What Hurts in Silence

They’d given Asori a room in the east wing with a bed larger than his old cabin, a hawk-patterned rug, and a window facing the courtyard where, hours earlier, the wind had taught him how to fall without breaking. Now, with his body in full mutiny—abdomen, lower back, shoulders, even the muscles in his toes—he lay on his back staring at the ceiling as if the manual for belonging in a palace were written up there.

It wasn’t.

The mattress was soft, the sheets smelled of lavender, and the silence felt like a church. For someone who slept to the murmur of pines and owls, luxury felt like armor turned inside out.

—Too quiet —he muttered, rolling onto his side.

As he did, the tug in his chest—that warm thread that tied him to Blair—quivered almost imperceptibly. North wing, he guessed without meaning to. Hesitating. Touching the jewel… no, her lips. The fleeting image lit his face on fire. He tried to yank the sensation aside like a curtain he hadn’t asked for.

—Great. I’m an antenna now too —he grumbled.

Soft knocking at the door.

—Asori of the… mountains? —The page’s voice tempered shyness with humor—. Your presence is requested in the royal hall for supper.

The improvised title tugged a brief half-smile from him. It didn’t last.
—I’m coming.

He sat up, ran a hand through unruly hair and failed to tame it. He pulled on the clean shirt they’d left him, tightened the belt, hesitated with his boots on the rug as if they’d be sacrilege, then padded barefoot to the door, boots in hand.

—In case the carpets don’t like my mud —he muttered, and stepped out.

In the north wing, Blair stood before an oval mirror. The flower-jewel in her hair cast a faint glow in the dimness. She’d left her cloak over a chair; the light slip showed the fine marks on her arms—reminders of training and mistakes.

She’d been thinking—too much. Of Jason. Of the east. Of thunder.

He had been her first love by decree of two kingdoms that confused politics with fate. Jason spoke to her like an officer to a cadet, not like someone building a bridge. He protected her, yes, but with the condescension of an older brother who had never seen her as a woman.

It wasn’t love, she told herself. And yet whenever her mind drifted toward him, her body veered to another shore: Asori’s impertinent smile stoking a fire she didn’t know how to name.

Blair lifted a hand and, without noticing, touched her lips.
—Then what is it I feel? —she whispered to the mirror.

No answer. Only that warm tug of the Sweet Kiss carrying, from far away, a borrowed thought: too quiet. And the absurd image of a boy carrying his boots because he wasn’t sure if walking barefoot in a palace was a capital crime.

She laughed at herself—small, brief.
—Idiot —she said fondly, and put on her cloak.

The royal hall was a collection of gleam: chandeliers, polished silver, fruit lacquered by light. The table looked like a road cutting through a forest. Tifa sat at the head in a dark tunic and light bracers; Blair to her left, posture flawless; elsewhere a handful of counselors, two captains, and far too many utensils.

Asori entered the way one steps into a stranger’s cathedral. He put his boots back on at the threshold, felt around for a seat as far from Tifa and Blair as possible, and sat awkwardly, as if a hundred eyes watched him though barely ten did.

The first crack of bread rang like a bell. Asori reached, tore a piece, and stuffed it in with foxish haste. He choked, coughed. A cupbearer hurried over with water; Asori took it with a grimace of thanks and a barely audible thank you.

Blair watched him. The intimate war between him and the bread was funny, but she swallowed her laugh. She leaned a little his way, threading the distance and the protocol with her eyes.
—You all right? —she asked in a mid-voice.

—I’m fine —he said, and would have sworn the bread had thorns.

—If you want, I can ask them to serve you in the kitchens. Some newcomers eat there the first days. It’s more… —she looked for a word that wasn’t an insult— …warm.

—Warm like hanging me upside down? —he shot back, dry.

Blair blinked, stung without meaning to be.
—I was only trying to help.

—I don’t need help —Asori heard himself say, that defensive stiffness firing on its own. The table fell silent within a three-chair radius—. I need air. And here everything smells like perfume and duty.

—Asori —Tifa cut in, voice like a blade that didn’t cut—, at this table we all breathe duty. Eating together doesn’t make you a prisoner.

—Doesn’t make me free either —he shrugged, not looking at her—. Sorry. I don’t fit.

Blair pressed the napkin to her knees.
—And where do you, then? —it came out harsher than she intended—. In a cave where no one asks anything of you and it’s so quiet you never have to hear anyone?

—Sounds good.

—Well it doesn’t to me —her voice caught—. I can’t hide, even if I want to. And still I’m here. With you.

It was a soft blow and, for that, more precise. Cornered by a shame he couldn’t name, Asori scraped his chair against marble and stood too quickly.
—I can’t —he said, and the words wore more layers than he understood.

Tifa let him go. The captains faked coughs. Blair stared at her plate as if it were a shattered mirror.

Azoth’s kitchens were another world: heat, voices, pots the size of barrels, knives dancing over boards, ladles like oars. Protocol died there and food was born.

