Everyone, unimportant and eminent, were invited to the feast to commemorate the gala new beginning of the Shah's life. Servants ran back and forth to fill chalices of wine and serve richly spiced meat.

One by one, each person came up and gave their gifts to the royal couple. Roshanak was dressed in sober pink. A little crown, the one devoted to every Shahamsaram of Persia, adorned her head. Sikander matched it with his favourite purple and a dash of golden. His headdress was crimson and elaborate, heavy like his own impact on history. They took each present with a smile and accepted every blessing, meagre or generous, with open arms.

As the men came and greeted the couple, Sikander introduced each one to her. At one point three generals came up together, and Roshanak recognised them as the three men from before.

The one with a receding hairline bowed and kissed the hand of Sikander as per Persian customs. He was an old man, experience glimmering in his distant gaze and wrinkles boasting of age-old wisdom. Despite the progress of time, he had a stature equivalent to a hulking bear that could crush a man with just a squeeze.

"Craterus, thank you," Sikander said. "You have been a grace from the heavens above, a man who has served my family for years."

"I still smile at the thought of your infant days, frolicking around with a stick in your hand, claiming to be the Shah of the world."

"Oh! Don't tell the stories in front of Roshanak. It embarrasses me!" Sikander laughed.

Craterus' look stoned Roshanak. Their eyes matched for a fleeting moment, but it was enough to make Roshanak shrivel up. Craterus left, and then came a middle-aged man, a little rounder and more bulky than the former. He introduced himself as Ptolemy, and was polite enough to spare a smile to the queen.

Next, a young man around the age of Sikander came with his arms wide open. Sikander stood up and engulfed him in an embrace. Roshanak realised this was another close confidant.

"Perdiccas, you need to marry next. Our old friend Ptolemy has no chance at wooing a lady, but maybe you will."

"Perhaps one from the land of the queen only," Perdiccas said, glancing at Roshanak. "Does the queen have someone in mind for me?"

Roshanak was put in an awkward position. However, assessing the bond that he seemed to share with her husband, she treated the words lightly. "I have no sister, but there are many skilled women in my land."

"Well, I will trust the Shah. Please find me a woman soon. I am dying from loneliness."

"I thought you were having colourful days with the, uh, servants," Ptolemy remarked from the side, arms crossed in indignation.

"Someone got riled up by our jokes. Brother Ptolemy, don't worry, I will make my wife's mother marry you!" Perdiccas roared.

"I thought you all were well-taught the etiquettes of the Persian court. This isn't the way one converses with the Shah in front of his wife."

The protest was made by the hazarahpatish. Dressed in scarlet with a pretty blush on his cheeks and fiery opals dangling from his ears, he sauntered towards the throne. Seeing the hazarahpatish arrive, the three men bowed. "Perdiccas can get way too high sometimes, even without alcohol," Hridayank said.

Perdiccas pursed his lips as his friend ruffled his hair and gave him a stern look. "Sorry, Hri–" He paused. "I mean, hazarahpatish. Well, what gift do you have for our lovely couple?"

Hridayank carried a little wooden box. It was probably prized even less than the dust of his feet. Ptolemy and Craterus mockingly chuckled at his choice of present. "The hazarahpatish doesn't have anything nice to give," Ptolemy poked.

"I am not surprised, after all... " Craterus left the sentence incomplete. Both Sikander and Hridayank understood what he meant. The Shah was, even though a Shah, grateful to the man who had given his infinite support to him and his mother when people were ready to uproot his life. So he kept mum.

But Hridayank didn't owe the man anything.

"My support, empathy and respect for the queen is the most invaluable. I am not here to make ugly jokes in front of the Mother of Persia. I know the manners of the court. This is not Macedonia where we can be reckless boys." Hridayank handed the box to Roshanak. "Open it, Shahamsaram."

Roshanak found a necklace woven with seashells inside it, and a pair of shiny pearl earrings. "They are very beautiful, hazarahpatish. Thank you."

"Let us keep it aside, Roshanak. More people are waiting." Sikander snatched the box from her hand and carelessly kept it beside his cushioned seat. Roshanak was hurt by how he undermined the gift. The hazarahpatish was the only man who seemed to understand her state and offered her some emotional support. His gift, even if less than all the expensive furs and the gemstone studded swords, was way more in value when it came to a blooming friendship.

Alas, she didn't know the story behind the necklace and the earrings.

