It is the stillest hour, the turn of the night when the air is heaviest, the hour between the shepherd's last fire and the first prayer call of a new day— silent save for the squeak of leather, slow, groaning rumble of the two supply wagons, and the wet sucking schluck of the mud that accompanied every step.
The party of Mardi ambles along the path— no, trail, path is too generous a term for this— guided by nothing but two hooded lamps, one held by Khānom Mardi at the front, another held by someone else at the back— the rest of the party huddled within a circle of dim light perhaps three yards wide.
But worst of all is the cold.
Isfān rides in layers of defense, yet it is still not enough. His body is swaddled in a tunic beneath a heavy lambswool coat, trimmed with rough brown fur. His high boots are stout, and his hands are muffled in thick leather gloves lined with rabbit fur. Over it all hangs his hooded cloak, its collar dense with dark fox fur and secured at the throat by a pin of polished and painted bone— carved in the shape of a cluster of thin, serrated oak leaves.
The cloak hangs heavy with the damp, saturated by the rain from earlier. Cold mud soaks through his breeches and boots to the knee, weighing his lower legs like lead, and his fingers are numbed even with gloves. The air tastes of wet rust and autumn rains— a damp, heavy chill unlike the sharp, thin bite of the high passes, one that seems to cling to the wool of his coat, settle deep in his chest. It helps, the coat, and his horse too, though he wishes he could hold a lantern too, even though he knows for certain that the lantern would slip from his fingers.
Suppressing a shiver, Isfān cranes his neck back, looks behind him, beyond the rest of the party towards the mountains behind them, and sees nothing but darkness. But he feels it, feels their presence, a physical weight in the night air for all that they must surely be more than five farsangs away by now. The castle, his home, has long since been swallowed by the dark.
Anxiety twists in his gut. He worries for Arslan, praying that his little brother hasn't cried himself sick. The boy's health was ever frail, and he'd been wailing, a small, desperate thing clinging to Isfān's leg when they left. He thought of Behnam and Saman, and all the rest back at home.
Winter is fast approaching— more than approaching, with snow already falling on the mountains and the hills for all that it is still the eighth month. This kind of cold should not be taken lightly.
“Missing home already?” Gieve quips from beside him, eyes glinting with mischief in the low, sputtering lamplight.
“I'm not. Shut up.” He scowls, cheeks heating up. “I was just checking everybody else.”
“What for? You worry too much, you always do,” Gieve says, laughing. “Why'd you pack so many warming draughts and coats for, anyway? You know the plains are warmer than the heights.” He nudges Isfān with an elbow.
Isfān rights himself with great effort, wincing at the raw burn on his knees and inner thighs from gripping his horse's torso for long hours. He shoves Gieve right back.
“Woah!” Gieve wobbles on the mule, mud splattering in the dark as his mule adjusts to the sudden movement, though ultimately he manages to not fall from the saddle. “Come on now, don't do that. Someone might get hurt!”
“You wouldn't like that, would you,” he snaps, his patience a thin and brittle thing. “At least I packed something useful. You, on the other hand—”
“Hey, hey, surely you don't mean to sa—”
Gieve's retort is cut short by a sudden, violent sneeze.
Rolling his eyes, Isfān hands him a flask. “Drink. You clearly need it.”
“It's fine, just a little snee—”
“Drink it.”
He holds the flask out more insistently, trying hard to not drop it through his numbed fingers. Gieve takes it, uncorks it, and takes a long swallow. He scrunches up his face with a disgusted noise. He hands the flask back to Isfān.
Isfān waves him off. “Just keep it. You might get cold again.”
“I'm telling you to drink.”
“What?”
“You drink too,” he repeats. “Your face looks dreadful.”
“Are you making fun of me again?”
“I'm serious! You look two steps away from either keeling over or murdering someone. Maybe some warmth will soothe your temper, yazata above.”
Isfān had not touched the draught, choosing to suffer in silence rather than appear weak before the rest of the party— most of them are on foot unlike him, and he's heard nary a complaint from their lips.
