King Sahir's Arc

Chapter 16 of 17

Kūrush's question still hung in the loom room. "Will you?" Sahir had not answered. For three days they turned it over. They had given proof of love with their own hands. Now the court would see it, and Sahir had to choose what to say. They met again in the loom room at dusk. Kūrush had already lit the candles and set fresh desert flowers on the low wooden table. Red and orange petals, bright against the dark oak. He poured water into a plain ceramic cup and held it out. "Drink," he said. "You've been pacing. I can tell. Your knees won't thank you." He grinned, but his eyes watched Sahir closely. Sahir took the cup and sat on the couch. The cushions sank under them, soft and worn. Kūrush dropped onto the red floor cushion beside their feet, legs crossed, waiting. He did not fill the silence with a story this time. "You asked if I would hide us," Sahir said. Their hands tightened on the cup. "I've hidden for eighteen years. I hid my face. My pain. My father's stories. I hid everything that was mine." They set the cup on the table. "I'm tired of it." Kūrush went very still. "But I'm scared," Sahir went on. "If I say it out loud, I can't take it back. The court will never let it go." They looked down at him. "I love you. I've loved you for a long time. I've never said it to anyone." The words left a hollow, ringing space. Sahir braced for Kūrush to laugh it off, to make it small. He did not. "Say it again," Kūrush whispered. "I love you." Kūrush rose onto his knees. He took Sahir's hand, the way he had so many times before, fingers brushing, careful. This time he did not pull back. He pressed Sahir's palm to his cheek. "I've loved you since you kept walking past my stall," he said. His voice shook. "A stranger who looked at my grandmother's work like it mattered. I didn't need a crown or a name. Just you." Sahir leaned down. Kūrush met them halfway. The kiss was slow and certain, nothing like the glancing touches of before. Sahir felt the candle-warmth on their skin and did not flinch from it. For once they were not disappearing. They were here, held, seen. When they drew apart, Sahir was crying and laughing at once. Kūrush wiped their cheek with his thumb. "So," he said softly. "When they ask about the cloth?" "I'll tell them the truth," Sahir said. "I made it for the man I love." The choice was made. There was no taking it back now. Somewhere beyond the door, the court waited, and the whispers would start by morning. But in this room, for the first time, Sahir had said the words and meant them, and been loved back.