Queen of Persia ✔️

iv. night twenty

As Arman's wounds began to heal, so did their bond. Things weren't as bad as expected at night. They were both calm listening to the stories. Parisa's voice was the only refuge Arman had. It was his only chance to be himself. A boy so brilliant. Every night, he would sit beside her, listening to the way the words danced out of her mouth. A calm wave washed onto the shore. The only beauty he had ever adored was placed inside her. Tonight, was the night she had decided to finally share a bit of her with him.

"My brother died a few years ago," she granted her voice to form the words. In a sudden, Arman's head swung up to look at her. She was in pain, buried deep within a ton of sand applying pressure upon her. He wasn't sure how to reply. He was never good with emotions. So instead, he looked at his hand fiddling with each finger carefully.

"So, I know the pain you went through. It hard losing someone," she finally explained. Unlike his nature, he kept looking down, not daring to look up. Tears were welling up in his eyes as the reminder of her mother came alive.

"I see Aziz Banu has told you everything," he pointed out. Out of everyone and everything, Aziz was one of the only people he cared for deeply.

"Everything. Me and you are different, no common point, but one thing that connects us is this. I don't even know why I am telling you this," she suddenly gave up. It was almost as if she had something important to tell him, but she bit her tongue so hard it began to bleed. "It's fine, forget it. Now's not the time," the concluded, which left Arman hanging. In years, someone had finally asked him, or yet even better, confronted him of his childhood. She had given him a reminder than should have been destroyed. And now all he wanted to do was cry and weep till dawn arrived. It almost felt like he was drowning in the sea of expectations. A wave so massive, it would wash every bit of shelter he had away.

"Aziz took care of me when my mother died. Her and Darya, my sister, are all I have. Darya is souvenir my mother left for me, so she out of everyone is the most important person," he confessed. He didn't even know why he was being so open with her, but he needed to wash it all out. The image of his mother's death replayed in his mind over and over again like a rain. Like thunder. It struck his mind and washed it over. Parisa looked up at him carefully. The pain engraved in his mind was too much for Parisa to handle. A piece or even part of her wanted to take all his troubles away, and another wanted him to suffer for it all.

"She is one of the sweetest people to live," Parisa acknowledged, "And Darya, well she is a pure soul. She doesn't deserve to be destroyed by this war. She isn't like you and I. She has hope Arman," she continued. Something about the way she said his name, made him want to kiss her then and there. All these thoughts in his mind and she was still the first one. Ninety-nine problems and she was the answer to every single one. He offered her his hands as support and to his surprise, she took it. She took it like she needed it. She took it like she would die without it. It was a need. A desire.

"Tell me you story. That's the story I want to hear tonight," He pondered. She wanted to argue with him and tell him her life was none of his business, but she didn't. She needed someone to hear her story. She needed him to hear it. Out of everyone, he was the only right person. The only person who wouldn't judge Parisa. Over the three years she had been with Afshin, she hadn't dared to tell him the true story. Not because she didn't want to, but because she couldn't. She didn't want him to feel sorry for her or for him to feel pity. She wanted someone to understand her pain and love her for that. She wanted to be able to tell someone everything bad about her and only have them love her more.

"I was only fifteen when they brought the news. My brother, Peyman, died in the war five years ago. He was at the front line when it happened. I remember begging him to stay. I remember begging him to not leave me alone, but he left anyways," she began to explain, "I remember how on the day I had the worst feeling. I knew something was going to happen, but never to that extent. A man not much older than my brother knocked on our door handing us a letter before apologising. I remember standing at the door⏤" and suddenly, Parisa broke down. Tears fell from her perfect face onto the silk pillow where she sat. Arman looked at her with a deep worry, but he didn't do anything. If anything, he knew better to keep his distance with someone during grief. He didn't want to pity her or sympathise. But rather, he wanted to let her know he understood. To let her know he empathised with her. He squeezed her hand tighter, as a sign of support. And that was the only reason she had the energy and will to continue.

