The stick in Page's hand clocked the ground in a series of dull thuds on his way up the incline. Warm wind from the sea tickled the back of his neck and ruffled the hem of his robes. The cloak which he fastened by his collarbone fluttered behind him like the district flag waving at the city. He licked his chapped lips. His waterskin had run out long before he went up the steep slope, and the way back to the well was tedious.

He wiped the sweat beading on his brow, fixing the basket strap digging on his shoulders along the way. His slick fingers gripped the splintering staff as he hauled his weight over a higher ledge. Maybe he should replace his staff for a...sturdier one hewn from oak. Cypress sounded nice too. That was, if he could afford it.

Lean season was coming in, rolling from the west with the cold air in tow. Winter promised no harvests, and they had to figure out a way to survive the long months without profits from the shop. Page chewed his lip, climbing up another ledge. Against the glare of the sun shining through the peak, he counted how many more steps. Four? Five? Didn't matter.

By the time he hooked his fingers on the final ledge and swung his leg over, the characteristic carob tree waved at him when a stray breeze rustled its leaves. Page ought to wave back—after all, this was the tree they owed most of their shop's local popularity—but a person hidden behind the wall of pointed rosemary stalks tore his attention away.

The person craned his neck to the sky, wiping his forehead against his long, scratchy sleeves. With a sigh, he went back to scouring the ground. Page swallowed against the scratchy feeling in his throat and gripped the straps of his basket tighter. He tramped towards the man crouching on the floor, lost in his own world.

"Dara," Page called, modulating his voice so it wouldn't hike up past its normal timbre.

He looked from his work, saw Page, and dusted his hands against his robe. "Page," he said. His voice sounded breathless, but maybe it was because of pulling weeds and searching for rosemary seeds. It couldn't be because of Page. Far from it.

"What brings you here?" Dara inclined his head towards him. Not really a question; just an invitation for Page to carry his half of the conversation. That was all from Dara, and it was Page who had to see this interlocution to the end.

Page crouched next to him and waded through the rosemary stalks with his hands. This variety was rare in the flat ground, so their seeds fetched high prices in the trading square. If they could score a handful before winter set in, they'd be able to space out the supply to get them through with enough funds. Of course, that plan hinged completely on finding enough now and in the near-weekly hike Page had scheduled for them until the end of autumn.

"I thought we'd go up together," Page replied, disguising his statement as a passing comment more than an accusation.

Dara shrugged, ripping a root network from the ground. Apart from the seeds, they had also taken it upon themselves to cultivate and maintain this small ecosystem. Nobody knew how to climb up this spire-like hill, except for Dara and Page. "I noticed you went to the shepherds this morning," he answered. "Figured I'd get more things done if I get a headstart. You can't handle everything alone, Page."

"Neither can you," Page replied. He jerked his chin towards Dara. Only then did he realize that the man's robe hung too big from his shoulders almost to the point of sagging. "You shouldn't even be out here. Not when you barely recovered from that infernal cough last time."

Dara waved a dismissive hand, adjusting the shawl hanging down his neck. He must have noticed Page's gaze making a point of how noticeable his collarbone was. "It's just a cough." He examined the nearest rosemary stalk for a semblance of seeds. "I'll be fine."

Page wanted to argue, but Dara flashed him a look, quietening his reason down. In all their years of running the shop together, Dara had learned how to keep Page in line and to avoid fights from breaking out. His father, the one who originally owned the shop, taught him everything he needed to know about the business, and that included maintaining the peace. Sometimes, Page was grateful for that skill, especially when dealing with sketchy merchants and customers, but in private scenes like this, he was fond of it the least.

"Did the gods tell you that?" Page countered instead, using the other card he knew how to play. The card that told him Dara had some sort of blessing from childhood, and it enabled him to get glimpses of events from across time including the future. He thought it amazing at first, but Dara told him about the insanely accurate details, the occasional nightmares, and the eerie voices visiting him at random times of the day. Suddenly, Page was glad to not have a blessing.

Dara pursed his lips and plucked a stalk clean—flowers, leaves, and all. He deposited his harvest into a small pouch by his belt. Chasing those thin leaves around was a hassle, after all. "It's just the cycle of life," he said. "We get sick; we heal—over and over until we fall asleep."

"And you're not falling asleep anytime soon, you think?" Page prodded.

As an answer, Dara shot up and grabbed his basket resting on a clump of rocks. "Come on." He inclined his head at the carob tree. "Let's get what we can so we can go back down earlier. You've always been the better climber."

Ah, that was why Dara hasn't touched the tree since getting here. He was simply waiting for Page. Maybe he hasn't really healed and was taking it slow still. Good. At least, Dara has remaining common sense, even just a bit.

Page watched Dara trot towards the tree, closing the distance with graceful steps. The wind rose from the east this time, ruffling Dara's silky hair. The rays of the sun bathed the strands, making them shine like liquid gold. It was...

"I have to tell you something, Dara," Page called when a considerable distance appeared between them. Dara turned, raising his eyebrows for Page to continue. "I love you. "

Dara's hands paused from reaching the tallest rosemary stalk, fingers dangling within reach of its fresh, periwinkle flowers. Page sighed and released all the tension in his clenched fists and raised hackles. "Since that day in the fields, I promised myself that it will always be you," he declared.

If not for the carob leaves shaking under the wind's influence, it would have been deathly silent. Page clenched his jaw. He never really wanted to acknowledge all these feelings budding inside him, but they have gotten to a point where he couldn't ignore them any longer. They wanted to reach Dara, and if telling him aloud was the best way to go, Page would.

"You don't have to give me an answer. Now or ever." Page waved his palms towards Dara. "I just...I wanted to tell you."

Instead of running and hiding behind his basket, Dara chuckled. "I am honored to be the recipient," he replied. "I will give you an answer. Just...not now."

"When?" Page asked. He couldn't hold the question back even if he tried.

Dara smiled. Even with his pallor pale against the bright sunlight, he still never failed to be the blithest thing around. So full of life, and so...beautiful. "When the doves call," he said. "I'll tell you my answer when white droves flood the skies and feathers of angels rain from the sky."

What an odd timing. If not, overtly specific. "Does that have something to do with a vision?" Page asked. "Did the gods tell you something about doves?"

Dara shook his head with a smile. "I just feel like it," he said. "Let's get the pods before my energy runs out. As you said...I'm not at full health at the moment."

As if a switch turned on in his head, Page closed the distance between them in a series of long steps. "I'll climb," he said. "Be ready to catch them."

Dara hefted the basket. "Yes, sir."