Flowers of the Martyred

The black horse came alone to the gates of the palace at dusk. Its saddle was stained with dust and sweat, but the rider was nowhere to be seen.

She felt the silence before she understood it. One by one, the servants lowered their heads. Some wept openly. Others pressed trembling hands against their mouths, as though their grief was forbidden to be heard.

But the horse would never abandon him.

He had crossed fire unburned. He had walked among kings of the Enemy’s land with the calmness of prophets. They had even given their daughter to him. Even the wildest horses bent beneath his hand as though they recognized something holy within him. He could not have been —

She did not let herself to finish the thought.

She stood motionless in the courtyard, refusing to let a single sound of grief out.

From beyond the outer walls, she heard another horse racing toward the palace. The world seemed to hold its breath.

“My lady!” the man on the horse broke the silence.

She recognized who the sound belonged to and ran toward him. “Pīran,” She whispered his name in relief. Surely he could explain, why the horse was standing in the courtyard without him.

“You must flee,“ he warned her.

her eyes widend, “What for? my father would never — ”

the words died in her throat. Why would she even assumed her father wants to — it was not her, he wanted to hurt.

“You are carrying a second life.” he said quietly “and in that child runs the holy blood of kings.”

She took a step back. How did he know? Where could she possibly flee?

“You will go to Eranshahr.” he had already made the decision for her.

“They won’t accept me!” She argued.

“Not to the court,” Piran answered, “But to somewhere hidden, away from the puppet King. Until the child is born and grows to a young man, and is ready to sit on the thone.”

“Why not remain in my own land?”

“Because your son is destined to become the king of Eranshahr. He must grow among his own people.” he explained her.

“I will only go with him.” she suddenly said. confusing everyone around her.

„My lady…“ Piran began, but stopped himself.

She looked at the horse. She still remembers the day he had showed her the horse. A young stallion with eyes as bright as stormlight. No servant or lord had been able to tame it. Yet, the creature would follow him willingly everywhere, as though he had recognized its master long before. As though it knew, there was something holy within him.

But the horse infront of her, showed no light in its eyes anymore.

“Where is he?” she asked softly. Around her, the servants broke into tears for the cruel fate their lady would now have to bear alone.

hHeavy silenced ruled between her and Piran. Until Piran gathered the courage , and broke the it. “He was killed by your uncle, my lady.”

She did not collasp, she did not grieve, as if she already knew and she was ready to hear. As though, it was not the answer she was looking for.

She asked again, “Where is he?“

Piran looked at her confused.

“Where is his body? Why did his horse not bring him to me?“ A tear slipped her cheek, finally.

Piran finally understood her question. “There was no body to retrieve.” He said. “I will show you the battlefield to you on the way to Eranshahr.”

So she mounted the black horse, prepared to leave without gathering anything from the palace she once called home.

“My Lady!” A servant girl called, running toward her, carry as small wrapped cloth filled with bread. “Take care of yourself,” She said as she pressed it into her hands, „and the baby.“

She thank her with a smile. Before she could say something another servant stepped forward and threw a bowl of water before the horse‘s hooves.

„May the goddess protects you both“ she whispered.

No mourning fires had been lit for him. No priest had dared speak prayers for the dead prince. Yet here, in the shadows of the palace, servants still risked small acts of love.

So they departed.

She searched the horizon constantly, expecting to see a battlefield drenched in blood — broken banners, scattered bodies, vultures circling above the dead.

Once, during the first spring after their marriage, he had told her he dreamed of a world where the sons of Eranshahr and Turan would no longer inherit hatred from their fathers.

As they rode through villages, she watched trails of smoke rising from the chimneys, Bakers preparing bread, shepherds guiding their chickens and sheep’s out.

she realized, The world had not stopped for him. No storm had torn the heaven apart, no river stopped floating or had turned backward. The earth continued to turn as it always did.

Near he dawn the horse began to slow down.

„It should be here.“ Piran said in confusion. But before them stood a green field. No vulture was to be seen.

the black horse began to be drifted from the road Piran was taking, and walked toward the only cypress tree standing in the middle of the field.

She saw red flowers she had never seen before. She dismounted and reached toward one of the flowers carefully, as though afraid it might disappear beneath her fingers. Its petals were deep crimson at the center, fading toward black along the edges.

No flowers like these grew anywhere in Turan.

“What are these flowers?“ Piran asked, confused at the strange shape of the flowers that seems to bow their heads in mourning.

“Siavash tears,” she whispered.

She collapsed to her knees beneath the cypress tree at last. Her hands trembled against the earth as tears fell soundlessly onto the roots below.

For the first time, the child stirred within her, reminding her of its presence. She put her hand on her stomach and looked at the Cypress tree.

“He will make certain your name survives,” she whispered. “I will raise him strong enough to avenge you. Strong enough to cleanse your name from the lies of kings.”

The morning wind moved softly through the field of crimson flowers.

“So long as innocent youth are slain through injustice,” she whispered, lowering her head beneath the mourning blossoms, “your death will be remembered.”