King Sahir's Arc

Chapter 15 of 17

The next morning Sahir could not settle. Court had passed without a single whisper of the loom room, but that quiet would not last. Sahir sat on the warm bench, the red blanket soft under their hands, and knew a truth they had hidden from themselves. They wanted to give Kūrush something. Not a commission. Not a royal gift. Those always felt like payment. Sahir had given away gold and land their whole life and watched people bow for it. They wanted to give Kūrush proof that this was real. But everything they owned belonged to the crown. A ring, a chest of coin, a fine cloak. Kūrush would take any of it and feel like a man being paid to stay. The thought made Sahir's chest ache. What did a king have that was only theirs? Then their eye fell on the loom in the corner. Taut threads, worn beams, the half-finished cloth stretched across it. Kūrush's hands had taught Sahir the simple passes over three afternoons. Sahir rose, crossed to the loom, and sat. They worked all morning. Their knees stiffened and their back burned, but they did not stop. The pattern was clumsy. The lines wandered. Sahir wove a candle, small and crooked, the first image they had ever carved into their own skin at fifteen. A quiet thing that still mattered. Beside it they wove a loom, to say: you taught me this. Kūrush arrived at midday and froze in the doorway. His eyes went to the cloth in Sahir's lap. "You made that," he said. Not a question. He crossed the room and knelt, barefoot on the rug, studying the wobbling threads. He touched the crooked candle with one ringed finger. "It's bad," Sahir said. Their voice shook. "The tension is wrong. I know. But I made it. With my own hands. Not gold from the treasury. Not something a servant fetched." They held it out. "I wanted to give you something that was only mine. So you'd know I'm not buying you." Kūrush took the cloth carefully, as if it might tear. For once he had no story ready. His throat moved. He looked up, and his eyes were wet. "The king of the whole desert," he said softly, "sat down and fought a loom for me." He laughed, but it broke. "I've been given one tapestry in my life that meant anything. My grandmother's. This is the second." He pressed the cloth to his chest. "This I keep forever." Sahir felt something loosen that had been clenched for eighteen years. For the first time they had given a gift and watched it land as love, not duty. Then Kūrush spoke again, quieter. "People will ask where I got it. A weaver with the king's own work." He met Sahir's eyes. "I won't hide it. Will you?" The question sat between them. Sahir had made proof of love. Now the whole court would see it too.