The Flower Thief and Other Tales of Yalda - 8. The Tale of Two Little Reeds - Seventh Scroll

A Memory Revisited

Cira — Duskgold, near day's end

The bakery was quiet in the hour before dusk; the kind of golden hush that made even the flour dust seem to settle softly. All but one of the ovens were cooling; there was just enough time for one more project before the day's end. The front shutters were propped open just enough to let in a slant of late light. Outside, the city murmured faintly—wheels, hooves, the occasional cry of a vendor. Inside, the only sound was the rhythmic click of a paring knife against a wooden board.

Jaren stood at the preparation table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a streak of flour across his jaw. The chestnuts were already roasted—he’d split their shells with the heel of his palm earlier, the insides still warm and sweet. Mushrooms were browning in the skillet, hissing gently in butter, their edges curling gold. Steam rose in lazy ribbons.

Ailin sat nearby, legs tucked beneath him on a stool, sorting through fresh herbs with an absent hand. Every now and then he glanced over—not watching, exactly, just…following the way Jaren moved. There was a steadiness with him in the kitchen, something quiet and assured.

“Try this,” Jaren said, offering a bit of the filling on a wooden spoon.

Ailin leaned forward and took the bite without hesitation. He chewed, thoughtful, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then—

“It’s better now,” he murmured.

Jaren tilted his head. “Better than what?”

Ailin didn’t answer right away. He reached out and plucked a chestnut piece from the bowl, rolling it between his fingers like a stone smoothed by a river. “Than the first time we ate this,” he said. “After we fled the temple.”

Jaren paused, fingers still resting on the pastry crust.

“You remember?” he asked quietly.

Ailin nodded. “You found the chestnuts. I found the mushrooms. We had no fire. Just scraped them together raw. It tasted…” He smiled faintly. “Like bark. And damp.”

“But it was ours,” Jaren said.

Ailin looked up, eyes soft. “Yes. Ours.”

Jaren returned to folding the tart crust over the filling, pressing the edges with thumb and knuckle. His hands were moving slower now. Reverent, almost.

“We were cold that night,” he said.

“And scared,” Ailin added. “Everything felt too big.”

“But we ate,” Jaren said, brushing egg wash over the crust. “And then we kept going.”

The tart went into the oven with a satisfying thud. They sat in the warmth that followed, not speaking, as the scent of sweet chestnuts and earthy mushrooms filled the room.

When the timer rang and Jaren pulled the tart from the oven, the crust was golden and flaked at the edges like fallen leaves. He cut two slices, set them on earthenware plates, and passed one across.

Ailin took a bite. His eyes closed briefly.

“It still tastes like something we made together,” he said.

Jaren smiled. “That’s the point.”

They ate slowly, quietly. No rush. No fear. Just the comfort of shared work and the warmth of remembering not just the hunger, but the survival.

And this time, there was tea.

A Deeper Bond

Lunel — Starcall, just past twilight

They sat together atop the mossy stones of an old terrace overlooking Yalda’s eastern wall, where the city met the rolling hills. Evening shadows stretched long and soft, and a warm breeze stirred the tall grasses beyond the city’s edge.

Jaren rested back on his elbows, eyes turned skyward, but his thoughts were elsewhere—anchored to the quiet presence beside him. Ailin sat cross-legged, head bowed, slowly working a loop of twine into a braided cord. His lips were parted, murmuring sounds rather than words, small fragments of language taking uncertain shape.

“You’re getting better,” Jaren said softly, careful not to startle him.

Ailin looked up. His dark eyes caught the light like pools of still water. “Only… because of you.”

Jaren smiled and shook his head. “That’s not true. I was just there. You did the work.”

“You… waited. You stayed,” Ailin whispered, and then, after a pause, added, “No one else ever did.”

A quiet settled between them—not uncomfortable, but full of everything they didn’t need to say. In the Whispering Reeds, silence had been a prison. Here, it had become something gentler, sacred even, when shared like this.

Jaren turned his head toward him. “Remember the night we stole the honey bread?”

Ailin’s lips twitched into a small, surprised smile. “You said it was a test. Of my devotion.”

“I was starving,” Jaren said with a laugh. “I needed an excuse.”

“You got us caught.”

“You ran,” Jaren countered. “I got caught. You came back.”

They laughed quietly; a sound shared in the hush of the twilight.

Ailin leaned against Jaren’s shoulder then, the contact feather-light. “I think… I was already in love with you then.”

Jaren turned his head, startled—but not by the sentiment. He’d known, had felt it mirrored in his own heart for longer than he’d dared to admit. What stunned him was hearing it spoken aloud, fragile and brave.

“I think I was too,” he replied. “But I didn’t have the words. Not even the signs.”

Ailin looked up, face unreadable. “Do you have them now?”

Jaren reached for his hand, threading their fingers together with slow certainty. “Not all of them. But I’m learning.”

Ailin turned his face into the crook of Jaren’s neck, hiding a trembling smile. “We both are.”

The sky darkened above them, stars blooming across its velvet canopy. Somewhere below, laughter rang from a courtyard, and the scent of jasmine drifted in the air.

They stayed like that until the light faded completely, hands entwined, two boys stitched together by a quiet defiance, by years of silence, and now, by the gentler courage of being heard.

A Quiet Gesture

Vena — Brightwake

It was market day in the lower terraces, and Yalda pulsed with life.

Bright fabrics fluttered overhead between the stone walls of narrow streets, casting dancing shadows across the cobbled ground. The smell of fried chickpea batter and spiced root vegetables wafted from food carts, mingling with the murmur of a dozen languages and the occasional bark of a street performer.

