After Heaven Wars, Iris became a fortress unto herself—cold as frost, impeccably clean, and profoundly silent. She believed no love could take root amid devastation, and no hope could rise from the smoldering ashes of prayers scorched by a merciless sky.
She arranged her kingdom like a meticulously stacked pile of rubble: precise, logical, and unyielding. Her smile was measured, a fragile mask, while her gaze was sharpened and tempered by the cruel hand of fate. But even the most impenetrable fortress bears cracks. It was through these narrow fissures that Fitran slipped—not as a radiant savior, but as a shadow that neither judged nor demanded. "You know, Iris," he said softly, "even a fortress needs ventilation. Without it, we might all end up suffocating in here."
He never urged Iris to heal or to lower her walls. Instead, he simply remained—a steadfast star, indifferent to whether the sky wept. While the political council busied themselves with murmurs of alliances and thrones, Fitran stayed quietly by her side, listening attentively even when Iris retreated into silence. In those still moments, he sought to ease the heavy air with gentle humor. "You can close every door," he remarked one night beneath the garden's dim glow after a banquet, "but you forget the sky has no locks. And your heart... well, it still holds the sky. Or perhaps, it harbors the hope that its doors remain forever open."
Iris rolled her eyes but then gave a small, hesitant smile—a smile that bloomed slowly, fragile yet genuine, as Fitran's gentle humor cracked the heavy silence of the night. Her bitter laughter drifted softly, like a cool breeze attempting to seep through the walls of her guarded heart. With one hand, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, while the other clenched the fabric of her dress, as if trying to unbind the weight of sorrow tightly wrapped around her chest.
"Oh, you really think you know everything," she teased, her voice light but edged with vulnerability. Yet beneath the playful tone, her eyes began to glisten faintly, as if a small spark of warmth—long dormant—was being rekindled. Each burst of laughter, slow and uneven, echoed gently into the stillness, pushing back the lingering shadows of grief that clung to her. "You don't understand, my sky has long been shrouded in clouds," she added with a half-laugh, the hint of doubt giving way to a fragile hope that freedom might yet bloom again.
Fitran grinned, his eyes lighting up as he noticed the subtle transformation in Iris—the way her face began to awaken, her lips no longer curved downward, and her eyes sparkling with a shy brilliance, like distant stars breaking through night clouds. "Maybe your sky is just waiting for the clouds to part, ready to reveal its hidden beauty once more," he said softly, his words slipping out as a casual joke but carrying a profound truth that resonated deep within him—hope was quietly stirring. That night, beneath the vast canvas of a tranquil sky, their laughter intertwined like gentle ripples on still water. Each shared smile became a fragile bridge connecting Iris's inner fortress to the vast heavens above, a tender pathway where pain was woven into lessons, and laughter blossomed as a tender reminder that healing is rarely a swift or simple process, but rather a bittersweet, soulful journey filled with both light and shadow.
Iris laughed then, and it was a sound layered with complexity—no longer just cheerful, but carrying a poignant, almost trembling sweetness that reached into the very core of her being. Her expression held a constellation of emotions—her eyes beginning to shimmer with renewed light, even as a faint veil of sadness lingered beneath them, like a distant storm on an otherwise clear horizon. As if whispering a silent truth—you don't understand anything about destruction—she reflected on the heavy weight life had pressed upon her. Yet, with each soft chime of laughter, it was as though morning dew was gently dissolving the burdens clinging to her heart, its delicate touch streaming quietly to chase away the shadows that had long clouded her soul.
Fitran understood—in a quiet, unspoken way, much like the earth sensing the faintest trace of blood, he was always near Iris, a constant presence ready to shield her from sorrow. "You know, if faking a smile were an Olympic sport, I'd be the world champion!" he joked, his voice light and buoyant, yet carrying an undercurrent of gentle warmth. Iris noticed her smile awakening—once hesitant and fragile, it now blossomed briefly, her lips curving with subtle grace. His uncomplicated, heartfelt humor seemed to crack open a tiny window in Iris's guarded heart, allowing a soft ray of light to slip through and tenderly thaw the shadows within.