Hridayank smirked at the glaring Shah. The latter sat down with an air of arrogance and the hazarahpatish climbed down the stairs, pleased with his rebellious act. More men came and went, but Sikander's mood was ruined beyond measure for him to be kind. He couldn't pretend being happy. The men didn't linger to make small talk with him, formality thrown out of the window. Hridayank stared at him with a conceited, shameless beam of a victory earned by crook.

"We are going to return Hridayank's gift, Roshanak. Do not grow fond of it."

"But–"

"I will give you way more pearls and seashells if you want," he said through grit teeth. "But don't take his gift. It is not worthy enough to be beautifying the Shahamsaram."

"Shah, pardon me for what I am going to ask– do you find his gift distasteful? To me, it's precious. He gave me something small but pretty. Little things matter."

"Exactly, Roshanak." Sikander's red-rimmed eyes turned glassy. "Little things matter. That's why, we are going to return it. I want no further questioning into this matter."

Hridayank, even if at a distance, could read the lips of his beloved, and it gave him immense joy to know his gift was rejected.

Just like him. Nowadays, Sikander grimaced at his sight– that was his firm belief.

The hazarahpatish chugged down wine one chalice after another, shocking everyone present. He wasn't known to be heavy drinker, neither a man into such vices of life. To watch the man, who was always so much in control of his five senses, give in, amused the onlookers. They said he was heartbroken, shunned by some girl he met in Omkara's land, and returned empty-handed, unlike the Shah.

Indeed, they were true in a way. He returned like a beggar, with nothing to call his own anymore. Even his body and heart was not his. He had traded it to the most powerful man of the world in exchange for some soft caresses. That too, he was not receiving these days. The deal made was a failure.

Craterus and his two mates, though, knew what was going on. Craterus very well did. Ptolemy and Perdiccas probably had their doubts, but the oldest among the three had seen Sikander from when he was just five. Hridayank was then eight years old, a wayward boy accused of killing the son of a lord and sent into exile by his father. Hridayank had always been disobedient towards authority, although the company of Sikander simmered down his wilderness. The nomad had found a home in the lap of the flaxen-haired eagle. But Craterus cared too less about these boyish affections.

Hridayank was the hazarahpatish now, and the Mitra, favourite of Sikander. Craterus was the guide of the Shah, his fatherly figure. Somewhere, it didn't bode well with him that someone half his age had more power than him. He abhorred the relationship between the Shah and his Mitra, but didn't have the necessary dominance to raise his voice.

Hridayank at one point lifted his hands in the air and danced along with the half-drunken men. Was this expected from a hazarahpatish? Definitely not. Was this expected from a spurned lover? Absolutely.

So he danced like a lunatic, his steps clumsy and breaths hitched in the throat. Wine trickled down his chest and moistened his robes.

Curving up his brow akin to a seductive dancer, he stared at the Shah with his glinting eyes. Sikander clenched his jaw. Hridayank kept the chalice down with a clank, contended with the performance he delivered and retired to his room.

Once, this used be their room. Sikander, in his initial days as the Shah, spent more time here than his own magnificent room. Then rumours spread too fast, as if they were already not enough, and Craterus advised the Shah to keep distance. Hridayank had often taunted the man behind the Shah's back of harbouring feelings for a boy fit to be his son. Such things were common in Macedonia. Craterus hurled insults at his madness, called him rude and a rascal. It only increased Hridayank's joy. He knew there was nothing between that senile general and the passionate child of god, but he enjoyed irking the old man. Why was Craterus so against his love?

Sometimes he felt the whole world was conspiring against him. What sin did he do to not be a woman? He would do anything to be one, even if it meant enduring pain all throughout life. A woman would be happy to go through the cruelest tortures if in return offered the chance to be the queen of a man she loved.

Hridayank bent over his balcony, watching the green below. Furry moths circled around and tried to seek the warmth of a fire. Did they not see him? He was burning, his heart ablaze.

When he leant forward a little more than what safety would allow, a hand grabbed him by the neck and roughly yanked him back.

He didn't have to look back to see who it was. This specific touch was etched in his mind. He had memorised it like a prayer.

Sikander forced Hridayank to face him. "You coward."

Hridayank chuckled coldly. "My hero. Coming to save me, I see."

Sikander, although overcome with wrath, gently placed the box on the table. But he didn't show mercy to his lover. He pushed Hridayank against the wall, holding him in place by gripping his wrists. Veins popped up on Hridayank's neck as he struggled to free himself. Sikander watched with a stoic expression.

Hridayank gave up, breathing heavily. "Leave me."

"No."

"You are assaulting me."

"It is your punishment."