"I collapsed onto the floor when I heard the apology. The rest of the man's words were a blur to me. I screamed and screamed for someone to stop the pain. The pain never stopped. Does it ever stop, Arman?" she quietly asked him in all her sorrow. He didn't want to lie to her like everyone had lied to him. The pain never stops. If anything, it continues and grows worse.

"No," he stated with one single word. Parisa let a sad laughter escape from her lips, "It gets worse as time goes on. The people who die are the ones truly living. It's the ones who survive that die," he explained beautifully. His words were shaped into poetry. So curved and beautiful.

"Maybe death isn't so bad after all," she committed to the truth in her mind.

"Death is a gift in this world. But walking into deaths arms consciously is the same as giving up, and that is no better than living a miserable life," he explained to her. Something about his words and the way he talked gave her warmth. It gave her a home. A shelter. A place where she felt safe in. Arman had begun to feel like home to Parisa. But Parisa was Arman's home already. She was his life and somehow, he feared that. He denied it until he couldn't anymore.

"Wise words," she said with a pure laugh. A smile widened in Arman's face, "that's why I want to go to the war room," she completed her words. This time, instead of arguing with her, he decided to listen to her words.

"I can help you Arman," she promised him.

"How are you going to help Parisa?" he questioned her mentality.

"I want to save my people and I know exactly how. People are dying goddamit! We need to do something, and I know exactly what. Give the Romans something they don't expect something to stop this all," she provided him with minimum information, but Arman trusted it already. He gave her a hard sigh before standing up.  He held her hands tighter than before, not wanting to let go.

"Come with me," he ordered her, and once again she obeyed. And just like that, she was the silence after rain; how quickly the sky pulls herself together. She walked with him out the room into the familiar hallways. The night was long and the dawn short to come. The familiar hallways dragged them towards one mysterious room. The war room. Parisa gathered herself together, attempting to contain her excitement. When they entered the room, she spun around in joy, looking at everything around her. In that moment, she was a young girl again. A young girl full of ambitions. And Arman was a young boy once more. He looked at her as if he had just realised what love was. He looked at her like she was a star and the was massive dark sky. And suddenly, she couldn't hold her excitement in any longer. She ran up to him, locking her arms around his neck giving him a long hug. Startled, Arman was unsure what to do so he carefully placed his hands on her back, attempting to hug her back. She quickly drew back, looking embarrassed. Parisa then turned away from him walking towards the war table. They both studied the counters carefully, to provide the best plan.

"So, what is the plan?" he asked her curiously.

"Element of surprise," she said, "give him something he doesn't expect. Maybe you should pull a fake truce in order to gain his trust. Once you have his trust, as tradition, both parties are required to host a party in peace. He will have to be the first one to host a party regarding the truce. And once he does, that's when you strike him. Strike him in his own country. Finish it and it will all be ours again," she concluded the plan. Arman tried to hide his shock and amazement. Never had he expected such a plan from her, but here he was, surprised by her intelligence once again. She looked at him for approval, but he kept on staring at the mad in shock.

"Parisa Elaheh, treasure of my heart, you are one amazingly intelligent woman," he confessed with his heart. She smiled at him genuinely. A smile so genuine, even the coldest of hearts would melt. This was the first time her heart was beating fast around him. She couldn't control it.

As they walked back to Parisa's chambers, she walked onto the balcony to look straight out at the stars that shined upon them. She carefully took the shawl wrapped around her arms off as she laid onto the stone-cold floor.

"Come lay with me. I want to talk about nothing with someone who means something," she whispered into the night sky. And like a boy foolishly in love, he placed his head on the ground beside her, watching the beautiful stars speak their story. He didn't know what to call the thing happening between them, but he liked it. It felt silly and fragile and good. And out of everything good in his life, she was his favourite. They called him dangerous, but he, Arman Sassanian the King of Persia, and the husband of Parisa Elaheh, was her safe place.

And at last, the Huma bird had arrived upon them.