Peace doesn't arrive on horseback. It arrives in silence—and sometimes, in silence, love forgets how to breathe.
When peace came, it didn't feel like triumph.
There were no trumpets.
No parades.
Just stillness.
Stillness in the fields.
Stillness in his hands.
Damien and I returned to the village when the smoke cleared, and the almond trees were just beginning to bloom again—soft and white, like apologies.
He built us a small house near the stream. He laid the stones himself, day after day, calloused palms blistering against sun-warmed granite. I offered to help. He shook his head.
"I need to build something that doesn't fall when I leave the room."
Sometimes, at night, I found him on the roof—just sitting. Watching the wind push petals across the yard like ghosts.
He didn't speak. I didn't press.
Because peace had its own weight.
And sometimes, the heaviest burdens come after the war ends.
—
The villagers welcomed us not with fear—but curiosity.
To them, we weren't kings or consorts. Just two men who kept to themselves and bought too much salt at market.
Children called us "Uncle Damien" and "Uncle Elias." Damien always stiffened at that. As if titles—even innocent ones—burned his skin.
I began painting again. Portraits for copper coins, murals on walls, even a wooden sign for the baker's new stall.
He fixed roofs. Hauled grain. Once, I caught him singing under his breath while sanding a chair.
"That wasn't a melody," he grumbled.
"It was terrible," I replied. "Sing it again."
And he did.
But peace didn't erase what we had been.
Some nights, he still shook in his sleep.
I'd wake to find him curled on the floor, whispering my name—not with longing, but panic. Like I'd been taken from him all over again.
I'd climb down, kneel beside him, press my forehead to his shoulder.
"I'm here."
Sometimes, that was enough.
Sometimes, he'd flinch like a boy again.
And that was when I knew—
The Emperor was gone.
But the man still mourned him.
—
We argued one morning over something stupid. A bent nail. A cracked cup. I don't even remember.
But I remember how he shouted.
How I didn't.
Instead, I stepped forward and kissed his temple.
"You don't have to be perfect to be forgiven."
He looked at me, eyes glassed with guilt.
"And you don't have to forgive me to stay."
But I had.
Not all at once. Not completely.
But enough to choose this life, again and again.
—
The harvest festival came.
Damien didn't want to go. Said he'd never danced in his life. That crowds made him feel like a statue waiting to be shattered.
I dragged him anyway.
He stood stiffly at the edge of the square until a little girl tugged at his sleeve and demanded a twirl.
He twirled her—awkward, wooden.
She laughed so loud, the mayor spilled cider from his cup.
"You're terrifying," I said when he returned.
"She called me a tree," he muttered.
"A noble tree."
He grinned, just a little. "Only if you're the storm that bends me."
—
That night, as we lay in bed, the moonlight silvered the scar beneath his ribs.
He caught me looking.
"Still there," he murmured.
"Does it hurt?"
"Only when I think about what I could've been. What I did."
He turned toward me.
"Elias... if I had died—would you have gone back to the palace?"
I didn't hesitate.
"No. I would've buried you under the almond tree. And stayed."
His eyes closed. A breath left him like surrender.
"Then I'm glad I lived."
—
Peace doesn't stay.
It lingers. Fades. Changes.
But that autumn, beneath falling petals and unfamiliar laughter, we were not a tyrant and his prisoner.
We were just two men.
Trying.
And somehow, that was enough.