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It had been a bit over two weeks since Ardashir had been moved to Dijiang for safety concerns.
In that time, the Endministrator and he had built… not a routine, but rather somewhat of a rhythm.
The Dijiang continued on its course as it always did, Endfield’s reconstruction efforts across the Northern Exclusion Zone consuming nearly every waking hour of the Endministrator’s time. Meetings bled into inspections, inspections into engineering sessions, until the days themselves blurred together.
And yet, every few evenings, almost without thinking, his feet would carry him towards the lower decks. Towards the sealed corridor. Towards the one room aboard the ship only he could enter.
The guards had stopped looking surprised, merely standing straight and greeting him, whenever he came by.
Inside, Ardashir always seemed to be doing something remarkably… ordinary.
Reading.
Drinking tea.
Writing.
Once, he had been tending to the little plant by the window.
“You named it?”
“It seemed discourteous not to.”
“... What’s its name?”
Ardashir had looked entirely too proud of himself as he responded. “Plant.”
The Endministrator had laughed so hard, he nearly spilled his tea. The Phidia, in turn, looked quite pleased with himself for the remainder of the visit.
On another day, Ardashir had described their first meal they had ever shared, as they sat in his little room, sipping tea.
“You insisted on cooking.”, Ardashir remembered with that soft fondness in his voice, that the Endministrator came to appreciate.
The raven-haired man was genuinely surprised by that. “... I can cook?”
“You insisted you could.”
“... Past tense?”
Ardashir’s smile widened. “The kitchen survived.”
“... Barely?”
“Barely.”
He couldn’t help the soft groan that left him at the thought of it. “... Did you eat it?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“My Lord made it.”, the white-haired man said, as if it was the most logical explanation for everything.
“... It was awful, wasn’t it?”
“It was. I finished every bite.”
“... You’re either very loyal or very foolish.”
“I have often been accused of both.”
Later that day, the Endmin made sure to ask Perlica if the Dijiang had a kitchen that could be accessible to him. The way she nervously glanced at Fiona told him enough that, perhaps, it was better to leave that to the professionals.
Another afternoon, he’d spoken about… quieter things.
How the Endministrator used to read reports aloud when he became tired.
How he absentmindedly tapped his fingers whenever he concentrated.
How he’d leave half-finished cups of tea throughout different places on the Bridge until Perlica eventually began collecting them behind his back.
None of the stories were grand, none spoke of impossible battles of civilisations saved. Instead, Ardashir seemed determined to return pieces of an ordinary life.
Of an ordinary man.
Not a legend.
By the end of the second week, something had noticeably changed. The room no longer felt like a prison when the Endministrator entered. It felt… visited. Occupied. Not quite lived in yet, but no longer did it feel as cold.
He no longer stood awkwardly by the door, instead, he simply walked in.
“... Good evening.”
Ardashir looked up from the book in his lap. His expression brightened in that quiet, restrained way it always did. His eyes softened, his smile natural and easy. “Good evening, Endmin.” The Phidia then got up, putting his book aside and poured tea for the two of them, as had become habit.
“You knew I was coming?”
“I was hoping, thus I had tea prepared.”
The Endministrator rolled his eyes, accepting the offered cup regardless. “You’ve become bolder.”
Ardashir thought the words over for a moment, before he shook his head. “I have become optimistic.”
“... Dangerous habit.”
“So I’ve heard.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while, enjoying their tea in each other’s presence at the little table they started to occupy more and more lately. The stars outside the window drifted by lazily, the surface of Talos-II visible today due to the Dijiang’s rotations.
Finally, the Endministrator spoke.
“... I’ve been thinking.”, he let the words rest between them ,for a moment.
“I suspected.” Ardashir smiled into his teacup.
“I’m serious.”, the raven-haired man looked almost pouty as he complained weakly.
“So am I.” The smile curled into something a little more amused on the Phidia’s lips.
“... Stop that.”
“My apologies.”
“You don’t sound sorry at all.”
Ardashir simply inclined his head, smile never fading. “I am sorry that you find it irritating.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No, it is not.”
The Endministrator sighed heavily. “You’re terrible.”
“I have improved, have I not?”
“... You have.”
Another moment of silence settled between them. This one lingered a little longer. Ardashir waited, patiently as ever, this time not interrupting the Endministrator, as the other man seemed to gather his thoughts enough to voice what seemed to bother him.
