Chapter Text
𝟣. 𝒜𝓃 𝒜𝓃𝒸𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒩𝒶𝓂𝑒
The sun had only just begun to sink beneath the dunes, yet Hadramaveth's barren desert already glowed with the colours of celebration. Amber torchlights, deep crimson banners, and the soft gold of drifting sand stirred by dancers’ feet. From the balcony of the sandstone pavilion, Nabu Malikata, the Goddess Of Flowers, watched the festivities unfold with quiet fondness. The air below trembled with music and laughter, a living tide of devotion rising in honour of the King’s birthday.
At the centre of it all stood King Deshret himself.
He was not one to revel in the attention, nor did he shrink from it. Instead, he moved through the gathered crowds with the composed dignity that had always defined him, bowing his head to receive blessings, offering brief but sincere smiles to nobles and commoners alike. The ceremonial crimson cloak draped over his shoulders caught the light with every step, its embroidered patterns bright as flame, yet his bearing remained steady, almost solemn.
From above, Nabu couldn't help but soften. He knew Deshret wore the cloak only because tradition demanded it. He knew he was more fond of green than red. He knew the slight tightening at the corners of his husband’s eyes meant the celebration’s intensity already pressed against his patience. And he knew, with a certainty as old as their bond, that Deshret endured it because his people deserved a king who stood with them, even on a night meant to honour him alone.
Below, the festivities swelled. Harps chimed, drums throbbed like distant thunder, and dancers moved in elegant arcs, their veils catching sparks of gold as they spun. The scent of spiced wine drifted up to the balcony, warm and sweet, entwining with the desert wind.
When Deshret finally approached, ascending the steps with measured strides, Nabu straightened. The king paused at the railing beside him, gaze sweeping the wild joy of the celebration below. The warm golden walls caught light from the countless lanterns stretched around, flickering with the shadows of dancers twirling around. Banners fluttered in the desert wind, brushing through the heavy fabrics causing them to move just as freely.
“You slipped away,” Deshret murmured, his voice low and steady.
“I wanted to see the whole of it,” Nabu replied with a soft smile, offering him a cup of wine. “You only see fragments from within. From here… It becomes something true. Something alive.” He smiled warmly, his carmine eyes crinkling at the corners.
Deshret accepted the cup, though he didn't drink right away. His eyes remained on the crowd, on children racing beneath lantern strings, on elders laughing over platters of roasted dates and honeyed bread, on dancers weaving light into motion.
“They are... Content" he said, the faintest warmth threading through his otherwise reserved tone.
“They are grateful,” Nabu corrected gently. “Not merely for the day, but for you.”
Deshret exhaled, a soft sound, neither prideful nor dismissive, simply thoughtful. The wind tugged at the edge of his cloak.
After a moment, he turned to Nabu. “Walk with me,” he said. “A king should not face his own celebration alone.”
Nabu smiled. “Only if you promise not to disappear among the obligations again.”
A rare, subtle curve touched Deshret’s lips, gone as quickly as it came.
“I will stay,” he said.
“You're holding yourself well,” Nabu breathed, smiling as he took a sip of his own wine.
Deshret’s lips softened slightly, leaning closer to Nabu's ear “Am I, Kaveh?”
Only in private did the king ever speak his true name; one unburdened by titles or grand epithets, spoken as if it were something precious.
Kaveh reached up, brushing a thumb along the edge of the king’s jaw. “You are. Even when those dancers tried to woo you with their moves, I could see your patience thinning from across the hall~”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped the king.
“Alhaitham.” Kaveh whispered the name as though tasting an old memory.
The king closed his eyes briefly. In that simple sound, he shed the centuries of legend, of expectation, of divinity the people placed upon King Deshret. Alhaitham was the one who argued with Kaveh over small things behind the palace doors. Alhaitham was the one who preferred quiet dinners to royal banquets. Alhaitham was the one who reached for Kaveh’s hand when his own felt weak.
