King Sahir's Arc

Chapter 11 of 17

The morning after the garden, Sahir woke to a familiar warning. A dull ache sat deep in both knees. They knew this feeling. A flare was coming, and it would be bad. Today, of all days. Kūrush was in the palace, measuring the great hall for the commissioned tapestries. Sahir had told him everything but this. The weaver knew the crown, the deception, the lonely child beneath. He did not know the body that failed without warning. Sahir dressed slowly and took up the golden trident from its stand. The ceremonial staff was all curves and teal inlay, heavy and proud. Today it served a simpler use. Sahir leaned on it like a cane and walked to the garden, where Kūrush waited among the fountains and planted terraces. "King Sahir!" Kūrush turned from a terrace of bright flowers. He held a strip of cloth he'd been draping to test the light. "I was going to ask which color the hall wants. The east wall gets morning sun, so—" He stopped. He watched Sahir take one careful step, then another. The trident took their weight each time. Sahir meant to smile and brush it off. Instead the ache climbed into their spine. Their knee buckled. They caught the trident with both hands and froze, breath shaking, unable to move forward or back. Kūrush dropped the cloth. He crossed the stone path and was there, one hand under Sahir's elbow, steady and quick. He did not gasp or kneel or call for guards. "Easy," he said. "I've got you. Where do you need to be?" "The bench," Sahir whispered. Shame burned hotter than the pain. "I should have told you. My body does this. Since birth. The stress, the walking—it flares." They let him guide them to the stone ledge. "I didn't want you to see." Kūrush eased them down and sat beside them. He took the trident and leaned it against the ledge. "My grandmother wove sitting down the last ten years of her life," he said. "Her hips gave out. She made her best work in that chair." He looked at Sahir plainly. "A body that hurts isn't a secret to hide. It's just a thing to plan around." Sahir stared at him. "You're not—leaving. Or pitying me." "Why would I?" Kūrush rested a hand near theirs on the stone. "I came to see you. This is you. All of it." He nodded at the trident. "Next time, tell me. I'll bring a stool and we'll work where it's easy." The pain still gripped Sahir's knees. But something loosened in their chest. For eighteen years they had hidden this from everyone but Sadiq, who guarded it like a duty. Kūrush treated it like weather. Something to dress for. "Thank you," Sahir said. Kūrush grinned. "Now. The east wall. Red or copper?" Sahir laughed, and the laugh did not hurt at all.