Zenír walked slowly down the long, evenly spaced rows of trees in the Haven's sprawling orchards. A soft breeze stirred the autumn leaves, making them rustle and whisper among themselves, while the scents of dry earth and overripe apples spiced the air. The sunlight warmed his skin with the last heat of a season passed, and the cool shade held the promise of colder times to come.
Using the long, slender staff of carved wood he'd been gifted upon arriving here, he swept the ground for obstacles and listened to the satisfying crunch of dried leaves beneath the soles of his soft boots. Though he could not see it, he knew from what the others had described that the full fire of fall color surrounded him as the leaves of the fruit and nut trees turned yellow and orange and a deep, vibrant red.
He remembered the beauty of such seasonal displays, though he had not properly appreciated them when he was able; and though he no longer mourned the loss of his sight, he felt a pang of regret that he could not see it now.
It was but a small pang, and among the many other pleasant sensations of the afternoon, quickly passed and was forgotten.
The quiet peace that had come to rest in his heart since arriving in this place was deep and still, and not easily disturbed. He could not recall a time when he had felt as safe as he did here — able to truly let down his guard.
He was far from helpless, and could defend himself well enough, but the world favored the sighted. Cities were built for those who could see, and even his closest friends sometimes forgot, in casual conversation or the heat of action, that he could not perceive things as they did.
Here, though, in the sheltered valley of the Haven, he could live at his own pace, go for walks without fear of getting lost, and rest easy in the knowledge he would not be preyed upon for his disadvantages.
Finding a pleasant spot to sit in the shade at the base of a tree, Zenír began to hum softly under his breath and then to sing. He'd had little call to use his voice for several months, and it felt good to give it a bit of exercise. He sang the first short ballad that came to mind — one with a pleasant, if sorrowful melody.
I lost my love in Orneon,
At Kyrnis by the sea.
His ship was foundered in the waves;
He ne'er came back to me.
By Fate's kind hand he did not drown,
But made his way to shore,
And there he met a maiden fair,
Of me to think no more.
To Orneon I traveled far;
To Kyrnis by the sea.
And so it was I saw him there,
As happy as could be.
With broken heart and broken steps
I left him there to stay;
In Orneon to live and dwell,
But I shall not away.
I lost my love in Orneon,
At Kyrnis by the sea;
My heart shall lie there evermore
And waves shall bury me.
As he sang, he became aware he was no longer alone, and smiled when Iksthanis's deep tones broke in upon the silence that followed the final note.
"That's a damned depressing tune," said he. "Don't you know any happy ones?"
"The original is worse," Zenír said, tilting his face up in Iksthanis's direction. "The scorned lover murders the unfaithful man in a fit of jealous rage and then buries herself at sea."
"Or himself," Iksthanis said mildly. "Personally, I can't imagine hurting the one I loved, even in a fit of rage."
"That's why it's called 'insanity.' It makes you do things you would never do while sane."
"Even so," Iksthanis said, settling at his side, "I know in my bones that I would never harm a lover."
"A lover..." Zenír repeated half under his breath, and turned away, knowing from the heat in his face that he blushed like a virgin.
Feelings had grown between himself and Iksthanis over the last year or so — so slowly he hadn't noticed at first. Among all his companions, 'Thanis had always been the most thoughtful and aware of his needs. He always made sure Zen had a proper serving at meals, and helped him navigate new and difficult spaces without making him feel like an invalid. Gradually, though, his care had grown more attentive, and more intimate. A casual touch, a word, an inside joke, a small token here and there: little things added up to become something that neither could ignore: sweet as honey, hot as coals; sharp as steel and dizzying as heights.
When Iksthanis touched him, Zenír imagined sparks of fire on his skin; when he got close, Zenír's stomach fluttered and his heart beat as if he'd run a mile. He'd never reacted in such a way to anyone, and it had taken him a little time to understand what it meant.
Their friendship had outgrown its bounds, and from attraction had edged towards love.
"The only lover I want, if he'd only deign to be mine," Iksthanis said, and gently turned Zenír's face back towards his own with the palm of his hand.
