Between Gods and Men by Zero

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey, everyone! Zero here. In which I write about people full of fear and issues, as usual. You know me, angst, hurt, comfort. Do not ask me much about this.
In any case, I blame Fantasy Weaver and his absolutely fantastic ‘By The Chains That Bind Thee’ for inspiring this sister universe to his.
Fantasy Weaver’s universe is far superior than the one I am writing about, and make sure to check out his work.
As always, comments and feedback of any kind is more than welcome!




Their hair was not meant to be cut for war. His hair. His beautiful hair.

He should not have to sacrifice it to gods of war.

Isra knows this thought is unfaithful. But it is what he thinks this winter morning, in the prince’s chamber, in the palace, watching a royal barber bow and kiss the man’s hand in solemnity and devotion.

"Prince Adir".

Devotion is something Isra knows about, has had drilled inside his head since he was a child. To the gods of their kingdom. To their myths. Isra has studied faith and devotion before he could read. Has knelt and prayed in front of altars and temples and repeated words and hymns and rhymes endlessly.

"War-length, is that right, your Highness?" the barber asks as he capes him with a luxurious sheet, embroidered with the coat of arms of the royal family in gold threads.
Adir smiles to ease himself the most, Isra knows each of the prince’s expressions intimately "That’s right".

The prince gestures, just grazing his shoulders, near the base of his neck, with his fingertips, staring in the mirror at the golden mane that currently reaches past his shoulder blades.

Adir is their kingdom’s pride. A monument in flesh and bone.

Isra wears his own hair at a similar length, half of it pulled back, braided at both temples, the rest loose, a shimmering black night cascading down to his ribs in waves. Isra was taught as much as Adir, as everyone else in their fate about the sanctity, the sacredness of hair.

Their ancestry, their heritage, their history.

Only men of war wear their hair shorter. And newlyweds.

And today, their prince, becomes a man of war. The man of command and warfare the freckles and moles on his skin he has written on his shoulders mark him as.

Religion. War. Both so similar today.

A prince like Adir, born once every hundred years, should not cut his hair for war. He should be cutting it like a newlywed, in marriage, in love, at the altar with his spouse, to his chin or ear, like newlyweds do.

The barber adjusts Adir’s head, tilting it slightly with both hands, asking him to hold the position, straight, looking ahead. He grabs the comb and untangles the mane gently, with the reverence fit for the future ruler of their kingdom.

Isra notices Adir’s gaze drifting to his own. A furtive, stolen glance. His hazel eyes loud for just a blink, before setting back in the mirror.

The barber sets the comb aside, he measures, then he stops his fingers near the base of the neck. He threads the blades of the scissors between the strands of gold and makes the first cut.

Isra watches Adir’s flinch, how his jaw closes just slightly further as the shears slice through the first locks.

He is here as a witness for the gods above them. It is his role. To oversee, to protect the sanctity of the sacrifice, the intention of their crown prince cutting his hair for war, for duty.

Isra is supposed to be praying, channeling, mediating between them and the gods. He thinks whatever gods are watching this, letting it happen, abandoning them like this, are not worth praying to.

The barber is silent. He holds another handful of the crown prince’s hair at the same length he cut it before, this time, one of the streams of gold that go over Adir’s shoulder, over his chest. Adir’s eyes stay in the depths of the mirror, his gaze swimming underneath the crystal, where the light burrows and hides from them as the blades slice again through his golden hair.

After a last quiet snip, the barber inspects the shortened mane. He grabs an ivory comb again "I’ll just even out some ends and we’ll be done, your Highness".

Adir nods and smiles again, that curve that graces his lips, his entire face.

The barber is meticulous, he wields the scissors and combs. Snips a finger, half-a finger in places. Glances into the mirror, then back at the crown prince.

Movement and quiet slices and murmurs of steel against hair, until the haircut is done. Adir’s locks rest on top of the dresser, where the barber has diligently set them all aside. His hair now not quite grazing his shoulders.

He brushes the bits of cut hair and then removes the cape.

Adir thanks him. Isra finds the man’s gaze in his, they exchange a nod of acknowledgement. Then, he waits for the door to shut.

They’re alone again. At last.

Adir pulls away and manages to tie his hair up and touches the blunt ends of his freshly cut hair, with both hands, trying to gather it, his fingers grasping the air, as if expecting the locks to keep falling further down.

He manages to secure it in a stub of a ponytail, between his hands, he looks in the mirror. This is how he will wear it in the battlefield. Then he lets it loose.

