Dayatar didn’t notice. He focused on trying to stay as far away from the carvings as possible, subconsciously stepping closer to his husband. He glanced around, getting the vague impression of a room with a high ceiling, a flight of windows on the opposite side that flooded everything with pale light different from the golden rays he knew from home, and wooden furniture that was covered by cozy blankets and heaps upon heaps of books. It did have the appearance of an old man’s study, not of a place he needed to fear.

"Elder Aeliann." Yashaadu Naj nodded at the man that was standing behind a wooden desk, bent over an old scroll that had yellowed over the years and cracked at the edges, doubtlessly one of his recent discoveries.

The man raised his head, peering over a contraption made of some kind of translucent gem that made his eyes seem huge. He needed a moment to realize who he had in front of him but when he did, he straightened up and put the contraption down, a bright smile spreading over his face. "Kazahd! I was worried I wouldn’t be back in time to receive you but it seems I barely made it. Ah, and this has to be the youth you mentioned in your letter!" He tilted his head while he walked around the desk, peering at Dayatar and trying to get a look at his face.

For all the years he had known him, the Kazahd of Almakaar had been a man of few words but in that recent letter of his, he had spent a considerable number on this youth. Elder Aeliann could only surmise that this had to be a show of the deep feelings that made this person linger at the back of the man’s mind at all times. As somebody invested in discovering the secrets of the world, this had whetted his curiosity. Unfortunately, the youth had lowered his head as soon as he had taken a glance through the room, not letting him get a good look at him.

Yashaadu Naj nodded in response to the Elder’s question. "Yes. This is Dayatar, my husband. Naj-il, this is Elder Aeliann of the Academy of Arcane Arts."

"We like to call it the Arcademy for short." The old man chuckled as if he had made a splendid joke.

Yashaadu Naj ignored it, having heard it one too many times when he came to Romallia. Dayatar, on the other hand, didn’t quite understand. His husband had taught him the language of this place but there were still many intricacies he did not grasp.

The old magician sighed when he didn’t get a reaction. He probably should have expected this. The Kazahd was rarely in the mood for banter and likely less so when he had an issue he needed to be solved.

Aeliann turned away, looking through the room. "Well, have a seat. You can choose … whichever you would like." He frowned a little at the books everywhere but didn’t move to put any aside.

Dayatar hurriedly followed when his husband walked to one of the seats. He grabbed the pile of books and put them to the side, making sure not to damage any of them. He dusted off the blanket on the chair and then knelt to his husband’s feet.

Aeliann had also found a chair he quickly emptied next to his desk and looked at the seating arrangement on the other side strangely. "Oh, child, you don’t want a chair of your own?"

Dayatar glanced up, not sure what to say. He had never been seated at the same height as his husband. How could he compare to the status of the Kazahd after all? Maybe sometimes, when Yashaadu Naj was in a good mood, he would jokingly pull him onto his lap, actually making him look at him from above … But how could such a thing be done in front of another person?

Aeliann didn’t quite understand his reaction but didn’t want to bother about it. The rules of the Kazahd’s court were complicated and foreign. He had already realized this long ago. Surely, this was just another instance of that. "Well, give me your hands, child."

He reached out but Dayatar didn’t do the same. Instead, he looked up at his husband in confusion, a hint of fear contained in his eyes. The wives of the Kazahd were not to be touched by another man and even though he wasn’t a woman, the same rule applied to him. He would never let another man hold his hands.

To his surprise, his husband motioned for him to go ahead though. Dayatar felt a pang of hurt, not sure what his husband’s meaning was. Was he not of the same status as Yashaadu Naj’s wives after all? Did his husband not want him any longer? Each possibility that flashed through his mind was agony.

He still remembered the day when his husband approached him for the first time. He had been standing on the steps of the temple in a long line of refugees waiting for their turn to receive a part of the temple’s generosity. The sun had been hanging high overhead, burning down on them, making the wait an arduous one.