Zenír felt the warmth of his breath and imagined the brush of his lips. "If you will have me as I am, then I am yours," he whispered.
Iksthanis released him with a sigh, making Zenír miss the warmth of his nearness and shiver at its loss.
When the silence stretched too long, he lowered his head. "Have I said something wrong?"
Iksthanis sighed again, though it was a fond sound, and took Zenír's hand.
"No. I only wish you could see yourself as I see you: beautiful and strong. I want you to understand that you are a gift to me, not a burden. Until you do... I will dream, and wait for your heart to catch up to mine."
Zenír frowned. "'Thanis..."
"Never mind," the other man said, and patted his hand. "Come — we've been summoned to the council chambers again. Apparently our young p'yrha has gone missing, and our friends here are considering what is to be done. You wouldn't happen to have any idea where he's gone, have you?"
"No more than do you," he said.
"Mm. He's gone after Sev, plain enough. What will you tell the council?"
"The truth," Zenír said, allowing a hint of humor to color his tone. "I haven't seen him."
-✵-
Together, the pair walked back through the orchard, hand in hand.
Iksthanis took care to offer Zenír support without leading him. He had never thought less of the other man for his lack of sight; on the other hand, he knew Zenír thought so little of himself that he would never complain and would never ask for help — especially when he most needed it.
"You must be feeling better, to walk all this way," Zenír said as they passed from the orchards into the vineyards that clothed the little hills upon the valley's northernmost side, leading up to the great edifice of stone. That grapes could grow at all at this elevation was a wonder, and Iksthanis presumed it was a gift of the earth here, warmed by subterranean fires.
"Yes, thanks to Galen, and to Hadrix. Between the p'yrha's power and the medic's skill, I feel nearly myself again."
'Nearly' was a stretch, but Iksthanis didn't want to trouble Zenír with the minor details of his recovery — how his ribs and shoulder ached, and the pain in his leg that plagued him daily. He was more than grateful, though, and more than content with his lot. It was a miracle he was alive at all, much less up and walking.
"What of you?" he asked, as they slowly climbed the steep flights of carved stoned steps to the entrance of the great house. "You are thinner than I remember. You haven't been neglecting yourself again, I hope."
A slight frown touched Zenír's lips and he bowed his head to conceal his expression. Iksthanis knew he disliked attention and would not bring it on himself — not because he found it demeaning, but because he believed himself undeserving of even basic kindnesses.
"I had little appetite, for a time," he said at last. "But it has returned."
Iksthanis tightened his hold on Zenír's hand a little. He knew what he meant. "I'm sorry I worried you."
Zenír smiled and pressed his hand in return. "I had faith in your strength," he said, "but I am much happier now that you are well."
Iksthanis paused beneath the overhanging boughs of a late-blooming vine bearing bunches of sweetly scented flowers, and gently brought Zenír to a halt in its shade.
"This is the place, isn't it? The place in your vision when you glimpsed my future," he said.
Zenír nodded. "I believe so; if Fate, in its whimsy, has not already changed its course."
"I will be content with any fate, if I may spend the journey in such good company," said Iskthanis.
Bitterness tinged Zenír's expression, and he pulled his hand from Iksthanis's grasp, shrinking in on himself a little.
"You deserve better," he said quietly. "You could have better, easily. A man like you could—"
"Could what?" Iksthanis interrupted, crowding Zenír against the curve of stone wall at his back. "Have my pick of the ripest fruit?"
"Yes," Zenír whispered, his sightless eyes wide and his breath catching a little.
Iksthanis sighed. The man had no idea. True, he was not 'beautiful' in the same way the young p'yrha was, but his allure was just as strong. Far stronger, in fact, as far as Iksthanis was concerned: from his tousled curls to his elegant hands, his lightly freckled skin and the shape of his lips; from the lines of his collar bones to the dip at the base of his throat, to the way the thinness of his shoulders made Iksthanis want to hold him ever so gently and never let him go.
And yet, in his own eyes, as it were, Zenír remained the disgraced and disowned son of a noble family, fallen from haughtiest heights to the depths of despair, where Sev and Iksthanis had found him — a blind beggar, starving on the lowest streets of Tal P'Nir.