Alhaitham reached out a gloved hand, weaving it into Kaveh's long golden locks, loosening the flowers he had very meticulously weaved into it earlier in the evening, tucking his fingers behind his ear. Kaveh looked over at him with a smile on his wine stained lips
"Shall we then? They'll begin to wonder where we've gone if we don't? Besides, that city dancer you requested should be arriving soon~"
Alhaitham gazed at him, quietly, reverently, as though any sudden movement might break the spell.
The desert breeze teasing strands of his long, smooth, golden hair. The small white blossoms threaded between locks like constellations caught in silk. The soft lantern light made the gold glow even warmer, like molten honey cascading over his shoulders.
His profile was delicate but certain: high cheekbones kissed with freckles, lashes long enough to brush the air when he blinked. Those eyes, gentle as dusk, held a depth that always managed to undo Alhaitham completely. They were eyes that had seen hardship and brilliance alike, and yet... Still softened every time they looked at him.
The elaborate Khatai patterns of Kaveh’s clothing swayed with his movements, intricate blues and reds curling like ancient stories across fine fabric. The motifs framed his sun-touched skin beautifully, the golden undertones of his complexion glowing against the evening light. Everything about him, every colour, every breath, every delicate freckle felt purposeful, like a masterwork designed with outrageous care.
Alhaitham exhaled slowly, a rare warmth curling in his chest. He wasn’t a man prone to poetry, but in moments like this he understood why people wrote verses they’d never dare speak aloud. Love, he realized, was not the loud, sweeping thing others claimed it to be. For him, it was this: the quiet awe of watching Kaveh simply exist.
Kaveh tilted his head. Those red eyes softened further, a small smile blooming, effortless, devastating.
"Haitham?"
In that moment, flowers in his hair, starlight in his smile, desert warmth in his skin. Alhaitham felt the quiet, overwhelming certainty that he would spend a lifetime gazing at this man and still never grow accustomed to the wonder of him.
"Yes, of course... We shouldn't keep him waiting."
Together they descended into the heart of the celebration, where music pulsed, wine flowed freely, and the desert night wrapped them in its ancient warmth.
Warm lanterns glimmered like shards of starlight across the great hall, their coloured glass casting drifting patches of emerald and crimson upon polished marble. Music throbbed through the hall, drum, flute, the soft rub of fingers sliding over taut skin, creating a rhythm that breathed through the chamber like a second heartbeat.
The invited dancer stepped across the threshold.
His pulse fluttered wildly, but he forced his stride to remain steady.
Tonight he wore a green choli shirt and matching bedlah pants rich in embroidered lotus and cloud details, the coins at his hips chiming with each move. His sunkissed skin was patterned with pretty henna done by his parents the previous night, over his stomach and down his left arm, cut off by a glittering golden cuff connected to blue Mina Khani vine patterned drape sleeves. It had been a calculated purchase, he knew green looked best on his skin, and he knew the king had a fondness for the colours of the forest.
His long dark hair flowed freely down his back, an agate-beaded braid brushing the curve of his shoulder. Even so, he felt bare, exposed even, beneath the combined weight of foreign gazes.
But none weighed heavier than the one waiting for him.
The King did not sit upon his throne, he stood before it.
Tall, still, almost statuesque, he seemed carved from obsidian and dusk. The gold threaded canopy behind him framed his silhouette, but revealed little more than his posture and those steady, unreadable eyes. His face held no expression, no welcome, no skepticism. Only the serene, impenetrable calm of a man impossible to measure.
He reached the king and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty. I am Tighnari of the Great Red Sand. I am… honoured beyond measure by your invitation. To dance for you is a privilege my words cannot contain.”
The king remained silent for a long moment, the pause heavy but not harsh. Then, in a low, level tone:
“Rise.”
Tighnari obeyed, unable to stop the tremor of relief in his breath. Hoping to offer fuller respect, he reached gently for the king’s hand to kiss but a firm grip closed around his wrist before he made contact.
Tighnari startled, his long fox ears flicking up.
The guard stood beside him suspended between the shadow of a flowing banner and the last dregs of sunlight; a man who seemed carved from dusk itself, yet painted with the colours of dawn.
His skin a warm, earthen bronze, like desert sand kissed by twilight.