The Endministrator watched the steam rise from his cup, curling lazily into the air, before finally setting it down.
“I don’t like this.”
Ardashir looked at him at that. “The tea?”
“The arrangement.” A moment of silence. “The prison part.”
“Ah.”
“I understand why you’re here.”
“I know.”
“I understand why Si insisted. Why everyone else is uncomfortable.”
Ardashir stayed silent.
“But every time I leave…”, his voice faltered and he rubbed a hand across his face. “... It feels wrong.”
And still, Ardashir remained perfectly still, simply listening, instead of interrupting or encouraging. Whatever would follow, he wanted it to be the man’s own decision, his own words.
The Endmin drew another slow breath, like he had to compose himself, before he spoke. “I’ve read your reports, the files, I have spoken with you and I’ve watched you. And…”, this time, he looked directly at Ardashir. “I would much rather have you beside me.”
The words hung quietly between them.
For once, Ardashir was unsure of how to proceed, what to say and how to move, if he even should, at all.
“Not…”, the Endministrator corrected himself, carefully. “.. Not like before. I don’t remember before… And I can’t nor will I promise feelings I don’t have.”
“I know.”
“But…” He searched for the right words, this time, bare hands fiddling with something akin to nervousness on the table between them. “I wish you were walking these corridors instead of being confined to them.”
Like before, Ardashir did not move, nor did he respond. The words felt too heavy to give them an immediate answer, too grave to rush into a decision, even if just to bring comfort. He knew there was more his Lord wished to say, and so, he waited, patiently.
“I wish you were attending briefings. Or that I could ask your opinion without coming all the way down here. I wish…”, he smiled weakly. “I wish Perlica didn’t glare at me every time I said I was coming to visit you.”
That earned the faintest chuckle from Ardashir. “She never did approve of me.”
“I’ve noticed.” The smile faded again. “You belonged to Endfield.”
“I did.”
“You were one of us…”
“I was.”
“I would’ve liked to see that.”
For several seconds, Ardashir simply stared at the man he called his Lord. He saw the weight everything had put on his Lord’s shoulders, the way his eyes were almost glassy. The faintest curl of lips, but not in a pleased or happy way. More in a… painful, almost mournful way. Could a man mourn a past he did not know?
Finally, he spoke. “... May I answer honestly?”
The Endmin couldn’t help the tiny smile. “You’ve never answered any other way. Go ahead.”
“I would have liked that as well.” His voice was gentle and carried a certain weight with it. “But not because I miss my uniform or the missions.”
The Endministrator waited.
“... I miss standing where I could protect you without needing your permission. Without being the reason you need protecting.”
The admission was so simple, so matter-of-fact, it hurt.
To the Endministrator, it hurt to be made aware of a past that sounded so pleasant, that he yearned for, but did not remember.
To Ardashir, it hurt to know of a past he lived through, yearned for, but knew was impossible to go back to.
“I watched your back for a very long time.” His gaze drifted briefly toward the door. “It is… difficult… to hear your footsteps walking away, knowing I may not follow.”
The Endministrator’s breath caught in his throat, before he swallowed heavily. “I didn’t think about it like that.”
“I know.”
“I keep making you wait, in a way, don’t I?” Now it was the Endministrator who wore a sad little smile on his face.
“I have become rather accomplished at waiting.”
“... That’s not funny.”
“It was not intended as a joke.”
And that, somehow, made it worse. The Endministrator leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting towards the ceiling.
He knew how heavy everything weighed on his own shoulders, but for Ardashir? There was a guilt he couldn’t shake off, not after everything he came to know. Everything he knew he had imposed upon the man that he once claimed to love. He remembered when Ardashir mentioned that he did not want to see his memories return to spare him the grief, was this what he had meant? The same grief that swam in those silver-blue eyes of the Phidia, whenever he looked at what had once been his lover, now on the opposite side of him?
“If circumstances were different…”, he knew it was pointless.
“They are not.”
He looked at Ardashir. “I know. But, if they were… I’d want you working with Endfield again.”
They both knew that the words hadn’t been spoken out of obligation. Or out of what had been in the past. The Endministrator wasn’t the type of person to mention such a thing out of guilt, either. Not if he didn’t mean it fully. They were spoken sincerely, because over the last two weeks, he’d come to trust the man sitting across from him, had come to… enjoy his company.
