Coldwestallen, Library of Alexandria
The sour tang of stale parchment wrinkles Iris’ nose as she winds through row upon row of scrolls and tomes, footfalls muffled as she walks, sandals to stone. Barry is somewhere in the neatly ordered chaos, buried to the root of his sharp, heron-point nose in the latest text to catch his eye. Even when he isn’t focused on his studies, Iris has never seen him without a book, without some piece of knowledge at the ready to devour like Apophis and the sun.
Iris’ stomach flutters when she finally finds him, hair tousled, yet still fine as the silk traders bring to Alexandria from the East. The urge strikes her, rather violently, as it always has since their meeting eight months ago, to run her fingers through it and tug lightly at the strands. She knows that he’ll sigh deep and slide his honeyed-green eyes shut, the way he does when he’s wholly satisfied and content.
It’s not that Iris has never seen men the likes of Barry’s before – the pallor of his skin, the lightness of his eyes; none of it is especially foreign. Many profitable trade routes run through the West, and Djenné, the city of her childhood, thrives most notably of all. She’s seen many of his ilk, and others still with features as unique but wonderfully dissimilar. It was her longing for know more of the foreigners, her curiosity of what lay beyond the borders of her land, that lead her to Egypt.
Her curiosity, and the merchant with stormy blue eyes who’d offered her a dromedary from his caravan and safe passage across the Sahara in exchange for salt, and gold, and ultimately, though not either of their initial intentions, an inevitability, it seemed, her affection.
“Barry,” Iris says softly, shuffling her feet to call his attention as delicately as she can.
Still, Barry leaps, like a skittish rabbit, in his seat, and brings a hand to his chest even as a blinding smile of good-natured humour and rosy abashment colours his face. “Iris,” he says, her name like a song on his lips. His Roman accent makes the pronunciation wrong, but she knows she butchers his just as well, and there’s something special about hearing one’s name as only a loved one can say it.
“I hope you aren’t so absorbed in your studies you can’t take a walk with me,” Iris says, squaring her shoulders to assert her position, to pose the words less as an offer and more as a demand.
Barry rises, his books instantly forgotten, and a smile blooms at the corner or Iris’ mouth.
“The gardens are nearly as lovely as you this time of day,” he replies, matter-of-fact, and Iris flushes, even as she reaches out a hand for Barry to hold.
They keep an idle pace as they cross the Musaeum campus, Barry talking animatedly about his most recent learnings, and Iris keeping track as best she can between Barry’s quick tongue and three language barriers between them.
When they finally arrive, Iris leads them to a towering patch of bushes, flowering in vivid corals and pinks. A man stands before them, turned to hide his face. His shoulders are broad, and yet still slender, long arms like spindly branches that end in thin fingers adorned with rings of gold and fine stone. His hair is cropped short, grey streaking coarse, dark strands like craggy salt flats. Even from behind, he’s handsome.
Iris has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from giving away the game. She wonders if Barry will need to be told, will need a reminder of the first day they spent together, when Barry, with all his gentle heart and wide-eyed optimism had taken them on a tour of the library, through the rows of writings, the cages of exotic wildlife, and finally the gardens, where he’d won Iris’ heart swift as the sprint of a gazelle with a rose, cut confidently yet presented with hesitance, from the thorny stem.
Barry, however, needs no prompting to recognize the figure at the bush.
“Leonard,” Barry greets, bright and exuberant, and Leonard does a quarter turn, throwing Barry and Iris a self-satisfied smirk over his shoulder. Barry’s eyes crinkle, and Iris knows she’s caught him in one of those moments of contentment. They both have.
“Barry,” Leonard offers back. His voice is dulcet and smooth.
How Iris has missed it.
“When did you arrive?” Barry asks. His hand slips from Iris’ as he hurries to Leonard side, but Iris doesn’t mind. She isn’t far behind.
“Last night,” Leonard replies. “You’ll forgive me for dragging my feet, but the trade routes aren’t kind to a traveller’s hygiene and I much rathered the thought of seeing you both at my best.”
“You went to Iris first,” Barry says, with a disaffected scoff. “Of course.”
“You spend so much of your time deep in Daedalus’ maw,” Leonard replies, gesturing to the library with his chin. “Consider Iris my ball of thread. She’s had months to learn her way around, after all, where I’ve been gone.”
“How was Persia?” Iris asks, excited to hear the heart-pounding tales of travel from Leonard and his assorted rogues that make up his caravan.
Barry, ever the moralist between them, frowns. “Do the nobility still have their gold?”
“Now, Barry,” Leonard tuts. He raises a hand to trail up the column of Barry’s throat and tilts his chin to bare blue branching veins. Barry melts under Leonard’s touch, and Iris softens too, watching as the tallest among them turns pliant as clay and in their company.
Leonard smiles, soft and amused in a way that wrinkles the skin of his lips, and Iris and Barry both shiver at once.
“We all have our passions.”