"You know, I thought you’d be the one who would cut my hair for war" Adir’s self-soothing smile lingers.

Adir speaks to him as if he could deny him. Isra would have to take out his own heart of his chest to deny him.

"You didn’t ask" Isra touches shorn hair, the soft waves familiar in his hand.

This hair is sacred and there are rites to dispose of it. Hair that belongs to the heir to the throne.

"Isra" Adir calls his name and the pull is undeniable.
"Adir?" Isra glances into Adir’s hazel eyes.
"Stay with me tonight. Before I go" Adir goes to him and nuzzles his face inside his neck, buries it inside the midnight silk of his hair "Please".

He nods and holds him and kisses him. A chaste, brief press of his lips against the top of his head, to that pure gold that crowns him since birth.

Isra is a forsaken child. A seminarian. A strange chance and perhaps fate, perhaps gods, have led him to Adir.

Adir. Crown prince. Heir to the throne. A perpetual child as much as he is a man raised for battles.

Has the prince come for him in this lifetime? Has he hunted him down through ages and lives and deaths until this one? Has he come for Adir? Has his soul searched to worship him like the sun?

Isra is not particularly interested in miracles, sometimes gods never come, forget them.

However, them, he and Adir. Miraculous.

If there are any testament to their gods, it’s them.

"Isra. I’ll come back to you. Have faith in it" Adir murmurs, to his chest, almost to his heart.
"I have faith in you" Isra cups Adir’s nape, underneath his shortened hair and kisses him "When you return, I’ll do a purification rite for you" he promises, quietly.
"I’ll return to you" Adir repeats, his face resting against Isra’s shoulder, at the crook of his neck, for a while longer.

Soon he’ll be oceans away from him.

Those priests. Those generals. Those gods of war. They should all beg for him.





It has been eleven months.

Isra claws his own hand at the center of the palm, still bandaged, feels the not quite closed wound across it. He has taken a knife to his palm and prayed hundreds of nights to the gods of war and offered them his blood.

To gods that will not listen.

Malik, his mentor, has told Isra to ask for the intervention of their patron goddess instead, the mother of the gods of war. And Isra has done it. He has braided the lowest portion of his hair and sliced with a knife at the very root of his nape and presented it to her altar.

Every day, sees the oils and ointments and fragrances, neatly arranged near the combs inside his own quarters, near mirrors, the care of their hair a sacred practice, a religious obligation, a display of discipline and devotion for the gods above them.

And now he fingers the shortened, sacrilegious, stubs of hair at his nape, hidden underneath the dark mane that reaches his shoulder blades. It is an undignified sight. He cannot dishonor his faith more than he already does with every treacherous thought.

He imagines Adir running his hand through his hair, as he often does, and finding the shortened, jagged ends where he braided and cut off handfuls of his locks. He can feel his touch, his fingertips circling the blunt ends where his mane is missing. He can hear Adir’s incredulous laughter, his voice reverberating through him.

It takes prince Adir’s fleet eleven months and eleven days to emerge in the horizon, like a second sun.

Isra watches the troops disembark at the harbor.

He sees the royal courtiers, the generals, the elite soldiers, the guards. Then, finally, him.

Clad in an armor of silver, guiding his battle horse off the ship, Adir finds him like an arrow landing on its target. The sharpness, his gaze piercing him straight to the heart. Isra abandons his fellow seminarians, shoves his mentor aside.

Adir swiftly hands the reins of his stallion to a guard and snakes through his own troops, elbowing his way to him.

He would find Adir by heartbeat alone in a crowd. He would recognize his steps, the way he breathes, build a map and a compass out of them to track him at the end of the world, in the dark.

They forget all royal and religious protocols. The written rules about how they are supposed to greet, to address each other, to stand before one another, which of them has to offer a hand and which one has to take it, who of them has a throne to inherit and who a faith to practice.

They forget they are separate people when both their hands and arms move to their own accord, finding one another, rooting themselves in each other, anchoring both their bodies, their hearts, their everything to this same instant.

"Adir" Isra hears the tremor, the relief, the lingering fear and the timid joy all at once coursing through his own voice as he holds Adir close to him.
"Isra" Adir echoes, his grip tightening on him, the two-armed embrace locking them both.
"My Adir" he murmurs, into Adir’s ear, the possessive slipping out of his tongue.
A sharp inhale, then Adir’s face moving closer to him "I’m here".

That night, once they are alone, in the castle’s rooftop, staring at the stars, Adir reminds him with a smile and his fingers intertwining with his own.

"This purification rite you said you’d do for me…".

