next to him, and he casts his dark sea-green gaze towards his liege.
“Are you suffering from insomnia as well, Arslan-heika?” A corner of the musician’s lips is quirked up into a lop-sided grin as he dips his head in a respectful greeting.
“I think I’ve been lured out by your song, Gieve.” The young king glances up at the other man through his silver fringes, the light in his midnight-blue irises a subtle trace of teasing. “The last thing I remembered before waking up is a lingering melody in my dreams.”
“Your compliment honors me, Your Majesty,” Gieve’s grin widens, and he says with a small chuckle. “But you shouldn’t roam around in the middle of the night like this unattended; at least have Elam accompany you.”
“I didn’t wish to wake him from his slumber,” Arslan tells him, gaze lowering to where his fingers are clasped loosely together in his lap, “After all, he has an earlier start everyday compared to the rest of us, so I’d rather not trouble him just to indulge myself.” A fierce burst of wind blows past them, sweeping colourful petals and leaves from the garden into its powerful embrace, and the young king pulls up his legs and gathers them into the circle of his arms, his slight frame shivering in the sudden onslaught and cheeks chafed rosy pink by the cold; the cloak is not nearly thick enough to keep his body warm even as he hugs the material closer to himself to conserve heat.
Gieve props his oud down carefully against the column beside him.
“Here, Your Majesty,” the musician extends one of his arms towards him, fingers clasping one corner of the quilt, and beckons him to sit closer with a single nod, sea-green irises gentle and inviting. Without any further prompting, the silver-haired man shuffles closer to the welcoming heat to allow Gieve to throw his much larger blanket over both of them.
The cocoon of warmth shared between the two, in addition to the enticing scent of flowers and spices emanating from Gieve’s skin – probably from his bath earlier that same evening – makes Arslan feel strangely safe and protected. He leans his head lightly against the taller man’s shoulder, a lock of silver hair, twined by the moisture in the air, falls limply into his eyes but he makes no movement to remove the nuisance. He feels Gieve’s arm around him tightens just a degree.
“Will you play another song?” Arslan asks instead in a soft voice, almost concealed by the sound of rain.
“As gladly as I would like to oblige you, Arslan-heika, it’s difficult, even for me, to play the oud in our current position.” Arslan can see what he means, so he doesn’t insist, merely pleased by the warmth and pleasant rumble of Gieve’s voice reverberating around him like a gentle lullaby. “However, if Your Majesty so desires, we can talk until you’re ready to retire back to your chamber.”
“Thank you, Gieve,” Arslan says, eyes closed and a small smile curving along his lips. “Now then, what shall we talk about? I’m certain you have more interesting tales to tell from your recent travels.”
“Are you not sick yet of the stories I’ve already told during our dinner earlier tonight?” Gieve laughs.
“Never. There’s no way I’ll ever be bored by your stories,” Arslan replies with a grin, “you always have remarkable encounters on your journeys.”
“Regardless,” the musician tenderly brushes Arslan’s forelocks away from his cheeks and tuck the strands behind his ear, “I’d rather hear stories about what you and the others have been up to while I’ve been away.”
“You mean what Isfan has been up to?” There’s a hint of teasing in the young Shah’s tone, and he feels Gieve stiffens just for a brief moment at the mention of the topaz-eyed knight. He cannot muffle the trail of giggles that follow even if he tries.
“I haven’t realized that you’ve adopted the tactician’s foul sense of humor,” Gieve grumbles but doesn’t deny the younger man’s question.
“Well?” Arslan pointedly ignores the musician’s obvious jab and continues with a mischievous smirk, “Do you or do you not want to know?”
“Please go on then, Your Majesty,” Gieve sighs with an exaggerated sort of exasperation that makes Arslan laughs a little harder, his entire body shaking.
And so the Shah begins to tell his friend about that time when Isfan walked in on one of Narsus’ painting sessions and the knight’s hilarious reactions afterwards.
The wind and rain have died down significantly by the time Arslan finishes bringing the wandering musician up to date with what everyone has been doing for the last few months.
When it becomes quiet again, with only the occasional drip-drop of rain casting arcs on the puddles, Gieve finally asks with a sly grin, “And what about you, Arslan-heika? Any romantic stories you’d like to share with me this time? Do you require any advice on this front?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you again,” Arslan replies with a helpless, little laugh. There’s no melancholy or longing in the way he exhales a sigh, but Gieve has to wonder.
“It’s most curious that you haven’t taken interest in anyone,” the musician ponders out loud. “You’re 16 years of age and can have any women within the realm of Pars if you so desire, and yet you’re still unattached. Unless…”
The image of the brash yet courageous Lusitanian knight with dark blond curls and fierce golden eyes appears dimly in Gieve’s mind the moment he pauses to think.