Moon white hair had spilled from beneath a jackal-shaped helm, carved wood and lacquer. Not a mask, instead resting like a sentinel’s crown, the strands catching light with the quiet shimmer of moonlit dunes. His eyes half-hidden, carried the gravity of someone who had walked long, silent corridors of ancient truths.
He had been adorned in garments and a shendyt that echoed both ritual and warfare:
deep violets, celestial blues, and molten golds had swirled across his attire in patterns reminiscent of sacred iconography. Each curve and edge had seemed intentional, as if sewn with secrets instead of thread. His arm and leg bands constellations bound to flesh, symbols of duty that pulsed with unspoken history.
In his other hand, he held a staff; long, elegant, and heavy with purpose.
Its design had been both ornate and weathered, the kind of weapon that had tasted judgment far more than blood, rested against him not as an extension of violence, but as a ceremonial companion.
There was a stillness to him.
Not idleness, but the coiled calm of someone who had mastered restraint. His posture relaxed, almost casual had contrasted the authority radiating from his presence. He had been a paradox of serenity and danger, a priest robed in the aura of a storm waiting to descend.
Kasala.
His grip was unyielding, but not cruel.
“No touching the king,” Kasala said, voice quiet but edged with authority. “Not without permission.”
Tighnari bowed his head immediately. “My apologies. I meant only to show respect.”
Kasala held him for one lingering moment, long enough to make the point clear before releasing his wrist and stepping back, eyes remaining sharply attentive.
The king did not move, did not shift his stance, but he spoke, voice steady and cool.
“Respect is seen in intention, not always in gesture.”
Tighnari placed his hand over his heart. “Yes, your majesty.”
Something, perhaps approval, perhaps nothing at all, flickered in the king’s unreadable gaze.
Stepping away from the king, the music grew stronger, winding through the hall like a beckoning spirit.
Tighnari stepped back into the open space, coins chiming softly, tail steadying at last. The king’s gaze still lingered on him, silent, inscrutable, impossible to read.
But for the first time that evening, Tighnari felt a spark of steadiness in his chest.
He had been invited.
He had not been dismissed.
And so, he would dance.
The courtyard hummed with music, not voices as he made his way to the centre of the area, the crowd of people slowly disbanding to clear the area for his performance. Even before Tighnari began to dance, the crowd had fallen into an expectant hush, drawn together beneath the swaying lanterns as if compelled by an unseen tide. The Bandari rhythm; quick, warm, and sun-soaked; rose from the musicians like a living thing. Yet the people did not clap or call out. They simply watched.
Tighnari stepped into the centre of the courtyard as though stepping into the heart of the music itself. The lantern light traced the line of his jaw, glinting off the faint sheen of sweat already gathering there. He closed his eyes for a single breath, letting the drums settle in his bones.
Then, with the smallest shift of his shoulders, he began.
The movement was subtle at first; a ripple, a gentle sway. His hips rolled to the rhythm with natural ease, and his wrists unfurled in fluid arcs; his wrist cuffs caught the lantern glow. His feet skimmed the mosaic stone floor tiles in deliberate, effortless steps, each one perfectly placed. The coins upon his sash tied at his waist fluttered and jingled with each turn, a soft blur of golds and greens following his momentum.
Not a sound rose from the crowd.
It wasn’t fear or tension, only awe.
A collective breath held.
Tighnari’s shoulders snapped forward in rhythmic pulses, sharp and precise, contrasting beautifully with the smooth drag of his footwork. His dance had the shape of something instinctive, an old memory made physical. The music coaxed him into faster movements; he responded without hesitation. A spin. Another. A twirl. A shimmy. His hair whipped around his face, the wind catching his cheek with an instinctive smile stretching onto his face.
Still, the gathering remained silent.
Children clutched their parent’s sleeves but didn’t speak. Young men leaned forward, hands clasped behind their backs to keep themselves still. A woman pressed a hand to her chest, as though steadying her pulse. Even the elders, men who had seen countless dances in decades of festivals, watched with eyes that glimmered in the lantern light, their expressions softened by something like reverence.
Tighnari’s final spin came quick and tight, ending in a sudden, perfect stillness. His chest rose and fell; the lanterns trembled faintly overhead.
