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Winter in Ecbatana is not particularly harsh; there’s nothing like the heavy snowfall that covers the mountain ranges of Turk nor the frozen tundra of the the Turanian region. But early in the morning, when the sun is just beginning to peek past the horizon and tinting the dark sky with splashes of pink and violet, the temperature is cool enough for frost to form on blades of grass and window panes, where ice crystals glitter for a brief, precious moment until the warmth of the sun melts them away.
In the southern courtyard of the royal palace, where officers who are on duty can temporarily stay in one of the five two-story-high dormitories, a lone figure donned in all black can be seen swinging a huge blade in practiced, elegant swerves. The wind whistles fiercely around him as the sword cuts through the crisp, cold air, composing a sharp melody that tinges along the silver metal of his blade.
The sun continues to rise in a steady path, and he never stops moving, slashing at an invisible army that cannot be defeated, golden eyes blazing with sole concentration and iron focus as beads of sweat run down his face and stray strands of long, black hair come apart from his ponytail.
By the time he’s satisfied with the amount of practice he’s put in for the morning, Daryun’s breathing is a little erratic, chest rising up and down in a ragged pattern as he returns his sword back into its sheath. He takes a seat on the step, leaning back on his palm and tilting his head up; he winces a little when he feels the subtle burn of his bicep muscles. He doesn’t like to think about it too much, but the years is catching up to him.
The dawn breeze teases through his hair, gliding a sly finger along the exposed skin of his neck and arms as it brings along the smell of oncoming rain and a hint of smoke from torches that are being extinguished as daylight gradually touches the high walls of Ecbatana. Daryun shivers slightly as the sweat dries and prickles on his tanned skin, one arm wrapping across his chest and a hand rubbing his exposed arm up and down in a feeble attempt to warm himself up with friction.
It doesn’t work very well, and Daryun thinks maybe he should head back inside.
“You’ll catch a cold,” the familiar drawl of the court painter drifts from behind him.
Something soft and thick, made of prickly wool and smelling musty though not entirely unpleasant, is dropped on top of his head, and Daryun would have been thankful for the cloak if he isn’t also a little annoyed by the fact that Narsus was able to catch him off-guard.
“Narsus, as grateful as I am for your concern of my wellbeing, could you not have handed me the cloak properly?” Despite the irritation in his low murmur, Daryun gladly wraps the cloth around his shoulders.
“I wouldn’t even have to bother if you know how to take care of yourself,” Narsus scoffs, and quietly takes a seat on the step beside his companion.
Donned in a cloak of his own lined with pale blue geometric designs embossed on pearl grey fabric, Narsus comments with an off-handed grin, “You know, if you have a wife, then I wouldn’t have to get up so early in the damn morning just to make sure you don’t catch a cold and die before your time is up.”
Daryun doesn’t say anything for a moment, his golden gaze focusing on the figure sitting so closely beside him, their arms just barely touching. He notices that, even with his hood drawn up to keep his head warm in the morning chill, Narsus must have just recently woken up and hasn’t even have time to clean up his appearance: the tips of his unkempt blond hair curl wildly around his shoulders and tickles his face, and the bags under his eyes inform Daryun that his friend had been working late into the night again.
The Black Knight reaches out, warm fingertips tracing the shape of Narsus’ cheekbone before he winds a piece of pale hair between his fingers and tuck it carefully behind the curve of his ear.
Their breaths come out in puffs of white, and they mingle when both men incline a degree closer towards each other.
“I don’t need a wife,” Daryun says it so simply, with the frank and serious tone he always uses, golden eyes glinting with quiet sincerity, “I have you, after all.”
It takes a full second for Narsus to comprehend the implication of those words, but by the time he figures it out, Daryun is already kissing him on the mouth, and it’s warm and smoky and familiar like everything they are.