golden bells
Kaj sweeps away the crumbs from his shirt with the delicacy of an artist, Rafar thinks. In truth, it seemed that anything he did was wrought with such a gracefulness that one might assume he was royalty, at first glance. The only things to betray him were the very clothes he wore on his back— tattered, off-white, and worn from months of continuous travel. As Kaj always said, it never did him any good to waste money on new things if they were not broken. Rafar was sure he'd wear those rags until they quite literally began to fall off his body.
Clapping his hands together, Kaj stands, stretching in satisfaction. "The bread was good today, don't you think? I thought the poppy seed was a nice touch."
Rafar is still sitting down at the table as he watches. He only takes a sip from his canteen, eyes diverted— now zigzagging through the marketplace crowds as they pass by en masse. Kaj catches this, smiles a little, before leaning down to block his line of sight.
"Hello. You're deep in thought today."
There's no avoiding those eyes of his, golden and sun-flecked. It's almost embarrassing how much Rafar likes them. And to think that Kaj could be oblivious to it all seemed to be the most impossible thing. How could someone so wise for his years be so completely oblivious?
And yet, maybe it was yet another reason why Rafar could not bear to leave after months together. In retrospect, it was silly. He merely agreed to escort him from Arkaios to the next town over, in order to ensure the young man's safety would not be compromised enroute— and yet, here he was, months later and miles away from his guard post at the palace.
In truth, he was a deserter. He trained his entire life to assume a position of importance as a palace guard. All those hours toiling under the desert sun, skin nearly blistering with the heat, with water barrels propped against his back— solid and heavy. The burns underneath his feet from every step in the sand. And the endless meditation— priests chanting in harmony as Rafar would bite back his howls of pain, each crack of the whip demanding the same thing: clear your mind. breathe. rinse and repeat.
All that, thrown away on a whim as soon as he saw him walk alone, hungry and tired, past the palace gates.
"Are you thinking about the palace again?" Kaj asks, tilting his head to the side. "You know… I never did insist you come with me. That was entirely of your own volition."
Rafar plugs his canteen. No matter what he did, Kaj could read him like an open book. "No, I am not thinking of that, thank you very much."
"Well, you must certainly be thinking about something important. You had that look in your eyes again."
"That look?" Rafar asks.
"You look like a lizard when you think too much."
"A lizard?"
"A lizard."
Rafar looks absolutely unamused as he crosses his arms and reclines against the table. "Care to explain how I resemble a lizard?"
Kaj taps his nose a few times with his index finger. "When lizards sit very still, they look like statues. Always wearing that serious expression on their faces."
"Lizards can't make any other faces."
"Yes, and so they always look serious. Like you."
What a curious feeling. Rafar came to know it intimately— indignation, embarrassment, exasperation, adoration —all astir underneath his careful decorum. He would always turn away, make some show of annoyance, then Kaj would always laugh as if he knew that his companion secretly enjoyed his constant teasing. And he would not be wrong— Rafar did indeed turn away, and Kaj's gentle laugh caught his ears like a string of bells in the wind.
It seemed as if Rafar's fate was inevitable: he was to fall madly, deeply in love.
*
If Rafar could have his way, he would put him in a little glass box, lined with soft velvet and lace. Somewhere where his face could be shielded from the merciless sun, where his feet would not blister from the heat or the terrible condition of his shoes. Where Rafar could watch over him, silently as ever, and never see a hair on his head even so much as disturbed from its rest. And he would be sleeping, soundly, inside that little glass box, dressed in only the finest linens Rafar could conjure in his imagination. Violet robes, he'd envision, bright and elegant against his dark skin. And gold, too, like his eyes.
But this was not the Kaj Rafar loved. And although it pained him so to see him suffer, Rafar could not contain him— not when the look in the young man's eyes spoke of life in every form, free and unbridled no matter how softly he spoke. Kaj was in love, perpetually, as long as anyone knew, with the act of living. To suffer was to exist. To exist was to live. And to live was to experience. These were the words Kaj lived by. How could Rafar ever take the place of something so intangible?
In the end, he resigned himself to being a guardian and a friend— to watch over him, silently as ever.
*
The hours immediately following lunch were the domain of the high sun— when it became too hot to travel far from shelter. In these hours, Kaj loved to explore, with what meager money they had as simple peddlers. Rafar, on the other hand, much preferred to sleep in the shade, allowing the sun to pass over their heads as they awaited evening. The months following their departure from Arkaios taught Rafar something very important about his companion:
He was extremely manipulative.
Right now, Rafar wants nothing more than to find a little nook to settle into. A nice, quiet place, preferably away from people walking about the streets. Kaj seems to notice this from the drooping of his eyelids and promptly taps him on the shoulder.
"I heard that the market here is famous for rare artifacts," he says. He does not make eye contact— which he never does when he has ulterior motives.
"Kaj, we don't have enough money."
"How rude! I never said I wanted to buy anything."
That much was true, actually. Kaj's vice was not greed, but amiability. He loved listening to merchants tell tales of their travels as much as he loved sharing his own, and Rafar was the lone victim in all this— dragged along and forced to endure every retelling of the time he first tried common man's food. You should have seen the look on his face, Kaj would say, mirth brightening every corner of his face. I told him stinksquash was an acquired taste, but he never listens...
Rafar gives him one of his infamous looks yet again, replying, "You plan on making me stand there and watch you humiliate me in front of yet another one of your acquaintances."
"Such accusations! I thought nothing of the sort. I just want to catch up with old friends— although that story does happen to be a personal favorite of mine."