The silence deepened.
For a suspended moment, it felt as though the air itself paused; as if anything louder than breathing might shatter the fragile beauty of what they had just witnessed.
Only after several heartbeats did the crowd finally exhale, the collective breath releasing in a soft, rippling sigh. A loud applause erupted over the crowd, yells, cheers, hoots. Tighnari felt his blood thrumming in his ears, his body set alight from the electricity of his own movement.
Tighnari exhaled, chest rising and falling, eyes still bright with the electricity of movement. He bowed; not deeply, just a small, grateful dip of the head; and the crowd roared even louder, unable to let the moment go.
For an instant, it felt as if the entire night revolved around him, a single dancer beneath trembling lantern light, and a hundred hearts beating in awe.
His eyes drifted, scanning the crowd for the one set of eyes he desired, landing on them.
The king stared at him.
Earthy hazel met turquoise, and Tighnari released his held breath.
He felt… Better.
He watched the king slowly raise his hands, joining the cheers and applause with his own gloved, strong hands. Nabu stood by his side, also clapping with an excited smile on his face, his many golden bracelets jingling with his excited claps.
Tighnari slowly straightened up, every noise felt almost like static in his ears, the cheers slowly blurring into an almost chaotic mess. He felt almost lightheaded.
“...with me?”
“...Huh..?”
He slowly looked up at the sound of a voice and the feeling of a soft hand on his wrist. He caught eyes with Nabu, the Goddess Of Flowers himself, bride to the King, holding onto his wrist with an excited smile.
“I… I’m sorry… What was that..?”
“Will you dance with me?”
“Will I… Huh..?! With you..?” Tighnari’s eyes widened, the flush on his cheeks not only from his dancing anymore.
“Will you?” Nabu took Tighnari’s hands, smiling widely “I’d love to dance with you!”
“I… With me…” He breathed, his eyes wide, slowly looking to the side towards the King. There’s no way… The king would never allow someone like… me..
The king stared at him, moving across the room to recline back on his throne, leaning back and watching the pair with lowered, unreadable eyes. He lowered his head in a very faint nod.
Permission.
Permission to dance with the goddess.
Tighnari felt faint.
“I… Would love to… But… May I have a rest first?” he breathed, a lump in his throat. He couldn’t believe what he was doing… Denying the goddess? Who was he to do such an act? A fool, truly.
“Of course! Nabu giggled, smiling warmly “please have a drink and something to eat! There's no rush, the night is still young~” he winked and smiled, waving to Tighnari before skipping back towards the king.
Tighnari let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, turning and almost stumbling towards the elaborate spread of food and drink tables.
⋆༺𓆩𝒮𝒶𝓁𝓉 𝐼𝓃 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝓊𝓃𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹༻⋆
Alhaitham sat upon the throne at the centre of the hall. He rested an elbow on one armrest, fingertips brushing lightly against his chin. The faint hum of conversation from nobles scattered around the room washed over him like background noise.
Kaveh walked over and stood at his side, shoulders relaxed, expression soft, golden hair glowing warmly in the candlelight. He seemed… pleased.
Kaveh leaned closer, speaking in a voice just above a whisper. “You really liked him, didn’t you?”
Alhaitham didn’t answer at first. His eyes followed the fox-eared dancer as he wove through the hall toward the refreshment tables, the faint sway of his tail brushing against the folds of his long, flowing costume. Even without the music, the dancer seemed to move with an echo of rhythm.
“I appreciated the skill,” Alhaitham replied finally, though his voice was quieter than usual, as if admitting more than the words alone conveyed.
Kaveh chuckled softly, not teasing, but delighted. “Come on, you can say it~ He was incredible.”
Alhaitham’s gaze didn’t shift. “He was.”
Kaveh’s smile warmed, spreading all the way into his eyes. “I knew you’d enjoy it. I was watching you during his performance. You didn’t look away once.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“It isn’t~” Kaveh tilted his head, studying him with gentle curiosity. “Honestly, it made me happy to see you engaged. It’s rare that something captures your attention so completely.”
