Prologue
By Tøny
“We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus!
That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t
We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities,
we are eaten up by nothing.”
— Charles Bukowski
Table of contents:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
To the love of my life who’s name flows like the autumn breeze and whom’s eyes shine brighter than the midsummer sun
My dear Saba
With all my heart
And so it begins:
The council chamber smelled of incense and dust — an ancient perfume masking the slow decay of power. Twelve men sat behind carved oak desks arranged in a half-circle, their robes as heavy as the silence that bound them. Outside, beyond the tall arched windows, thousands waited. Protesters, journalists, pilgrims, lovers, haters — all clutching banners that fluttered like wounded wings.
At the center of it all stood Elian Saro, forty-eight years old, silver threaded through his black hair like cracks in marble. His face carried the calm of a man who had already lost everything once and learned that fear was useless after grief.
He had rewritten this speech a hundred times, erased entire pages in midnight fits, rewritten them in ink and blood and tears. Now the parchment trembled in his hand. Not from fear — from purpose.
“Gentlemen,” he began, voice steady but soft, “today we speak not of politics. Not of religion. Not of the economy, nor of the tribes that divide us. Today, we speak of love.”
A murmur spread through the chamber — some scoffed, others leaned in.
“For too long,” he continued, “we have called love a sin, a shame, an indulgence unfit for holy soil. We’ve treated it as rebellion when it is the only form of peace. But love, sirs, does not belong to God or to government. It belongs to those who feel it.”
He paused. His throat burned. His heart pressed against his ribs like a fist wanting out.
“The law I propose is simple. When two souls, sixteen or older, declare their love before the public — despite class, creed, or gender — they shall be granted the right to live together under a roof of their own. A house funded by the state, until they choose to wed or part. Families shall have no authority to separate them. Because no nation is free until its lovers are free.”
Gasps. Hisses. One councilman spat the word blasphemy. Another whispered, “He’s gone mad.”
But Elian stood unmoving. The incense smoke curled around him like a halo of defiance.
“You fear exploitation,” he said, raising his voice. “You fear lies, mockery of the sacred word. I fear the opposite. I fear honest hearts punished for being honest. I fear generations growing up believing that love is a privilege handed out by priests. I fear the death of tenderness.”
Outside, thunder of chants. He could hear the crowd roar his name. Elian! Elian! Some cheering, some cursing. The walls shook.
“Vote, then,” he said finally, eyes gleaming with exhausted conviction. “Condemn me if you must. But history will ask each of you one day — were you a man of faith, or a man of fear?”
The eldest councilman, Chairman Rafiq Haleem, cleared his throat and signaled the clerk. One by one, each of the Twelve placed a stone in the brass bowl before them — white for yes, black for no.
The stones clattered like distant gunfire.
When the final one dropped, the clerk lifted the bowl. Six black stones. Six white. A tie. The Chairman’s vote remained.
He hesitated. His hand trembled. For a moment, Elian met his eyes — not with challenge, but with quiet mercy.
The Chairman placed his hand over his heart and whispered, “So be it.”
He dropped a white stone.
The sound was small — a pebble in eternity.
The chamber erupted. Some councilmen shouted in outrage, others simply bowed their heads as if a war had ended. The doors burst open, letting in a torrent of sound from outside — cheers, screams, chaos.
Elian stood perfectly still as guards rushed in to protect him from both sides — the crowd outside and the fury within.
He exhaled. A single tear traced down the line of his cheek.
“It’s done,” he murmured.
Outside, bells rang for the first time in decades — not for prayer, but for love.