“Come on, I can't hold it out forever.”
Reluctantly, he takes the flask from Gieve's hand, and raises it to his lips.
The heat is immediate, burning his tongue, a rush that runs down his throat, spreads through his chest. It's horridly bitter, accompanied by fainter notes of earthy smoke and even fainter still is the slightest bit of sweetness— leaving a slick, heavy film on his tongue.
He heaves a sigh of relief, his breath pluming out in a silvery cloud.
“Actually, can I have a sip, too?” Khazān says, stopping in his tracks and turning around. “The rain from earlier is finally getting to me.”
“Of course. Here.” Isfān leans forward in his saddle, holding the flask out low for Khazān to take.
“Thanks,” says Khazān, and though he can't make out his face in this light, Isfān can still hear the grin in his voice.
“It's good that you two settled down on your own this time.” Sanira chuckles. “Usually, an adult would've had to step in.”
“Hey, I'm an adult now, you know!” Gieve whines.
“Then act like one, you buffoon,” Isfān retorts.
“What'd you say?”
“Now, now,” Khazān laughs after a swig. “Just when the praise was flowing!”
“We're not that bad,” Isfān grumbles. He's not pouting. He's not.
“Yes, you are,” the entire party echoes.
Both Isfān and Gieve groan in unison. More laughter meets their protests.
“Ene-jān*,” Gieve whines again, that complete and total manchild, “when are we camping? I could swear a whole Geh has passed.”
“That's because it has,” Khazān supplies unhelpfully, making Sanira snort.
“Soon enough,” Khānom Mardi says, not turning around. His old master's back is straight, her eyes fixed ahead, a woman carved from the same hard stone mountains were made out of, as sure-footed as the mountain goat she rides. “We'll have a short break before another push into the dawn. And then we sleep.”
Gieve makes a noise that's somewhere between a dying dog and a wounded goat, which Isfān hadn't even thought was possible. He sends Gieve a sidelong glare.
“That being said,” Khazān says to Sanira, “I'm surprised you're awake. I was sure you'd be fast asleep by now.”
“Oh, I was,” says Sanira, laughing. “I got ample sleep, I assure you. And besides, it's not like this is the first time I've stayed up late. You should not underestimate mothers, my good sir.”
The sun had already begun to sink in the west when the party rode out of the castle gates, and the night has crawled well into Ushahen Geh as they marched. Isfān finds Gieve annoying, but he cannot argue with the truth of his whining. Every joint screams a complaint— hours of riding settled into a deep, grinding fatigue that burns low in his back and aches in the bones of his knees.
He doesn't voice the pain, though. He instead pats his horse’s neck gently. The flank beneath his hand is warm and solid. The tea still radiates heat in his belly, a small, necessary anchor.
He is fine. He will be fine.
“Sanira took care of Arslan,” Isfān speaks up. “All those nights, when he struggled to even breathe. Sanira was always there for him, and Behnam too. And Barādar**.” They tended to and cared for Arslan, remained by his crib through many sleepless nights, when Isfān had wept in bed for fear that the boy would not see the dawn.
Khazān inclines his head towards her, his voice almost tremulous. “I can't thank you enough, Sanira.”
“Don't you mention it,” she replies firmly. “He is my family, too. I would never choose otherwise.”
Sanira and Khazān continue to chat, the soft murmur of their voices a thin thread of comfort in the vast dark— Sanira sharing stories about Arslan, and Khazān listening with a quiet, hungry desperation. The party livens up again somewhat with this— they'd all grown quiet at some point during the long, frigid march, but now a shared life flows between them again.
And then it all comes to a halt when the wagon gets stuck.
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Khazān curses under his breath.
“What? What happened?” a Mardi pipes up from behind.
“I think the wheel is stuck,” Sanira says, concerned.
Khānom Mardi lets out a sharp sigh that is somehow audible over the newfound ruckus.
Khazān and two other adults plant their feet in the deep, waterlogged trail and lean into the back panel, their bodies silhouetted in the dim light of the hooded lamps. Straining grunts fill the frigid night air, as do the wet, terrible sounds of churned earth and thick, heavy wood.