Jaren stood in the shade of a painted awning, watching as Ailin examined a stall of carved wooden birds. The vendor—a kindly old woman with copper bracelets and inked fingertips—was explaining which birds were local and which were from the marshes farther north.

Ailin listened intently, nodding, but his hands stayed at his sides. His fingers twitched faintly, the muscle memory of signs suppressed.

He didn’t look back at Jaren, not once.

Jaren understood. They hadn’t talked about it—not really—but they both knew there was a line neither of them crossed in public. Not touching. Not too close. Not lingering too long in each other’s gaze.

Once, near the temple gardens, Ailin had brushed Jaren’s hand with his own in passing. Only the barest contact. But when an old monk glanced their way, Ailin had immediately shrunk back, pale and silent for the rest of the afternoon.

It had taken Jaren days to coax him back to that smile he wore in private.

Now, as Ailin returned with two small birds in his hands—one cedar, one acacia—Jaren offered a grin he didn’t quite feel. “You planning to teach them to fly?”

“They’re meant to sit on a shelf and be admired,” Ailin said softly. “Like you, maybe.”

Jaren flushed, caught off guard by the gentle tease. But Ailin’s voice was shy, uncertain, testing the edges of comfort.

They walked through the square together, a careful distance apart. Ailin’s shoulder occasionally brushed Jaren’s, but he always stepped away a breath too quickly.

“I know I act like it doesn’t bother me,” Jaren said, finally, as they passed beneath an arbor heavy with blooming lantern-fruit.

Ailin turned to him, brow furrowed.

“Not touching. Not being seen like that,” Jaren said. “But… I think I do want it. Just not if it scares you.”

Ailin stopped walking. The marketplace noise swelled around them, but for a moment it felt very quiet.

“It doesn’t scare me,” he said after a moment. “It... knots me up. Here.” He touched his chest, then his throat. “Back at the temple, affection meant punishment. Watching others be beaten for less than what we feel…”

Jaren nodded. “I know.”

“But I don’t want to hide either,” Ailin continued. “Not from you.”

Jaren took a breath and held out his hand—palm open, not reaching, just waiting.

Ailin hesitated. People passed them, barely noticing. A child ran while chasing a spinning toy. A baker shouted across the square. No one cared. No one saw.

Except that Jaren was watching. Not the crowd. Just him.

And slowly, cautiously, Ailin slipped his hand into Jaren’s. Their fingers laced together, a quiet promise.

They kept walking.

The contact was brief, just a minute or two before Ailin gently let go, hands returning to his sleeves. But Jaren said nothing. He didn’t press.

Later, in a quiet courtyard behind the palace garden walls, Ailin reached out and took Jaren’s hand again.

Longer, this time.

They sat in silence, birdsong overhead, their joined hands resting between them on a stone bench worn smooth by time.

No declarations. No need for them. Just a slow, quiet practice of closeness.

They would get there.

Together.

Festival of the Twin Stars

Auryn — Festival-night, moon rise

They had spoken of the festival for days, its colors and lanterns filling the air even before the sun dipped low. According to legend, the Twin Stars were ancient lovers—gods or mortals, the stories differed—who crossed the sky in search of one another each year. When they finally met, two brilliant stars appeared side by side in the heavens, if only for a night.

The city’s plazas had been transformed. Paper lanterns shaped like stars bobbed from balconies. Musicians played lilting tunes from stone steps. Children painted their faces in stardust and blue.

And everywhere, couples walked hand in hand beneath glowing canopies of silk and twine.

Ailin and Jaren stood just beyond the crowd, cloaked not in robes or ceremony but in hesitation. Ailin wore a simple tunic dyed sky-colored, gifted to him by Cedric; Jaren had flowers tucked behind his ear—slightly crooked, likely placed by Cedric himself.

“I don’t know if I can,” Ailin whispered, clutching the hem of his tunic.

Jaren’s voice was gentle. “We don’t have to. Not if it feels wrong.”

Ailin looked out at the plaza. A human girl kissed her Halfling girlfriend beside the lantern maker’s stall. Two older men danced with abandon under drifting banners of light. No one turned. No one stared.

“They don’t look afraid,” Ailin said.

“No,” Jaren agreed. “But they probably were, once.”

From behind, familiar laughter broke into their stillness. Cedric came bounding into view, cheeks pink from exertion and wine, a garland of starlight ribboned around his wrist. Lysander followed, composed as always, but with his arm slung lazily over Cedric’s shoulders.

“Thought we’d find you hiding,” Cedric grinned, breathless. “Come on. There’s a wishing lantern with your names on it.”

“We don’t—” Ailin began, but Cedric shook his head.

“No pressure. Just… walk with us?”

Lysander offered his hand. Not in command, but in invitation.

And something inside Ailin finally said: You are allowed. He reached for Jaren’s fingers first.

The four of them strolled beneath the streamers of light, the scent of fried cinnamon and rose-oil thick in the air. Music swelled in waves: harp and drum, flute and voice. People passed them without a second glance, save to admire their ribbons or the matching star-shaped pins Lysander had affixed to their collars.

As the hour turned, festival-goers gathered at the riverbank. Lanterns made of folded rice-paper were lit from within and released into the sky, one by one, until hundreds of glowing stars rose to meet the heavens.

“Make a wish,” Cedric whispered.

Ailin stared upward. The stars above reflected in Jaren’s eyes like distant, golden fire.

He didn’t speak the words aloud, not yet. But he squeezed Jaren’s hand. And this time, Jaren squeezed back.

Side by side with Cedric and Lysander, they stepped forward.

They were no longer hidden.