Alhaitham exhaled quietly. Not a sigh, just a subtle release of tension. “It was… unexpected.”
Across the hall, the dancer accepted a drink, laughing softly at something a servant said. His ears twitched with amusement, tail swaying lazily. Even now, his movements felt choreographed. Beautiful. Controlled. Alive.
Kaveh followed Alhaitham’s gaze. “He has presence. The good kind.”
“Yes,” Alhaitham said, not bothering to disguise it. “He does.”
Alhaitham’s eyes drifted back to the dancer, who was now sipping from his cup, tail swaying in a slow, absent rhythm.
“And~” Kaveh added, leaning closer to him with an almost cheeky look on his face “he’s attractive.”
Alhaitham did not deny it.
He did not even blink.
Kaveh leaned in slightly more, lowering his voice further. “It’s unusual for you to be so… Attentive.”
“It’s unusual,” Alhaitham replied, “to encounter someone who understands their craft so completely.”
Kaveh watched him for a moment, watched the subtle softening of his expression, the uncommon stillness in his usually analytical eyes. Then he nodded, almost to himself.
“You should talk to him,” Kaveh whispered.
Alhaitham finally broke his gaze from the courtyard, turning his head just enough to meet Kaveh’s eyes. “I don’t initiate conversations on the basis of aesthetics.”
“No,” Kaveh said, chuckling quietly. “But you might for someone who dances like that~”
Alhaitham slowly moved his gaze again to the dancer, the fox quietly picking at a bowl of borani banjan.
Kaveh watched his face move and giggled softly, straightening up. “I’m going to fetch a glass of wine… Can I interest you in one~?” He smiled, half turning away from him, looking over his shoulder. What will you say~?
“I’ll fetch it myself.”
Kaveh smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. “Alrighty~” he mused to himself, skipping over to the wine bottles lined up on the station, his smile softening even more when he saw Kasala standing guard by the table.
The priest quietly nodded at him fondly, his amber eyes softening when he saw the goddess.
The wine counter was set beneath a carved archway, its mosaic tiles glittering under the lanterns suspended above. Crystal decanters lined the table like jewels, each filled with deep reds and rosy golds that caught the light in quiet waves.
Nabu approached with a soft sigh, lifting an empty glass and turning it between his fingers. The music from the centre of the hall drifted over them; gentle, festive, threaded with laughter and the rustle of silks.
Kasala stood nearby, poised, composed, hands folded behind his back in that perfectly controlled manner of his. He scanned the room like a man fulfilling a duty, not a guest attending a celebration.
Nabu uncorked a decanter of dark Shiraz wine and began to pour, the liquid gliding smoothly into his glass. “Kasala,” Nabu said, voice mild, “are you enjoying yourself at all?”
Kasala blinked, caught off guard for only a fraction of a second. Then he straightened even more, something Nabu wouldn’t have thought possible, and answered, “Yes. The festivities are well organized. The performance schedule was efficient. And…” He paused, searching for the correct phrasing. “It is pleasant.”
Nabu hid a grin behind his glass before taking a small sip. “That was the most politely neutral answer I’ve heard all night.”
Kasala inclined his head. “You asked for honesty.”
“I asked if you were enjoying yourself,” Nabu countered gently, lowering his glass. “Not if the logistics meet your approval.”
Kasala shifted his stance, eyes sweeping across the dancers, the musicians, the guests. His shoulders remained tight. Controlled.
Nabu watched him for a long, knowing moment before leaning closer, lowering his voice to a whisper only Kasala could hear.
“It’s a party, you know,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to relax a bit…”
His smile softened. “… Cyno.”
Kasala froze, not in alarm, but in the unmistakable stillness of someone whose carefully maintained guard had been seen through with absolute precision. His gaze flicked to Nabu's, something warmer flickering in his eyes for just a breath.
“Not here,” he said softly, but there was no edge to it. Only a quiet admission.
Nabu's smile deepened, fond and a touch triumphant. “Just a suggestion.”
He clinked his glass lightly against the edge of the counter, letting the wine settle, letting Cyno find his own response in silence.