Isra buries his hand inside Adir’s hair, still cut just above his shoulders, and touches his forehead to his.

He has to get the war out of him, exorcise the imprints of it from Adir.

"Attend all your duties with the court" Isra cups Adir’s nape in one hand "I’ll wait for you in the seminary. I’ll perform the ritual once you’re there, in the temple, with me".

With him. Where he belongs. This is where they belong.




That night, this time, Adir waits for Isra.

The seminary is isolated, stark, still. Isra’s quarters are not that much different. He has known the now seminarian for ages, Isra’s austerity, obedience, and devotion as much as it is pride and armor. Since they were children.

Royal priests, religious advisors have inquired, questioned why the crown prince goes to a mere seminarian for a purification rite that should be performed by higher priests.

Adir has silenced them. He knows the corridors still talk. But the priests will not defy him to his face.

He takes a deep breath, the incense inside Isra’s quarters swirling in the air. This chamber smells like him. He could stay here for a long time.

"I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting" Isra arrives, he unbuttons his shirt and moves inside, closer to him, disrobes with ease, locking the door behind him.
"I’ve kept you waiting eleven months. I could wait for you just as long if you asked me to" Adir’s heart flutters at the sight of him.
"Listen" Isra stares at him, Adir is already undressed for the ritual, his chest bare, and Isra can see again his freckled back and shoulders, the moles "Whatever happens, if anyone has any questions about this rite. They come to me. I’ll handle the priests".
Adir smirks "Come on, Isra. I can protect myself from the tongue of the priests and the court".
"I won’t let them stain your name or your honor" Isra grabs Adir’s hand and kisses his knuckles.
"There isn’t much honor to defend, and it’s already stained" Adir returns the kiss in Isra’s hand.

Isra opens a drawer. He takes them out. Shears, ceremonial ones. A razor engraved with references to hymns.

He takes out a porcelain basin, hand-painted with sacred imagery and symbols. He recites underneath his breath as he fills it with oils and fragrances and rosewater.

Isra sits crossing his legs on the floor. He motions for Adir to do the same.

"I’ll perform the purification ritual on myself first" Isra explains, as he hastily starts to braid his black hair "I have to before I can perform it on you".

A flicker of hurt crosses Adir’s face at Isra’s declaration. Like he wants to stop him. To say something. But Adir composes himself and nods in understanding.

The scalp is as if not even more sacred than their hair. It is not meant to be exposed, touched.

Isra takes a deep breath. He grips a knife, the same he used to cut his palm open in his bandaged hand.

He mentally repeats the words for the gods, to ask for protection, guidance, forgiveness as he raises the knife to his nape and tugs at the braided hair.

He slices it, clean off, a single, slow cut.

Isra tosses the shorn braid aside. He threads his fingers through the remaining hair, barely grazing his earlobes. The lightness of his head unsettles him but he pushes the feeling aside.

He grabs a bottle of water and drenches his hair, letting it wash all over him, until every strand is soaked. He sets the knife aside for a blade, not ceremonial either, those he is saving for Adir.

Guiding himself with his free, bandaged hand, Isra stills his own head as much as he can in place and starts scraping his own scalp. He feels the heavy, soaked locks and the water sliding down his chest as he does.

Isra has only shaved his own head once, a harsh act of penitence ordered by a priest two years ago, after Isra had questioned and defied him in class.

He is surprised how much his hand still retains the memory of those six months he had being forced to shave off all his hair and keep it shaved, to remain in seclusion for almost an entire year.

A curse of a year in which he could not leave the seminary, twelve months in which he was not allowed near Adir.

His hand trails his own now bare head, with familiarity and perplexity, he scrapes closer, tighter sparse bristles he feels near his nape, until it all feels shaven down properly.

He empties the bottle over his head again, stark, hairless, and washes it, mentally saying the prayers that ask for his own purification.

It is a cleansing ritual. Feels more like one when he is not being punished for having a voice and using it.

"Isra" Adir’s voice caresses him "You…".
"Not my first time" he smiles as he rubs his face with both hands "I had to do it before I performed any rite on you".
"Isra" the man in front of him shudders "Seeing you like this, it’s…".
"I know" he gets back to his feet and fetches the ceremonial shears first "I don’t mind. It’s fine, really".
"It’s just…" Adir gathers his thoughts as he stares at him "… It’s very intimate".
"You say it like we haven’t f***ed in the war room".

Adir laughs. A sound that blooms in the air.

