Commander.
With Cairo’s utterance, the transformation is complete. Whatever emotions Zayir may feel slide behind a steel facade; his eyes turn cold, and the line of his mouth hard. There is no telling past that indifferent visage what blow may land, or which blade may sink—only that the surface is impenetrable, is a man of iron, and even his humour is dry. Zayir asks a question he already knows the answer to; and the night becomes one he recognises, again and again.
He was a fool to think that tonight, this time, would be any different. Zayir feels hurt; but the hurt resonates from a wound he inflicted upon himself, from a fragile and bird-winged hope he let fly—
Then, Cairo surprises him. Zayir knows his comment had hurt; he had meant for it too, perhaps pettily. He had not expected it to soften Cairo; to force him closer until they breathed the same air, held close in a moment of intimacy. Zayir closes his eyes, and in that hairsbreadth of eternity he thinks—
You, me
forever, here.
Your breath, mine.
No blood, no battlefield. Only this, this, this. Then: It’s not that. Zayir keeps his eyes closed against the sudden rain of kisses; except they belong to a butterfly’s wings, they are so soft. He keeps his eyes closed when Cairo admits, You are too much for me, Zayir, and I am not enough for you.
There are a thousand things on Zayir’s mind—
I won’t hurt you. I promise.
You could be enough, if you just chose to be.
I only want you, Cairo.
Just you.
Companion.
My right hand.
Please, stay.
He never does. The confession is shared like a thief’s sleight of hand—Cairo pulls away with one last kiss, and Zayir opens his ichor-gold eyes to watch after him.
No, I’m not. That’s only what you devise, in your own head—
But those words would be an ending, and Zayir is too afraid still to say them. He has so little left in the world that this half-love, this half-shared thing is far better than letting Cairo go. He watches the gold-bright, griffin-winged stallion disappear into the crowd. Zayir knows Cairo will not sleep alone, not tonight, not after that. And it fills his mouth with a taste stinging, and sharp. He realises too late it’s the drawing of tears in the back of his throat—but he refuses to shed them.
Zayir turns away. He takes one last shot of liquor from the bar and leaves the festivities, walking through the citadel into the city, toward the soldier’s quarters.
He knows, also, that he will sleep alone tonight. And the next. And the next. And that if his heart were a sound it would be a violin reaching a crescendo pitch, unable to rise any higher, alone—
“speech”