They shove, once, twice, a third time, but the wagon would not yield.
Isfān watches them struggle, still seated on his horse, and a wave of cold, weary irritation crests within him. They travel like thieves and suffer for it, he thinks, the words bitter in his mind. A main road, traveled by light, would never hold us back like this.
I should help, he thinks. His muscles scream, have been screaming from the moment the sun sank beneath the horizon, but he's a part of this party, too. He should help, should pull his weight.
Gieve lets out a loud, theatrical yawn beside him, and Isfān's irritation spikes into fury. The buffoon—! Even with his flippant attitude towards everything, couldn't he at least bother to look concerned right now? Isfān draws a sharp cold breath, rearing himself to give the older boy a piece of his mind when an exchange catches his ear.
Sanira moves to slide off the wagon. “Wait, I'll get off and—”
“No, no,” Khazān waves her off quickly, confident despite the direness. “No need. I got this.”
Sanira gives him a baffled look, one that is mirrored on Isfān's face. “But it's still stuck,” she protests, voicing the thought Isfān holds tight on his tongue.
Khazān ignores them both. With a slow ease he lowers himself down onto both knees, the thick, freezing mud hungrily claiming his legs, soaking through his breeches and boots— yet the chill does not break his focus. Instead, he places a gentle hand on the unmoving wheel, dips his head until it is almost touching the ground. Murmurs a quiet prayer.
The very air seems to shiver around Khazān, a palpable hum hanging in the air like that of a bronze gong, a soundless echo of the conversation between Khazān and the earth.
Shuddering, Isfān holds his breath tight in his throat.
“Try again,” Khazān calls, pushing himself up. “She's letting go.”
They obey, planting their feet firmly again to heave. The ropes creak, the wood groans, and the mud gives a final, reluctant schluck. The wheel lurches free, and the wagon rolls forward a foot, settling onto firmer earth.
The Mardi slap Khazān on the back and shoulders, taking a moment to make a wave of exhausted cheers. Isfān hands him the draught again, which Khazān gratefully accepts.
The group shuffle back into their prior positions, and the march starts anew.
“The djinn are rather moody tonight,” Gieve jokes, his mule plodding along gingerly beside Isfān. “Good thing we've got their favorite in the squad, hm?”
“I'm making you do it next time, brat. The djinn will let go then, if only because they find your whining too noisy.”
“Aw, come on! You know I'm the most charming bard to ever live—”
The banter continues, the Mardi passing around jabs and jokes like a shared bottle, even Sanira chiming in with the teasing that makes Gieve sputter.
Isfān grips the reins, his mind fixed on Khazān with a growing, sharp confusion. How can the man still be this lively, when his legs have had no rest all this time, and soaked and chilled to the bones besides? The draught must help, surely, but—
Isfān gnaws and chews on the insides of his cheeks, tasting hot blood on his tongue.
The night swallows their laughter whole, darkness claiming the trail left behind.
---
*Ene-jān is like, an equivalent of "gramma" or "granny", I suppose! Jān is typically used in endearments, to make a term or nickname sound more intimate or even cutesy, it means “soul”, I believe. Ene is Turkmen for grandmother, if I do so remember correctly. I lost my notes. I'm not sure why I opted for Turkmen when I'd decided that the Mardi were Mazandarani, but roll with it.
**this is the formal Farsi term for older brother. I'm trying to incorporate more Farsi and regional languages into my writing!
Khanōm is something along the lines of ma'am or something you call a respected woman. I wanted to convey how Isfān views her via the language he uses to address her.
So yeah! This was the first scene of the ficlet I was writing, I hadn't even gotten to the part my idea actually was, this is all set-up, and then I fell sick, then my cat shat on my bed, THEN I went MIA because I was going through a very bad mental health episode, making everybody worry. I think it's Isfān's revenge for making him miserable. I couldn't really see myself finishing this ficlet(?), so here's what I wrote so far!