Asori came in like someone seeking shelter from a storm. A broad man with a generous moustache and a stained apron saw him sidelong and smiled as if he’d been expected.
—And this wet hawk? —he joked.

—Hawk, I’m not sure. Wet, definitely —Asori slumped onto a bench—. May I…?

—You may. —The man was already filling a bowl—. Root soup, real bread, northern cheese. I’m Master Corbin. Sit like this has always been your place.

Asori obeyed. The first sip was gentle fire slipping down his throat. Suddenly the hall’s alarms, the glitter, the words he’d flung like stones… all loosened a little.

Master Corbin leaned on the table, forearms crossed with the authority of one who brings daily bread to a court that forgets where the miracle begins.
—I saw you leave with the face of someone who thinks the world owes him an apology for inviting him —he said without malice.

—I’m not from here —Asori answered.

—No one is on the first day. Not even the tenth. But someone shows up in body to reach the eleventh. —He nodded at the bowl—. What’s weighing you down?

Asori thought to say nothing and, without knowing why, said everything.
—I don’t know where to put my hands. Or what to say. If I talk, I bother. If I stay quiet, it looks like contempt. And… —he drew breath— …I said ugly things to Blair. I… —He swallowed, and the soup tasted like regret—. I shouldn’t have.

Corbin didn’t blink. He nodded slowly, as if confirming a recipe.
—Some here still don’t know the princess is alive. And those of us who do… treat her like a girl with a hood pulled low. She breathes in borrowed rooms and walks through doors she once crossed without asking. —He leaned closer—. People forget that hiding your face also hides your soul. It isn’t easy to open up if the world thinks you’re dead.

Asori crushed bread between his fingers.
—I didn’t see it that way.

—Next time, look. —Corbin pointed to his own eyes, then to his chest—. With these too. Your friend —he stressed the word— doesn’t serve confidences on silver platters. If she spoke to you, if she handed you bread more than once, if she sought you in courtyards and at fountains, she’s already done more for you than many who’ve sat at that table for years.

It didn’t land like a scold but like a bell.
—I didn’t mean to hurt her —Asori said, serious.

—But you did. —Corbin didn’t sugarcoat it—. The good thing about bread —he allowed a tiny smile— is that even if you burn it, it rises again if you knead anew. Go. Ask forgiveness with words and with bread. And listen. She doesn’t have many safe ears in this palace. Be one.

Asori set the bowl down, resolved, hurried by an anxiety that wasn’t hunger. He stood. Corbin tucked a warm bundle into his hands.
—Bread with honey. Sometimes forgiveness goes in easier through the mouth.

Asori’s smile tilted, crooked and grateful.
—Thank you, Master… truly.

—Go. —Corbin turned back to his pots—. The wind won’t wait.

The corridor to the north wing lay in half-light. Small torches sketched soft shadows across the tapestries. Asori walked with the bread bundle cupped in both hands, as if carrying a small animal he didn’t want to startle.

With each step, the Sweet Kiss told him the tide beyond the door: thick sadness, held breath, that tremor in the throat you recognize even if it’s never been yours. It was the worst of the bond—and his only compass.

He stopped before a polished wooden door with simple fittings. Hesitated. Raised his hand. Knocked once, twice.
—Blair… —he said, and her name broke in two.

Silence.

The latch gave with a soft click.

The room was half-lit, perfumed with lavender and something sweet. Blair sat on the edge of the bed, cloak tossed aside, shoulders hunched as if under invisible armor. White hair fell forward, veiling her face. Her hands covered her eyes.

She didn’t hear him enter.

Asori closed the door quietly. Took a step. Another. The floor muffled his boots; guilt didn’t.
—I brought… —he lifted the bundle, suddenly ridiculous—. Bread with honey.

Blair didn’t move. The tug in both their chests became a mirror; her grief resonated in him as if someone had emptied him and filled him with cold water.

Asori set the bread on the side table with the care of laying down an offering. He tried to speak and his voice refused. He tried again, softer.
—I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I don’t know how to be in your world, and I made you pay for my clumsiness. I’m sorry.

Blair’s back trembled, just a little. Asori stepped closer, stopping at the exact distance where you don’t intrude and, at the same time, arrive.
—I don’t want to see you the way others do. —He chose each word—. Like… like a statue in a cloak. You brought me bread when I had nothing. Today… today it was my turn.

Blair slowly lowered her hands. Her eyes were wet, the light turning their red into dark wine. She didn’t look at him yet. She drew a breath.

With the clumsy courage of someone who has finally decided to do the right thing despite not knowing how, Asori added:
—If you want me to leave, I’ll go. If you want me to stay… I’ll stay and listen.

The room breathed with them. A tear slipped, silent, down Blair’s cheek.

Asori stood there, waiting for a word; Blair clutched the edge of the bed to keep from sinking; and the honeyed bread, perfectly warm on the table, sat like a small bridge between two shores that, at last, wanted to meet.