Gieve was not a type of person to settle down, mostly because he found absolutely no appeal in it. He held the title of Court Musician, that was true, and it had a certain charm to it, a flair he could add whenever he was making his introductions to beautiful ladies. But if it meant that he was supposed to actually stay in court all year round, he would throw it away immediately.

Not that it was ever a concern, of course. When Arslan finally became the shah of Pars, he generously rewarded everyone who stayed with him during all those long years of struggle. And so, because it was a reward, when he presented Gieve with his new title and treasures and privileges, he made not a single demand.

But, of course, he didn't have to. At that point they would do whatever the young man wished for, orders or not. They were completely devoted to him, beyond the point of even pretending otherwise.

And so Gieve became a Court Musician, singing both for royalty and children of the streets, traveling to his heart content in the meantime – and coming back, always coming back.

His journeys took him far and wide. Sometimes he was a simple traveling bard, sometimes a political envoy, and sometimes a spy, gone for weeks or months at times. But when he came home, he always found his rooms cleaned and ready, his friends waiting, happy to see him again and hear the new stories he brought with him.

There were times when, upon coming back, he found new faces in the palace, passing guests, princes from faraway countries here to sign treaties with the mighty Pars, lords from faraway lands here to swear fealty to their beloved king. And Gieve sang for them too.

The royal guest he met this time was perfectly pleasant, well versed in royal etiquette, and a bit confused that at the king's palace said etiquette was followed a bit loosely, especially within the shah's inner circle. Still, the young lord chatted amiably with everyone as they sat by the table, and when Gieve took out his instrument, he straightened with obvious interest. Parsian Court Musician was well known for his skill after all.

Gieve cleared his throat, tuned his oud, and when he was completely sure he had his audience's undivided attention, he began.

He sang about the war, as he often did. Their adventures and experiences were so captivating that he hardly had to add his charm and skill with words to completely capture his listeners' attention.

And tonight, because there was a very nice, dark-skinned lady present at the feast, he sang about himself.

But the young lord's face went more and more confused as the song went on, and when it finally ended, he couldn't seem to stop himself from speaking.

"You mean to say," he began, unsure "That during the war against usurper Gadevi you once entered a massively fortified Sinduran fortress full of enemy soldiers, accompanied only by a translator who you heavily expected to be a traitor… And you somehow emerged alive?"

"Not only alive, my lord, but richer by a couple of necklaces and earrings all the lovely ladies at the fortress graciously gifted me with" Gieve flashed his teeth in a smile, unashamedly, even though Daryun rolled his eyes at him. Beside the knight, Jaswant looked thoroughly unamused but resigned to his fate. He knew this song well.

"Well forgive my boldness, but I find it hard to believe. The fact that you somehow survived is ludicrous in itself, but what I cannot explain is the fact that you would even agree to such madness"

"Oh, I had an utmost faith in our esteemed Court Painter's plan"

And the second he said that, it was as if some invisible rift opened in the room, separating those who nodded in understanding, and those who looked skeptical, disbelieving. And that second demonstrated better than any other explanation ever could the difference between Parsian generations, the difference between those who saw the war and those who didn't.

(and, most of all, the difference between those who were there at the young prince's side, long years ago

and those who weren't)

Because there were people who repeatedly put their lives in their tactician's hands, walked into the lion's den with only his promise as a reassurance that they would come out alive, held their breaths as their fates were decided and knew all of them had to act like a well oiled machine, but that machine would only succeed if that one man had been right…

Those people understood.

But king Arslan's reign was, above all, a peaceful one. And while Narsus was always ready to guide and advice, he was mostly seen painting and writing and reading, and as shocking as it might be, some people didn't know him as anything else.

They turned their eyes to him now, sitting with a small smile, sipping his Nabeed without any comment, and they tried to imagine him on the battlefield, covered in dust and blood. And, judging by their expressions, many of them failed.

And suddenly Gieve thought about all his other songs, about stories that were true because even he wouldn't be able to come up with tales so incredible, so thrilling. And he thought about all his listeners, who might not believe a word of them, simply because they weren't there.

Did they think he exaggerated Daryun's colossal strength, his unwavering loyalty? Did they not believe Jaswant's journey from traitorous enemy to most trusted friend? Did they think him blinded by Farangis' beauty when he sang about her fearless search for a young prince, about arrows that found impossible targets? About Elam bravely scouting mountain passages full of enemies, infiltrating their cities and camps, about Alfreed leading troops in the darkest forests, as sure of her command at sixteen as she was now, as general?

Were their lives so unbelievable?

The war was long and brutal, but the war has passed. And along with it, passed the need for heroic deeds. But it still happened, it pushed them to their limits and shaped them into something sharp and strong and unbreakable, and of all people, Gieve, the crafter of stories, should've known how legends were born.

Daryun the Brave. Narsus the Wise. And Arslan, yes, Arslan the Kind, Arslan the Liberator, Arslan, the heroic king of Pars.

And whether people believed it or not, it didn't matter. These stories were true. All those acts of bravery and faith and love, they've done them all. So Gieve would keep singing, and his songs would make people laugh and cry and remember them, remember everything they accomplished and everything they were, and his songs would be sung for centuries to come.