A Garden Of Hydrangeas

طالبِ دیدار | Awaiting sight

Chapter 16.

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He had never been the brightest of the bunch, quite the opposite in truth. Arham was the kind that lingered in the sub levels, they floated around between the extremes. Their kindly spirits kindled them to lives otherwise far beyond their reach. On the usual, a man like him would have been stuck in the rounds of a clerical job, by the clock exhausting his potential on work that was ill fitting. His remarks from the teachers at his school and university both, were not gilded in words of gold. He had barely passed the bar exam in England — in truth. It was the kindness though, of his heart, and of God, that carried him to the top.

Seated on the creaking iron wrought chair, it's exterior painted a milky white with it's feet long since lost to vines that had claimed it has home. Ferns grew around him in spruces out of the tall conifer, crows above his head flew and the hawk's — symbolical of the poet Iqbal, kept it all in check. It was lone, left behind as the runt of the pack still though, it's grace and might could not be ignored. The leg was wounded and a feather fell from it's crippled wingspan, though from miles far away anyone could sense why it was better than a crow who only had — moments of stolen victory by roaring.

True kings ; be it of the land or skies, or the vast jungles, did not need to announce their power.

With an overlap of intentions, he sipped on the lavender infused tea. His mother had called the chef he had hired, instructing her to make it just like he preferred; after the showdown with Filza, after which she had completely vanished, he no longer felt at peace asking to be fed by her family. It was well above time that he find workers of his own, that would hold their loyalties to him and not the former rulers of the land. Despite already being on there way to the province of Mushkpur, she had sent one of their trusted sous chef's that had served them for years beforehand. Everyone had an inkling of what had happened — with the two, Arham and Filza, having gone into a recluse.

His eyes ran over the aria font, the headlines in red and the compressed columns in default black over the starchy white pages held his attention for not long. Now and then, between tiny intervals, as he sipped on the tea that had his nerves even more frazzled, he searched for the frame he had grown so used to. There had been complete silence, a stalemate of sorts. No longer did her cheerful voice wake the birds in the morning, nor did she accompany her father or uncles in their walks after dinner. There had been talk amongst the servants that the young woman was haunted. Pale ghosts with bony eyes kept her up at night, her screams had been eating at the patience of her families. Was there truth or not in the words he did not know, and his curious heart would not let him rest.

"Arham do you have some time?"

Azmaray walked over to him, questioning from behind the green garden gates. The father was worried, it was palpable his tensions. He nodded, straightening up in his seat, offering the man a slice of tuna sandwich — which was politely declined. His diet had dwindled gravely ever since his heart had fallen ill.

"Is everything alright?"

Arham hoped it was, in the silence between his question and reply, the two murmured words of prayer. Stringed together by a worried father and the other, a confused man — was he in love or was it that he just wished to have her? He would not know, and the blisters on his heart forbid him from knowing.

"It's not Arham. It's not. Filza she—" he sighed, rubbing his swollen eyes.

"What of her? Is she alright?"