He glances down towards the Shah, though he can only see the crown of disheveled, silver hair in the near-darkness of the night, and it seems that Arslan has suddenly grown too still, only his fingers are restlessly fiddling with the hem of his cloak and head lowered to avoid any eye contact.
“Unless there’s already someone occupying your heart,” Gieve concludes a little more delicately. “Have you heard from her recently – that Lusitanian girl whom you were so fond of?”
Arslan shakes his head twice, but doesn’t elaborate. Perhaps, he already knows that it’s impossible before something tangible can ever bloom between them. Missing someone from afar, yearning for someone who he hasn’t contacted with for months, keeping that desire hidden…
It’s easier to keep those particular emotions in check when he’s flooded by hoards upon hoards of documents to read through day after day, taking in new knowledge from Narsus and the other Marzbans, and jokingly pushing aside any marriage arrangements that Lucian not-so-subtly suggests for his own good. He can laugh those off easily enough with perfect excuses: he’s too young to start a family; he still wants to learn more, to experience more; he needs to build a strong and safe country for his people first before anything else. The list is close to endless.
But Arslan knows that the only true reason – the only one that really matters in his heart – is because of one person, and that person – that girl, now a grown woman for certain – is far from his reach.
“We had exchanged a few letters when she initially returned to Lusitania,” Arslan begins, “but I supposed we’ve been too busy trying to rebuild everything from scratch in our own ways and before I realize it, we’ve stopped communicating completely.”
The silence and distance echo like an insistent ghost, dwelling in the cold darkness of his bed chamber and haunting his heart during many sleepless nights.
“These things happen often in life, Your Majesty,” Gieve says, his tone careful and strangely serene, but he squeezes his fingers around the younger man’s shoulder slightly in reassurance as he continues in an uncharacteristically somber tone, “but that doesn’t mean you should give up the possibility all together. Both of you are still young, and the chance to reunite will surely arise in the future.”
“But such false hopes will only lead to disappointment in the end, will it not?”
For the first time during their entire exchange, Arslan looks up towards the musician through the silver fringe of his forelocks, his midnight-blue irises glimmering in the dark like speckles of starlight. Something in those genuine, searching eyes makes Gieve’s heart tug painfully because he thinks he understands what that feels like – what it’s like to yearn for someone you can never touch.
“How do you know?” Gieve’s brows furrow into a frown at Arslan’s discouraging words, and he hovers closer, a warm hand cradling the side of Arslan’s face. “Can you foresee the future? Will you ever know for certain?”
“Gieve, can I ask you for some advice?” The trembling in his voice reminds Gieve of a lost child; it reminds him that despite the fact that he’s the leader of Pars, Arslan is still just a teenager.
“Always, Your Majesty,” Gieve drags a thumb across the smooth, pale skin of Arslan’s cheek – a gesture of encouragement – before he places his hand back into his lap once more.
“Does it ever get any easier – trying to forget?”
He can lie and make the younger man feel better, but they both know he’s mature enough to handle Gieve’s version of truth.
“I don’t pretend to be a devoted or trustworthy man when it comes to affairs of romance,” Gieve starts, his lips curling into a self-deprecating smile, “but I think, when you’ve finally found someone worth your time and affection, you shouldn’t let go of them so easily. Time will eventually make you forget should you decide to do so, but how long it will take – days, months, years – for the memories of them to decay in your mind will depend on your heart’s resolve.”
“It hurts, you know, when I think about her sometimes, about how I might never see her again, and I keep replaying our last conversation before she left and wishing that I’ve said something more…” Arslan’s voice breaks towards the end, cracked and fading like dabs of paint on a canvas dried to fragments in a room too cold and dry.
Gieve runs his hand up and down the young Shah’s arm in a soothing manner, and gradually, the quivering of his body – whether it’s from the chilly temperature or Arslan’s oscillating emotions – ceases, and his breathing becomes more subdued and calm.
“Despite all that, are you ready to throw away what you and Estelle have?”
“No,” Arslan murmurs, his head leaning heavier against the musician’s shoulder, it seems. “I… would like to keep our shared memories for as long as I can, and… and should we meet again… I…”
The young king’s voice grows softer and softer with each syllable as the last raindrops fall from the heavens and the horizon begins to blush pink in the distance.
Gieve doesn’t move from his spot, just winds his arm more securely around the slighter frame of the slumbering king, and he brushes his lips gently against the top of Arslan’s head, his soft hair, smelling of rain and early spring, tickling his skin.
“Sweet dreams, Arslan-heika.”