It had still been a long while before it would be his turn when there was a commotion behind. Dayatar had not cared. Through the years, he had learned to focus on the task at hand. If he didn’t, who knew if somebody wouldn’t make use of his distraction, pass him by and take what he could have gotten? Then he would have to go hungry for the day and you never knew if there would be an opportunity to eat tomorrow.

Because of this, he hadn’t seen the procession down the street. He hadn’t even seen the Kazahd make his way to the temple, walking up the steps while most refugees looked on in awe, some clamoring for attention in the hope for a better life. He hadn’t even looked up when the people quieted down after Yashaadu Naj entered through the gate.

No, at that time, he had continued with his task, not in the slightest noticing the other person. The two of them had truly passed each other by.

That had only changed when Dayatar finally made it to the front of the line, received a bowl of food, and wanted to enter the temple to say his thanks. He had walked past the table that had been set up to hold the pots, slowly climbing the steps to make sure he didn’t spill anything. Just when he had almost reached the end of the stairs and looked up, the gates opened and Yashaadu Naj stepped out.

Dayatar had stopped in his tracks and just stared, the bowl still cradled in both hands. He had drifted around as a refugee and he had seen many people pass him by. There were those as poor as him, the common citizens, and also the wealthy merchants traveling outside, and the high-ranking men of the cities. But never, not even once, had he seen a man like Yashaadu Naj.

Sometimes, people would seem misplaced at the steps of a temple but Yashaadu Naj looked as if he was supposed to be there. He was a tall man with a straight posture and when he noticed Dayatar staring at him, he turned his head ever so slightly, requiting his gaze and holding it in place.

The sun had been dancing on his black hair, creating golden specks as if Ashakar herself wanted to gild this man. Not that there was any need to. His robes were splendid and bejeweled and just his face alone was enough adornment, able to have anyone look at him in a daze.

Yashaadu Naj had waved away his entourage when they started to worry and had gazed at him for a couple moments longer before making his way over as if it was the normal thing to do.

That day, Dayatar had felt so unworthy of his attention. He had not known who he was but he had instinctively understood that this man was far past his status. He would have walked away if he had been able to make sense of anything. But as it was, he had been enthralled, rooted to the spot, and only able to answer whatever question Yashaadu Naj asked.

When the man finally left and he entered the temple with his bowl, he hadn’t even known anymore what he thanked Ashakar for. Was it the food the temple had given him? Or was it the chance to take but one look at this splendid man?

Yes, he had thought that encounter on the steps of the temple would remain their only one. He never would have guessed that dozens would follow and that one day, that man would call him husband and let him live at his side.

Still, despite all that, despite staying with him for many months after their wedding ceremony, Dayatar often wondered what it was the Kazahd saw in him. Surely, he had not much to offer. An orphan with no family to support him, a refugee with no possession to his name, a wanderer with no home and no knowledge that hadn’t been taught by his husband himself.

Was he worthy? He didn’t think so. And because he thought so, he could not help but expect that one day, his husband would realize this as well and give him away. Maybe that day had now come.

 Dayatar hesitated for a moment but then still gingerly reached out to offer Elder Aeliann his hands. What his husband said was what he would do even though his heart was bleeding at the thought.

It had been months since he entered the palace and he had made sure to follow each and every rule to the utmost. He had not been touched by a single person apart from his husband in all this time and it had made him proud. It was the only way he saw to prove to his husband that despite not having anything else to offer, he was at least devoted to him.

To be forced to break a rule now and in front of his husband no less made him feel ashamed. For a moment, tears threatened to gather in his eyes but he stubbornly blinked them away. Breaking the rules was bad enough. He would not cry and bring shame to his husband that way as well. Until he was told he had to leave, he would always do his best.

Aeliann did not notice his struggle. He wrapped his hands around Dayatar’s fingers, not even touching his palms, and closed his eyes. After a moment, his lips twitched and then he laughed, finally letting go.