In the nights that followed, their words grew sparse. Often, they would sit side by side in companionable silence, eyes fixed on the same silvered moon hanging low and luminous in the dark velvet sky. Each shared pause stretched like an unfinished poem—something meant to be felt rather than spoken aloud. Iris, usually distant and frosty as winter's breath, began to respond to Fitran's gentle, hopeful quips. "Iris, if the moon could speak, it might say, 'Don't take life so seriously!'" he teased with a soft grin. She chuckled softly, a delicate sound like the first drops of rain on dry earth, and in that laugh a fragile warmth unfurled within her chest. Amid these tender, quiet moments, Iris felt the weight of her anxiety slowly dissolve, as if laughter were a gentle stream nourishing the parched roots of her once-withered trust.
"I used to say, half-drunk on wine and half-truthful, 'I'm afraid to love this world again,' Iris confessed, her eyes shimmering with a turbulent mix of frustration and vulnerability. 'Because this world doesn't know how to care.' Fitran met her gaze with a warm, steady smile that seemed to dissolve the shadows clinging to her heart. 'Then don't love the world,' he said softly, 'love just one person instead. And see if the world dares to touch them.' In that quiet exchange, Iris felt the weight of his unwavering loyalty—like a solitary star piercing the deepest night sky—illuminating a path through her doubt. She found solace not only in his steadfast presence but also in his lighthearted jokes, which wrapped around her like gentle clouds, sheltering her from the relentless downpour of sorrow and slowly softening the hardened edges of her guarded soul.
And that was where everything began to shift. Not through some sudden magic or twist of fate, but because of one person who stood patiently before her, never demanding her heart to open, only promising never to abandon her—even if the door remained firmly closed. With a playful grin, Fitran quipped, 'If the door refuses, we can always try the window!' The unexpected humor caught Iris off guard; she furrowed her brow briefly, then burst into laughter—clear, unrestrained, and radiant—a joy so rare it seemed to set her very spirit aglow. Her smile stretched wide, and her eyes sparkled as if a fresh ray of sunlight had pierced the long-standing dusk veiling her heart. That genuine laughter lifted the heavy burden she had carried alone for so long, and in that fleeting moment, the door to her heart shuddered gently, hinting at the newfound possibilities waiting just beyond.
Gradually, Iris allowed a single window to open within the fortress of her heart. Soft light poured in, carrying with it Fitran's presence—faithful and steady, ever ready with lighthearted jokes that wove through the heavy silence, gently unraveling the tight knots of sorrow that bound her. Each time Iris's laughter escaped, it was as if a small, stubborn gray cloud hovering over her mind was slowly dissolving, revealing an expanse of clear blue sky untouched by shadow. With every joyous burst, she lifted her hand to veil her mouth, attempting to stifle the flood of giggles while her eyes glimmered with profound gratitude as they met Fitran's. This laughter was far from mere amusement; it was a fragile beacon of hope, a quiet testament that even amid the deepest grief, there remained a hidden corner where joy could take root and blossom.
Iris wasn't quite certain when these delicate feelings first began to unfurl. Perhaps it was when Fitran chose silence over words, offering a serene space between them while the noisy world outside clamored for explanations. Or maybe it was when his smile illuminated his face like a gentle sunrise, and a small, persistent voice within Iris whispered, "This is not the end." Perhaps it was in the soft, unwavering warmth that radiated from his eyes—eyes that never demanded more than presence, only offering comfort without conditions. Or perhaps it was on that hushed night, when the heavy stillness wrapped around them, and the sound of a single footstep echoed close enough to match the rhythm of her own heartbeat—an intimate reminder of companionship, a fragile new bond born from shared laughter and intertwined sorrow.
Iris—Queen of Gaia, Keeper of Gold, Legacy of the Skies—had long guarded herself against the feeling of smallness. Yet, in the quiet presence of Fitran, she felt stripped of titles and power, reduced simply to a woman. Not a queen, not an emblem of strength, not adorned with crowns; just Iris—her skin marked by wounds not yet fully healed and her spirit daring to inhale hope's fragile breath once more.