Ardashir lowered his eyes.
For the first time since his confinement aboard the Dijiang, the Endministrator saw unmistakable emotion crack through the Phidia’s composure. It had been there, before, small and contained. But now, it almost seemed as if the Endmin himself had opened the floodgates.
It wasn’t… joy. Not quite.
More like… Relief. Pain. Longing
All woven together.
“... You have no idea…”, Ardashir said quietly, “how happy those words would have made the man I was two weeks ago.”
The Endministrator frowned. “And now?”
Ardashir looked back up, the familiar calm returning, though his voice remained quiet and soft, his smile a bit wobbly. “Now… They still do.” He paused, then added with characteristic honesty, “But they also make me proud.”
“Why?”
“Because you did not say them out of memory. You said them because they are your own conclusion.” Once more, he inclined his head, a gesture that was almost a bow. “Whatever else has changed… that much is undeniably you.”
The words left the Endministrator unable to reply immediately. The compliment sat with him. Not because he disliked it - no. Simply because it came from the one person who could compare him to someone he no longer remembered being. To him, such words carried a deeper meaning than most did, nowadays.
“You keep doing that.”
Ardashir tilted his head. “My Lord?”
“You keep saying that I’m still… me.”
“You are.”
“How can you be so certain?” The question was genuine, inevitably born out of the feelings a person comes to feel, when they no longer know what is true and what isn’t anymore. “No memories, a different life, different decisions. I’ve even led Endfield differently than before.” He rested his elbows on the table, looking down into the untouched tea. “So how can you keep saying I’m the same person?”
Ardashir was quiet for a long while, long enough that the Endministrator wondered if he had finally asked something the Phidia couldn’t answer.
Instead- “May I ask you a question?”
“... Go ahead.”
“If tomorrow morning I were to awaken without remembering my own name… Would I cease to be Ardashir?”
The Endministrator looked up. “.... No.”
“Why not?”
“... Because you’d still be you.”
A gentle smile appeared. “Precisely.”
The Endmin frowned. “That’s too simple.”
“The truth often is, my Lord.”
“... You really believe that?”
“I know it.” He folded his hands neatly in his lap. “You remember neither our engagement nor the things we have seen together. You remember no promises, no farewells, no… kisses.” The last word slipped out as naturally as the others, yet Ardashir did not linger on it, he merely continued. “And yet…”, his eyes softened, “You still apologise when you believe another has suffered because of you. You still neglect your own rest. You still ask questions until you understand and you still place civilization before yourself. You still refuse to force another to follow your wishes.” He smiled once more, a little wider this time. “You even declined my offer exactly as you once would have.”
The Endministrator blinked. “... Really?”
“‘No.’”, Ardashir’s imitation of him was almost uncanny. “‘Not like this, Ardashir.’”.
The Endmin stared. “We had this conversation before? And I said that?”
“You did. ‘If you stand beside me, it will be because you chose to, not because you love me too much to refuse.’”
The room fell quiet. Ardashir couldn’t help but chuckle softly under his breath at the Endministrator’s dumbfounded expression, nor at the memories resurfacing. “I remember being rather frustrated.”
“You?”
“You had a habit of making the morally correct choice.”
“... That sounds a little inconvenient.”
“It often was.”
Despite himself, the Endministrator smiled. “So you're saying I’m consistently difficult?”
“I am saying I fell in love with a remarkably stubborn man.”
The Endmin let out a soft, quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “... You really don’t know how to flirt.” There was a warmth where his hand was and his ears felt a little hotter than usual.
Ardashir looked a little perplexed at that. “I was not attempting to.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
“I fail to see how.”
“Ah, you…”
The laughter lingered between them for a few precious seconds, before fading naturally, slowly fizzing out in the small space they occupied. Neither seemed eager to let the light atmosphere disappear completely.
In the midst of it, the Endministrator found himself studying Ardashir again. Instead of uncertainty, this time, with curiosity. “... Can I ask something selfish?”
“You may ask me anything.”
“Were we…”, he hesitated for a moment, “... Happy?”
Ardashir did not answer immediately, clearly not expecting such a question. Instead, he looked toward the stars beyond the window, studying them for a moment, as he thought of how to respond to the other man’s curiosity. “When we could afford to be.”, was the answer he ended up settling on in the end.