He stood quietly beside the wine counter, his posture still too stiff for a party. When Nabu offered him a glass, Cyno hesitated. His hand hovered near his side, fingers twitching slightly as though unsure whether to reach forward or retreat.
“I shouldn't,” Cyno murmured quietly.
Cyno looked at the wine. Then he looked at Nabu. And this time the rest of the hall simply fell away.
Nabu stood very close, close enough for Cyno to notice every gentle detail softened by the golden light. His carmine eyes were a warm, steady hue that seemed to glow from within. They held a softness that invited trust rather than demanded it. His long blond hair flowed like silk over his shoulders, the strands shining with a gentle lustre. Woven through that hair were those tiny white flowers. They rested between the waves of gold as if they had always belonged there, delicate and quiet, adding a touch of softness that made him look almost luminous.
There was something deeply romantic about the sight. The way Nabu's hair framed his face. The way the flowers made him look like a figure from a story. And the way his smile, small and sincere, seemed to reach straight into the guarded parts of Cyno’s heart.
Nabu lowered his voice so only Cyno could hear it.
“It's only a drink,” he said. “Only with me. Nothing else.”
Cyno sighed. The tense line of his shoulders loosened, just a little, like armor quietly unclasping. He reached forward. His fingertips brushed against Nabu's as he took the glass.
The touch was soft. Brief. But enough to send a subtle warmth through him.
Nabu seemed to feel it as well. His eyes softened even further, and the white flowers in his hair shifted slightly as he tilted his head in a small, delighted motion.
“See,” Nabu whispered with a gentle smile. “Nothing to worry about.”
Cyno looked at him with a gaze that belonged to Cyno the man, not Kasala the priest. The difference was slight but unmistakable.
“Perhaps not,” he said quietly.
He should not be looking at Nabu like this.
He knows it.
He has always known it.
Yet every time Nabu smiles at him, something inside him twists. It feels sweet for a single heartbeat and then becomes a sharp ache that settles in his chest. He watches that smile now, soft and bright, framed by long blond hair threaded with white flowers. It warms the room. It warms him too, although he does not deserve even that small kindness.
I should not want this.
I should not want him.
For years he has carried this feeling quietly, like a secret tucked beneath his ribs. A quiet yearning that grows heavier each time Nabu laughs and the world around him seems to glow a little more. Cyno tries to bury it, tries to crush it with reason, with loyalty, with the reality of who Nabu is. The king’s husband. Nabu Malikata. The Goddess Of Flowers. A man far above him. A man loved and cherished and promised to someone else.
So Cyno swallows every word he should never say.
You should never look at me like that.
You should never smile at me with such softness.
I do not deserve it.
There is a guilt in his heart that never fades. Every time Nabu looks at him with warmth or concern or kindness, the guilt blooms again. It’s wrong to want more. Wrong to let that warmth sink into him as if it belongs to him.
I am sorry, Nabu.
I am sorry for feeling this.
I am sorry for wanting you.
I am sorry for every moment my heart reaches for you even though it has no right.
He wishes he could look away when Nabu speaks to him. He wishes he could stop noticing the way those carmine eyes shine when they meet his. He wishes he could forget the sound of Nabu's gentle voice saying his name. He wishes he could erase every moment where he felt Nabu's kindness like a touch against his soul.
It hurts because he knows these feelings have nowhere to go.
They can never grow.
They can never be seen.
And yet he cannot let them go. They root deeper every time Nabu stands beside him. Every time Nabu laughs. Every time Nabu looks at him as if he is someone worth noticing.
Cyno lowers his gaze now, pretending to be composed while his heart quietly breaks again.
I’m sorry, he thinks.
You deserve someone who can speak freely, someone who can love you without fear. Someone who can provide you with the love and attention you deserve. Someone who can protect your smile.
Not me.
Never me.
He forces his expression back into calm neutrality, though he feels anything but calm. He accepts the wine Nabu offers as if he deserves the gesture, even though guilt coils around his ribs.
I am sorry for loving you. I will keep it buried. I swear it.
You will never know.
You must never know.
And still, even as he apologises in silence, he cannot help it.
He looks at Nabu one more time.
And he loves him silently again.