That night, they sat nestled in the backyard garden beneath a resilient tree, its branches stretching skyward despite the war having scorched its roots and tainted its history. Above them, the vast expanse of the star-studded sky sprawled like an endless cosmic canvas, shimmering with the universe's silent wonders. Fitran's gaze lingered on the stars, serene and contemplative, while Iris observed him, captivated by the calm that radiated from his very being.
Between these shared silences, something subtle shifted. Iris felt an unfamiliar lightness settle within her. When Fitran lifted a fragile twig and declared it "the biggest cherry tree in the world," she laughed—warm, genuine laughter that carved soft creases in the corners of her usually shadowed eyes. Each burst of joy sprinkled like specks of light across the darkness in her heart, whispering that hope could bloom even in the shadowed hollows.
"You don't try to make me happy," Iris thought, her heart swelling with unspoken meaning.
"You just make the world feel less frightening."
She began to notice the small details: the way Fitran cradled his tea cup gently with both hands, as if drawing warmth and life from its glowing surface, a quiet comfort against the chill of the night. The serene way he turned at her voice, each movement deliberate and calm, brought a soothing stillness amid the surrounding chaos. He shared playful jokes about a clumsy bird trying to dance but tumbling into a pond—a silly, innocent image that made Iris stifle her laughter. Her lips parted just enough to reveal slightly exposed teeth, her eyes gleaming with amusement, cheeks flushing softly. In that moment, a delicate lightness blossomed within her chest, as if every laugh was a tender reminder that embracing small joys did not diminish her strength, but quietly bolstered her resilience on the path to healing.
He never reached out to touch her,
yet his mere presence felt like an unseen touch, tender and constant, wrapping around her with an invisible warmth each second he was near.
One evening, when Fitran arrived late after a lengthy military hearing, Iris's restlessness surged—her heart pounding faster, a storm of anticipation swirling within her. She sat alone, the minutes stretching endlessly, soaked in uncertainty. A sharp resentment welled up inside her—a fierce ache born from being caught in the limbo of longing. Then, at last, his footsteps approached—steady and familiar—without a word, just the gentle nod she knew so well—
and Iris felt her heart fall once again, pulled by an inevitable gravity, each beat melting softly, dripping like warm honey within her.
"I want to say something," she thought, hope and fear tangled tightly in her mind. "But if I speak, will I lose this fragile feeling that is only just beginning to grow?"
So that night, she held back her words, watching Fitran from behind a curtain of hair gently swept by the cool night breeze. For the first time since the war had shattered the fragile peace of her life, a tentative smile blossomed on her lips—soft and hesitant, yet undeniably present.
Though still bearing the invisible scars of past pain, Iris felt a subtle lightness begin to chip away at the heavy weight pressing on her heart as their laughter intertwined during a lighthearted conversation about trivial moments. Her laughter came freely, unguarded and warm, her eyes sparkling with genuine enthusiasm as Fitran animatedly recounted a clumsy mishap from his training. She pictured his frustrated frown as he toppled into a muddy puddle, the image vivid enough to send genuine laughter bubbling up from deep within her chest—each peal washing away a little of the sorrow that had once bound her so tightly.
"You're really foolish, aren't you?" Fitran teased, clutching his stomach as laughter racked his frame. His face was illuminated by a bright smile, the kind that replaces long-held anxiety with pure, unfiltered joy, painting over the shadows that had lingered far too long.
With a mischievous grin, Fitran replied, "Yes, but at least I brighten your day!" Beneath his playful words, Iris sensed something deeper—a quiet healing had begun. Each shared laugh was a small but powerful reminder that behind the lingering sorrow, warmth and hope patiently waited to be rediscovered.
As their laughter intertwined and the warmth of shared jokes filled the air, Iris felt an unexpected strength growing within her—an ember kindled by Fitran's steady presence that made her feel truly alive amidst the shadows of her lingering wounds. Each burst of laughter was no mere distraction; it shimmered like delicate glass catching the light, embodying a brave and tender declaration—that her heart was beginning to open again, slowly but surely, embracing hope once more.
This was not a mask crafted to conceal the ache beneath,
but a sincere prayer, whispered softly in the quiet spaces between breaths, suffused with fragile yet unyielding hope.