“That’s… not really an answer.”
“It… is the honest one.” His eyes were narrowed, eyebrows furrowed, as he thought how to proceed. “There was always another crisis, another colony, another disaster, another… impossible decision.” Finally, his smile returned, as he looked back at the other man. “But… You laughed often.”
“I did?”
“You laughed at me rather frequently.”
“... I can believe that.”
“You insisted I was incapable of telling jokes.” Ardashir made an expression akin to a pout as he spoke.
“Were you?”
“I remain incapable, I fear.”
“... Plant.”
“... I concede one exception.”
The Endmin couldn’t suppress another laugh at the silliness of the situation.
Ardashir watched him quietly, not speaking, simply… observing. His eyes softened, as if he was trying to write this moment, too, into his memory.
The Endministrator, of course, noticed. “... What?”
“You laugh the same way.”
“... I do?”
“You always covered your mouth.”
Instinctively- the Endmin realised his bare hand was already there. He slowly lowered it. “... Huh.”
“You’ve done that every time.”
“I… never noticed.”
“I did.”
…
Small things.
Meaningless things, in the grand scheme of things.
And yet the Endministrator understood why Ardashir kept telling them.
They weren’t stories about a legendary Endministrator. They were simply stories about… him. The man beneath the title. Beneath the mask and the heavy coat he wore to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“... Ardashir.”
“Yes?”
“If…”, he paused, choosing his words with care. “If I eventually remember…”
Ardashir became very, very still.
“...Or rather.. Would you want me to?”
The Phidia opened his mouth, closing it, hummed softly, before speaking with a little more certainty in his expression. “I would.” A pause. “But not at any cost.” It was accompanied by a nod. “If remembering would break the man sitting before me… then I would rather spend another thousand years telling you these stories, one at a time.”
The Endministrator’s throat tightened. “You’d really wait that long.” He could see it, in the way Ardashir spoke, the way he treated him, the way he was ever patient when it came to the Endministrator.
“I have waited longer.”
“... For.. me?”
“I have never been waiting for anyone else but my Lord.”
And that was what did him in.
With everything combined, the knowledge of his past, bits and pieces of it, the guilt of everything that seemed to have accumulated, the Endministrator felt his heart break - not for himself, but for Ardashir. Everyone always claimed him to be gentle, caring and so self-less, but how could he believe those words from those around him, if he had been so cruel, once? Inflicted suffering that stretched over lifetimes for most, surpassing generations? How could the man in front of him still recall the past so fondly, look at him as if he had hung the stars in the sky, and still love him despite everything?
His shoulders shook, hands clenched tightly in his lap, as his head hung low, raven-hair covering his face, as wet droplets made their way down, down, down, onto his clasped hands.
Ardashir, for his part, looked rather shocked and overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events.
Neither of them spoke, then. The room filled with the sound of soft sobs and gasped breaths.
The Endministrator had not cried since shortly after his awakening - since he had learned of the countless dead in the wake before, when he saw the aftermath of what had transpired and felt so utterly lost. After, he had accepted each burden with the same quiet resolve everyone around him had come to expect of him, of the legend he displayed.
Now? He could not stop.
His breathing came unevenly, each attempt to steady it only making his chest ache more, tears falling endlessly from eyes that used to hold clarity, used to be hidden behind a mask that he hadn’t worn during his visits for over a week now.
“... Endministrator.” Ardashir’s voice had become almost tentative. He had never sounded like that before.
The Endmin simply covered his face with one hand, hiding away. “... Don’t.”
“My Lord-”
“Don’t call me that.” The words escaped sharper than intended, frustrated, guilty. Then- “I’m sorry.” The apology came automatically. “I didn’t mean-”
“I know.” Ardashir answered so softly it almost disappeared into the soft sobs and gasped breaths. “I know you did not.”
Despite everything, the Phidia remained exactly where he was. He did not rise from his chair, did not walk around the table, did not reach for him. Even when every instinct within him screamed to. Perhaps two weeks ago, he would’ve done that, but.. Not now. Not anymore.