"Are you ready?" Isra asks standing behind Adir, kneeling, his fingers threading through the golden hair he loves, has loved his entire life.
"I am" Adir nods.

His beautiful hair that was cut for war to his shoulders, they must cleanse it.

Isra gather a handful of Adir’s hair, nestling it inside the palm of his hand. He leans down and kisses his crown.

Then, he abandons all except Adir.

He grabs the shears and cuts off, at the root the first lock of Adir’s hair.

Adir does not flinch, does not resist, he lets out a light breath, of trust, almost of contentment, of relief.

Isra waits, then, once he is certain, he keeps cutting.

It is intimate. Very. To watch the crown prince’s scalp, start to peek through the short bristles of hair left by the shears cutting as close as they can get.

Isra’s hand starts to tremble at the realization that he is seeing the most sacred part of Adir’s body. Slowly revealing it. The gold ever scarcer, the head ever more naked.

As he slices a final lock, he rubs the bristles, the tufts of gold left, caresses it, muttering sacred words for the gods that witness this ritual, this act of devotion.

The shorn golden hair shimmering in the bowl where Isra has collected it to dispose of it properly after the rite is done.

He sets the shears aside. He caresses the side of Adir’s neck. He feels him lean into his touch, eyes closed, relaxed.

Then, in a small bowl, Isra moves his wrist in vigorous circles and makes foam from the water and the herbs he has gathered specifically for the occasion.

With a soft brush, he lathers Adir’s head. He hears the bristles of the brush rasping against the stubble left. He crowns him in white and herbal essences.

Adir takes a deep breath, a shudder going through him, but not an unpleasant one.

Isra takes the ceremonial razor. His memory of the rite he has studied guiding his hand as he places the blade at the front of Adir’s hairline.

He makes a firm, gently, first stroke. He keeps repeating in his mind the words of the ceremony, underneath his breath, as he keeps shaving.

Adir’s scalp emerges beneath the razor. He contains the tremors coursing through his body. The tears in his eyes as the realization dawns on him.

This is the man he loves, trusting him more than anyone else in the world, letting him cleanse him after combat, exposing the most raw, vulnerable, sacred part of him to him.

Isra stills his breathing and his tears and focuses again on tending Adir, on shaving his head as gently as possible.

He wipes the blade clean after every few strokes against the back of his own hand.

As the top and the sides are shaven, he nudges Adir’s head forward and slides the blade across the back of his neck, slowly, afraid to harm him.

"You have a birth mark" Isra murmurs.
"Do I?" he can hear the smile in Adir’s voice.
"Yes, right here, at the nape".

Isra uncovers it further, shaving carefully around it.

"It’s beautiful. I promise".

He knows it. Has seen it. Heard of it. His divination lessons taught him about this birth mark.

All royals have it. This red mark underneath the golden hair. Isra smiles as he sees it in the back of the neck.

He leans in and kisses it, presses his lips softly to it.

Isra inspects all over, he makes a few short more passes over a couple cowlicks.

"I’m done" Isra wets the towel and cleans his neck with light touches.
"I won’t be in the public eye for a while" Adir rubs his scalp, exploring with curiosity and fascination "It would be scandal, the crown prince all shaved like this and seen publicly".
"You’ll be forgiven" Isra gently massages his head and wipes it with a towel soaked in rosewater and fragrances "You’re the beloved heir to the throne".
"Who says I want to be forgiven?".

Adir’s mouth captures his, a slow, deep, tender kiss.

Isra caresses Adir’s back and shoulders, tentatively, he raises his fingers towards his nape, past his hairline and touches his shaven head. It’s a feather-light caress, the sacredness of what the crown prince has submitted himself to not lost to him.

Adir immediately responds to him. He quickly cups the back of Isra’s head as well, feeling his naked, velvet-like scalp for the very first time. His affection mirrored.

The birth mark on his nape, the one that says ‘bearer of the crown,’ that runs deep into the royal family bare and exposed for him to admire and kiss and touch.

He has always adored Adir. But never like this.

Never as tonight, as they’ve both bared one to another more than anyone else, as they both touch the most sacred parts of each other.

And Isra finds a red mole, in Adir’s temple. A tiny speckle of crimson, nestled near his hairline, exposed to his eyes for the very first time.

He knows it is a mark of the gods of war, they have kissed Adir, their child, promised them victories and glory. They have inked Adir’s shoulder with the constellations of ‘emperor’ and ‘commander of men.’

Fate and the world can have the emperor and the commander of men and the bearer of the crown.

This night, the gods and their fates are not here yet.

But Adir is. And he is. And they are.

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