"I think I'd prefer you tell anything that does not include me embarrassing myself."
"Ah, but those always entertain the best..."
"Do you not have stories to tell about yourself?"
"Not funny ones."
It was infuriating how Kaj seemed to carry himself with such dignity although he was nothing more than an orphan and a vagabond with very little to his name but a reputation. Not a single ounce of pride seemed to be in his being, yet his endless humility only served to put him among the status of monk-priests who carried themselves as if every movement and word was deliberate. Rafar could see him in their ranks far too easily, bent over a candle and fixed in prayer, never once losing his composure as Rafar often did, despite his best efforts. It was maddening. To be a roaring fire whose flames sputtered and grew with wild abandon, next to the tempered glow of a guiding lantern.
In the end, although Kaj never insisted, Rafar would always oblige. When he was not a fire, he was a moth drawn inexplicably to the gentle flickering encased in those glass walls. Powerless to resist not even the most trivial of his whims.
So Rafar finds himself standing, yet again, next to a stall in a marketplace, with Kaj next to him as animated as ever. He shields his eyes as he looks towards the sky, measuring the distance between the sun and the horizon, only to sigh as he moves further into the shade. This particular vendor— a large, boorish looking man with an impressively groomed beard —was one of Kaj's long-time friends from years past. Apparently, they'd known eachother since Kaj was very small. Somehow, this irks Rafar in ways he cannot explain.
"It was so funny," Kaj says, hands mimicking his words in habit, "Rafar could not stop sneezing! Apparently, he did not know he was allergic to sheep's wool. Imagine spending every night in the desert with a stuffy nose for two weeks…"
"I think I would rather risk freezing to death than do that again," Rafar cuts in.
The man inside the stall laughs heartily. This only manages to annoy Rafar further. They had met once before, and Rafar's opinion of him did not change very much since then.
"Well, it seems as if you've learned a thing or two since then! I remember— when I last saw the two of you, this one here looked like a frightened parrot. You are much more relaxed now."
A parrot, Rafar thinks. A reference to his bright robes and height, no doubt. Why everyone insists on comparing him to exotic creatures, he doesn't understand.
The merchant senses his annoyance and laughs again, clapping a hand on Rafar's shoulder. "I do not mean harm, friend. It's good that you travel with him now. Sometimes I worry he bites off more than he can chew."
In his good nature, Kaj waves him away, still smiling. "I didn't need parents then, and I certainly don't need them now."
"And that's precisely why we worry," says the merchant. "Who knows what kind of mischief you'd get yourself into without your friend around."
"And never a token of gratitude for my services," Rafar adds.
"You are the one who chose to follow me."
"I regret my mistake every moment of my life."
"You two certainly get along well," says the merchant.
"Indeed, we do."
*
Once, Rafar asked him why he traveled. Kaj pursed his lips back then, only asking him the same question: why do you travel, Rafar?
He preferred not to, to be completely honest. He did not enjoy the unpredictable moods of the winds and sands, nor the merciless sun above them, nor the constant threat of thieves and raiders hounding the dirt paths carved between the dunes. Before he was a palace guard, he was a soldier still working up the ranks. He'd seen the things these men do to other men. Trussed up remains— entrails hanging off of trees. Offerings to the vultures, a symbol of their patron god. Orphaned children left crying by the roadside, either to be found or left to die in the heat, miles away from any civilization.
Rafar remembered briefly wondering if this was Kaj's own origin, although he did not voice this with the rest of this thoughts.
Someone once told me, a long time ago, that seeing the sky makes one yearn for something he cannot explain, he told him. I suppose you could say I am looking for that something.
How illogical. Rafar never understood the words of romantics before and never thought he would. And yet when Kaj pulled him outside their tent, he could feel something move somewhere deep in his chest. The tentative way he held his hand. The camp fire glistening in his eyes. Look up, he said. Rafar did.
Above them was the vast, starlit sky.
*
"Shall we leave for the next city?"
The question comes suddenly, as Rafar's eyes adjust to the morning light pouring in from the cracks in the ceiling. He mumbles incoherently first, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, then takes a moment to collect himself. Kaj is sitting up, still in bed next to him. He's reading a book— a gift from the merchant they visited yesterday.
"Boran gave me this," Kaj says, turning the page. "It's a children's book about a traveler and his pack-lizard. It's based on a legend."
"A legend?" Rafar can hear the grogginess in his own voice.
"Yes. It's an old traveler's tale." Kaj places the book ribbon back within its pages before closing it. "It's said that there was once a species of pack-lizard— much like the ones we use for travel —that lived far beyond the years of their relatives and were rational creatures. They could speak."
"They sound like terrible companions."
Kaj laughs a little. "Indeed, they do. That's why they leave only the good parts in children's books."
Rafar sits up, yawning. From the city below, he can smell the baker at work mixing with the scent of early morning incense from the temple. The monk-priests begin their hymns at the break of day, and relentlessly they continue until the sun sets below the horizon.
"I think we should move on to the next location."
Rafar blinks, turning away from the window. "Oh, right. Of course. Where are we headed?"
"Sarkan."
"The city of thieves?"
"Yes."
"And what business do we have there?"
"No business. It's the next closest city. I thought it would be better to stop there than try crossing the dunes."
Rafar makes a grunt of disapproval. He knows Kaj is right— any attempt to stray from the road is suicide —but he can't shake off the unease in his expression.
"It'll be fine. I promise."
A/N: this is a wip 
ok
ok