The Endministrator could see it, see the minute tightening of his hands, the almost imperceptible shift in his weight, the hesitation. And, yet still, he stayed where he was, choosing restraint over comfort. The realisation only made the Endministrator cry harder. “... Why?” His voice broke. “Why aren’t you…”
He could not finish the words, yet Ardashir understood anyway. His expression softened with unmistakable sorrow, this time, clearly on display and not bothering to hide it anymore. “Because I no longer know whether such comfort belongs to me to give.”
The answer landed like another wound, like someone had impaled him with a sword, straight through his ribcage and hitting its’ target dead on.
“I remember holding you. I also remember wiping away your tears. I remember every time you reached for my hand.” Silver-blue eyes lowered. “But those memories… are mine.”
Not yours.
“I will not mistake them for your permission.”
The Endministrator’s shoulders trembled more as he choked the words out. “You really loved me.”
“I do.”
Another correction, shaping past tense into present, gentle and unwavering.
“... Stop.”
Ardashir sighed wistfully, a pained smile on his face. “I cannot. You asked me to never lie to you.”
The Endmin laughed wetly through his tears. “... Past me really made your life difficult.”
“He did, and yet I stayed.”
“... Why?”
Ardashir smiled without a trace of amusement, his eyes an endless ocean of patience and affection. “Because loving you was never difficult.”
The Endministrator lowered his head again, new tears welling up all over again.
“It was everything else that had been difficult.”
A shaky breath escaped him. “... I hate this.”
“So do I, my Lord.”
“I hate that I don’t remember. That you’re… locked here. I hate that every answer only gives me more questions.”
“I know.”
The raven-haired man looked up at that. “... Aren’t you going to tell me it’ll be alright?”
Ardashir was quiet at first, his expression serious. THen, slowly, he shook his head. “... No.”
“... Why not?”
“Because I do not know whether it will.”
The honesty… hurt. But, in a strange way, it also comforted him.
“But…”, Ardashir continued, “I know you.”
The Endministrator closed his eyes, as he felt another bout of wetness roll over his cheeks, then drip onto the back of his clenched hands.
“And I know that, eventually… you will find a path forward. You always do.”
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor broke the silence that followed, as the Endministrator stood. Instinctively, Ardashir rose as well.
Neither spoke.
One hesitant step.
Then another.
Until less than an arm’s length separated them.
The Endministrator looked up into those familiar silver-blue eyes that somehow knew him better than he knew himself.
“... I still don’t remember.”
“I know.”
“I still don’t know if…”, his voice got caught on the words, or perhaps the words got caught on his voice. He wasn’t sure anymore. “... if I can ever be the same man you lost.”
Ardashir’s answer came immediately. “I do not seek him.”
Endmin blinked in confusion at that, taken aback. “... What?”
“I mourn him.” A faint, bittersweet smile. “But I do not seek him.” The Phidia’s gaze remained steady. “The man before me is not a shadow. He is not an imitation, nor a lesser version. You are… the continuation of the man I loved.”
Not the same chapter.
The next one.
“I would dishonor both of you if I demanded you become someone you no longer are.”
The Endministrator stared at him. All this time… he had assumed Ardashir was waiting for his memories to return. Waiting for his fiancé to come back.
But that wasn’t quite true, was it?
Ardashir had grieved that man already. What remained- what he had been waiting for- wasn’t the return of the past. It was the chance to know the person standing before him now, the person he had become.
“... You really are unfair.”, the Endministrator whispered.
Ardashir looked mildly confused, as if he had said something wrong. “... My Lord?”
“You make it…”, he laughed once through the remnants of his tears as he searched for the right words, “... very difficult not to care about you.”
For a heartbeat, Ardashir forgot himself. Hope flashed nakedly across his face, bright and fragile all in one. Then, just as quickly, he composed himself again, as though he did not wish to burden the man standing in front of him any further. “... You already do.”
Honesty was, essentially, all they had. And so, the Endministrator didn’t deny it. Because, somewhere over the past two weeks, it had strangely become true. It hadn’t developed out of the things that had been forgotten or what he had read from the past. Instead, it had been born from the small things, the honesty and quiet moments.
Neither really knew what to say or do next. In a way, everything felt almost… fragile. Like one wrong step could shatter the glass they stood upon.
The Endministrator looked at Ardashir for a long while, then.