"You don't decide it. You are no god."

"I am the Shah."

"I am the hazarahpatish."

"I can make you a stable boy if I want."

"You think I would care?" Hridayank scoffed. "Please, make me your servant. At least that would give me the excuse to be ill-mannered. At least that would allow me to be close to you." Hridayank's voice trembled, a ballad resonating the reverberating column of air inside a flute. "I can watch you bathe and dress up, perfume you, dance for you... And not be judged."

"You know I had gifted this necklace to you because I love you," Sikander whispered, his hands freeing Hridayank's wrist and cupping the latter's face. "This is the symbol of our bond's strength. The priestess at the Oracle of Siwa had asked me to give this to my one true love. That, you are, Hridayank."

"Sounds romantic, Shah. But am I not just your hazarahpatish? Am I not here because of your benevolence, and not any merit? You made me the hazarahpatish because you pitied me."

"That's not true."

"Why else would you say then that you can depose me to being a stable boy?"

Sikander shut his eyes. "I am sorry. I take back my words."

"Those hit like the arrows of Artemis. But I guess you are used to hurting me, and I crave anything you can provide."

Sikander showed the ring on his left palm. "I wear this still now. Not even marriage has been able to separate me from you. This is the testament of our love."

"That doesn't mean I am not suffering!" Hridayank screamed. He ran and flopped on his bed, clutching his head full of hair like a maiden of midnight. "I think every day and night of how I am so less and paltry. My presence in your life is insignificant."

Sikander came and fondled his hair. "Why do you inflict pain upon yourself? You know you are not–"

"Do you even understand what it feels like to watch the man I love sit with another woman and get wedding gifts?" Hridayank shook him by the shoulders. "I have to live with the thought that the man I love must be shared with other women. That they may get the title of queen, being his one true love, his fascination and obsession, but I get to be just a trivial hazarahpatish who is going to go down in the tales of time as a so-called, brother-in-arms."

That I will never carry your child, Sikander. Hridayank's heart was crushed by sobs piling up. I will never be your other half.

Sikander wiped his tears. "My body will go to dust."

"Don't use these philosophical words with me. I am not interested in scholarly interactions."

"Hridayank, I am the Shah. I need an heir. I will have to sleep with women. I had to drink wine and get over with it on my wedding night. You think it doesn't suffocate me and only you?"

"I am a bad lover and I don't want to know."

"You want me or not?"

"You don't want me and I know it."

Sikander wrapped his legs around Hridayank's waist and rested on his lap. Interlocking his fingers with him, he said in his deep, desperate baritone, "Then I will take you now and prove my love."

"I am not a toy."

"I have never forced myself on you."

"And I always obey you, and my unwavering support was with you when you decided to marry. I didn't stop you."

"Yet, now you complain. I understand, and don't blame you." Sikander touched their foreheads. "Now, allow me to have you."

Hridayank gulped. Someone had lit a fire inside his body. Sikander stared down at his lips, and he found himself pursing them wet. "I am not Persia that you can conquer me whenever you wish," Hridayank whispered.

A little moan escaped his lips when Sikander undressed and unraveled his naked self.

"Then take me. I am Persia, and for once, Hridayank, you be the Shah."

And he released the reins. Pushing Sikander beneath him, he vowed to settle things on bed. He was not the leader in other departments, but here his command was what mattered.

Hridayank's feathery touch, gliding down the bare body of Sikander, caused the latter to arch back in pleasure.

"You are aroused by such a tiny touch?" Hridayank ran his thumb over Sikander's plump pink lips. "What will you do if I speed things up?"

"Please, I beg you. I have been as lonely as you."

"You are wretched."

"Show me my place. Please." Sikander's breaths were short and raspy. Hridayank merely admired his scar and circled the erect buds on his chest, but it was enough to make him helpless. "I love you. You know that."

"I love you too. It's just that we are both volatile."

"Fire on fire." Sikander pulled Hridayank's head closer to his neck. "Smoulder me."

Forgetting the unrelenting rules of the world, the two submerged in the ocean of love.

****

word count: 2657
Total: 19,565 words

I know it's the internet causing the banner to not load sometimes, but I am inclined to think it got too shy. Ehh...

Well, this was a little steamy. I didn't go down to THAT, till the last detail. I guess this is enough to make things hot.

Do you think it was hot? Nice? Good to read? I know some of you aren't comfortable with reading manxman, but still, from an impartial perspective, how is it?

Also, should I mark the book mature for this chapter or is it okay to not mark it? I think I should?