He had never told Iksthanis the whole story — why, after surviving an assassination attempt that took his sight, he had been cast forth from his family's home — but Iksthanis got the idea Zenír believed himself deserving of his fate, and had wished more than once that whoever poisoned him had done a better job.
"Forbidden fruit tastes sweetest," he whispered with his lips almost touching Zenír's. "But I will wait for it to fall into my lap. Quite literally."
A shudder ran the length of Zenír's thin frame and the prominence in his throat jumped as he swallowed.
Iksthanis smiled. He would not have long to wait, he did not think, to enjoy his meal.
"Come. Let us not keep the council waiting any longer," he said, and took Zenír's hand again, and led him on.
In the council chamber, Anira greeted them warmly enough, and invited them to take seats at the long stone table. Besides Anira herself, Iksthanis recognized Korim the archivist, Finvar the huntsman, and several others whose names he had not yet memorized.
After filling them in on the situation, Anira asked the question for which they had been summoned.
"You know the p'yrha best," she said. "Where do you think he has gone, and what do you advise we do about it?"
"He's gone beneath the mountains after Sevhalim," Iksthanis said, "almost certainly."
"Will you follow him?" Anira asked.
Zenír answered before Iksthanis could. "No. Their path is their own, and that way is closed now."
"What is zat supposed to mean?" Korim demanded irritably. "Speak plainly!"
Zenír smiled. "It is simply how I 'see' things," he said. "When the shadows make themselves clear."
The old man waved a hand dismissively, and Zenír said no more. The talk carried on for a while longer, but Iksthanis only half listened. He trusted Zen's insight, and the Haven had no warriors to spare. Sending anyone into unexplored caverns that led who-knows-where was too dangerous to risk, and if Galen had followed Sev directly he'd have been gone nearly three days already.
At last, the meeting adjourned and they rose to depart. As he turned to leave, though, an older man, nearly as tall as himself but with pale skin and a dark beard streaked with gray, pulled Iksthanis aside to ask him about moving some heavy blocks of stone they were trying to clear from one of the deeper halls.
Zenír moved aside to wait for him, resting his hand on the wall, where he seemed to become absorbed with the engravings carved there.
At last, Iksthanis excused himself and joined him.
"What does this look like to you?" Zenír asked, running his fingers lightly along the bottom edge of the engraving, where an intricate pattern of dots and grooves formed a sort of frame.
"Hmm... sort of like a pattern, but not really," Iksthanis said. "Why? What does it 'look' like to you?"
"Like... writing."
"Writing!" Korim exclaimed, startling Iksthanis with his sudden appearance at his back. The old man waved his hand at the wall. "Ze pictures tell a story. Zese little squiggles... zey are nossing."
"I think it's an alphabet." Zenír said.
"Alphabet!" Korim laughed, blue eyes sparkling in his dark face. He had more Edraxi blood than Iksthanis, judging by his accent. "Believe me, I have been trying to decipher ze Dweller's language for years. If zis is an alphabet, it is like no alphabet I have ever seen."
Zenír smiled. "That is likely the problem, then. If I'm right, this alphabet isn't meant to be seen at all."
The old man stared at him, then at the wall, then at Zenír again.
"My gods..." he breathed, and smacked his own forehead sharply. Then, abruptly, he turned and ran away.
"What a strange man," Iksthanis remarked, but found he spoke too soon.
A moment later, Korim came running back and seized Zenír by the arm.
"Come, come!" he exclaimed, shaking him. "Zere is somesing you must see! Or, well... You know what I mean!" He beckoned and ran off again, exiting the council chamber through a smaller inner door.
Iksthanis glanced at Zenír and nearly laughed at his bemused expression.
"It seems you may have made a friend. I wonder what has him so excited. Shall we?"
Zenír's thin shoulders lifted in a shrug, but he smiled as he placed his hand on Iksthanis's arm. "Lead the way," he said.
(Concept art for the Haven, Zenír, and Iksthanis)