The quiet, patient man who had spent two weeks telling him stories that asked for nothing in return, who had refused to reach for him when every fiber of his being clearly wanted to. Who had mourned the man he’d lost while refusing to force the man before him into becoming someone else. Ever patient, ever caring.
“... May I ask you something again?”
Ardashir inclined his head with the same gentle and patient smile that had led them here in the first place. “Always.”
“... If…” The Endministrator found himself smiling faintly, eyes shimmering from the remnants of his tears, and lips a little wobbly. “... If I were to hug you.” The words seemed almost absurd, spoken out loud like this. “Would that be unfair?”
In return, Ardashir looked utterly speechless. His lips parted. Closed. Opened again. Then, he looked away for a brief moment, gathering himself with visible effort, before answering. “... No.” His voice had become noticeably quieter. “It would not.” Another pause followed. “But…” He met the Endministrator’s gaze again, a little more serious this time, yet the hope in those eyes was hard to miss. “... Only if it is something you wish to do.”
“It is.”
The answer surprised them both. And in that moment, the Endministrator realised it only after the words had already left his mouth - he did. Not only because he still partially felt guilt for the loneliness the white-haired man had carried, but also because… Ardashir seemed… safe.
Safe in a way that he would hold him as he fell apart.
The raven-haired man stepped forward. Slowly.
Giving Ardashir every opportunity to move away if he’d misunderstood somehow.
The Phidia didn’t move - not an inch. His hands remained neatly at his sides, fingers curled ever so slightly into his palms, his tail curled around his leg unmoving.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
The Endministrator closed the final distance. Tentatively- carefully- he wrapped his arms around him.
It was almost comical, the way they fit together like a puzzle. It was now, that the Endmin noticed their height difference. Not by much, just enough that he could hide his face in the man’s neck, if he so wished. His arms wrapped easily around Ardashir’s back, like they had always meant to be there. It felt.. Natural. Easy.
For a single heartbeat, Ardashir simply… stood there. Perfectly still, as though he scarcely dared to breathe.
The Endministrator understood immediately why.
“... You can hug me back.” The whisper was almost embarrassed. “I don’t mind…”
Permission.
Explicit and present.
Given by the man standing before Ardashir now - not by the memories of another life.
Only then did the white-haired man move.
His movements were so careful, it almost hurt. One arm settled lightly across the Endministrator’s back, then the other. Never tightening beyond what the Endmin himself allowed. It wasn’t the desperate embrace of someone reclaiming what he’d lost, but rather the cautious embrace of someone terrified of asking for too much.
The Endministrator felt him tremble against his own frame - only once, barely perceptible.
“... Ardashir?”
“... Forgive me.”
“There you go, apologising again.”, the Endmin chided softly, wrapping his arms around the other a little tighter, his head resting comfortably against the Phidia’s chest.
A shaky laugh escaped the man. “... Old habits.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I know.” His voice sounded strangely unsteady. “I simply…”
He stopped.
Now it was the Endmin’s turn to patiently wait.
“... I had forgotten,” Ardashir admitted quietly, “how warm you are.”
There was faint surprise in his voice, as though memory and reality had never quite managed to overlap until now. It was reassuring, in a way, that made the raven-haired man’s heartbeat quicken just slightly.
The silence between them settled again, a quiet comfort, as they simply held each other. Softly, white hair came to rest against its raven counterpart, hands warm and steady, as they held one another. Neither of them had noticed when the tears had run dry and smiles had returned, soft and fragile.
Eventually, the Endmin spoke again, his voice muffled slightly by the fabric of Ardashir’s blazer. “... Thank you.”
Ardashir frowned in confusion at those words, yet did not move. “For what?”
“For waiting.”
Another long silence followed. When Ardashir finally answered, his voice carried the same gentle certainty it always had, when he spoke truth from the depth of his heart. “It was never waiting that mattered. It was knowing that you were still somewhere ahead of me. I simply had to keep walking until I found you again.”
The Endmin felt something tighten painfully in his chest once more. For as much as he could not remember what he had once been and could not return a love he had carried before… standing there in the quiet of a room that had become both prison and sanctuary, he realised something with perfect clarity.
Whatever the future held for them, whatever truths were still waiting, buried and forgotten, he no longer wanted Ardashir to walk that road alone. He would find a way, as he always did. For this time, it was his turn to walk until he had reached Ardashir’s side, for he had made him wait long enough.