Arioch stood in the shadow of Babylon’s gates, the mighty ziggurats towering above him like stone guardians against the heavens. His lean frame was wrapped in a robe of soft linen dyed crimson, a color reserved for those entrusted by the king himself. The folds of his clothing whispered in the dry desert wind as the golden hem caught gleams of the sun, matching the radiance of his dark bronze skin. His beard, intricately braided with lapis lazuli beads, framed a face both youthful and weathered—a testament to long hours under the Babylonian sun, and long nights steeped in study and intrigue.
Thirty-six years he had walked this earth—thirteen since his first marriage. That union had been born of duty, forged in the fire of family politics. It burned quickly to ash. His second marriage, to Yuanni, a merchant's daughter, was a softer flame, but it dwindled in the clutches of mistrust. Now, as the chief scribe and royal astronomer to King Nebuchadnezzar II, he carried not just scrolls but also the burden of failure—and a fragile glimmer of hope.
This night, however, Babylon trembled with anticipation. Across its great avenues, the Feast of Ishtar was in full swing. The scent of roasted goat, cinnamon, and honey filled the air, laced with the laughter of revelers and the sweet music of reed pipes. Yet Arioch walked alone, his leather sandals slapping against ancient stone, his crimson robe marking him as both a man of importance and solitude.
The Broken Star
Arioch’s destination was the Etemenanki Ziggurat, a temple sacred to Marduk. In its shadow, perched delicately atop a merchant’s cart, sat Shadi. She was a weaver of flax, but her artistry with words rivaled her loom. Tonight, her voice flowed like the Euphrates, mesmerizing the crowd with the tale of the Broken Star. She wore a simple white tunic, the belt tied loosely at her waist, and her long, black curls danced as she gestured with her hands.
“Do they not say the gods light the skies with their warnings?” she asked. Her voice was like the low hum of the river, soothing yet insistent. “The Broken Star fell to earth because of hubris, and unless we mend its light, the balance between gods and men will shatter.”
The crowd gasped, caught in the snare of her tale. But Arioch felt a jolt deeper than simple awe. Hubris. Warnings. Balance. These were words that had haunted him of late—not just in legend, but in the constellations he had studied every night for weeks. The once-reliable movements of the heavens were distorted, as if the universe itself were out of rhythm.
As her tale ended, the crowd dispersed into laughter and song, but Arioch approached her with deliberation. She turned to him, her dark eyes locking with his. There was no fear, though his robes marked him as a man of royal rank.
“Shadi, weaver of both flax and tales,” he said, his voice deep and steady, though his mind was storming, “the star you speak of—is it a mere story, or do you know something of the truth beneath it?”
Shadi’s gaze sharpened. “Truth and story are threads in the same cloth, my lord. But I have seen the skies change. The gods are restless.”
“Walk with me,” he said. It was not a command. It was a request wrapped in urgency.
The Secrets of the Sky
Shadi followed him to the steps of the Etemenanki, where few dared to tread without royal appointment. Together, they ascended until only the desert sky stretched above them. From his satchel, Arioch withdrew a clay tablet etched with cuneiform markings. Each engraving represented a star, a planet, or an omen. He laid it before her.
“Here is the path of the heavens as we once knew it,” Arioch began, his voice heavy with the weight of things unspoken. “And here”—he pointed to a newer etching—“is its disruption. A star has gone rogue. The constellation of Eridu no longer aligns.”
Shadi traced the markings with her fingers, her touch reverent yet practiced, as though she were weaving a loom. “The Broken Star,” she murmured. “What does this mean for Babylon?”
“Disaster,” Arioch replied. “But it also means opportunity. If the star is mended—if balance is restored—then not only Babylon but all of Mesopotamia may rise beyond even Marduk’s wildest dreams. Yet if it falls…” He let his silence speak.
Shadi looked at him, her expression unreadable. “And you, Arioch, keeper of stars? What keeps you from falling?”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with uncharacteristic candor, he answered, “The weight of my failures. My wives, my friends, my oaths. I fell long ago. But even a man who has fallen can carry a lantern.”
The Covenant
Together, Arioch and Shadi devised a plan. They would journey to the ruined city of Eridu, where the star was said to have fallen ages ago. The elders whispered that the broken remnants still lay buried beneath the sands, guarded by a curse. If they could recover it, perhaps the skies—and the fates—could be realigned.
Arioch prepared for the journey with meticulous care. His outfit changed; gone was the crimson robe, replaced by the attire of a traveler—a tunic of sturdy wool, a leather belt adorned with small pouches, and sandals reinforced with bronze clasps. A dagger hung at his hip, less for battle than for ceremony. Shadi, too, donned traveling garb, her hair tied back and her eyes shadowed with kohl to shield them from the sun's glare.
The journey was perilous. Days turned to weeks as they traversed hostile deserts, evading bandits and battling the merciless whim of the gods. Along the way, they spoke, their conversations peeling back layers of fear, hope, and longing. Arioch found himself drawn to her—her strength, her wit, her refusal to unravel even in the face of the unknown.
The Light Rekindled
At last, they reached Eridu, where the ruin of a temple beckoned like an oasis of shadows. Beneath its crumbled stones, they found a shard of the Broken Star—it pulsed faintly, like a dying ember. As Arioch touched it, an overwhelming vision filled his mind: images of his past failures, his former marriages, and the pain he had inflicted and endured. But in the vision, Shadi appeared, a quiet, persistent light cutting through the haze.
He awoke to find her clutching his hand. “Do not fall again,” she whispered. “The lantern-bearer must remain standing.”
With her help, he lifted the shard to the heavens. And as the first light of dawn broke across the ruins, the shard ignited, its brilliance mending the tear in the sky. The constellations realigned, the desert wind calmed, and for the first time in years, Arioch felt the weight of hope.
By Stars and Stories
The pair returned to Babylon as heroes, though their names were spoken in hushed reverence rather than shouted in the streets. Arioch resumed his duties as royal astronomer, his crimson robe once more draped over his shoulders. But he no longer walked alone. Shadi was often seen at his side, her simple tunic still untouched by royal embellishments, her laugh ringing like a songbird among Babylon’s stone giants.
And at night, beneath the glimmering constellations they had saved, he would often proclaim, “Even a man who falls can carry a lantern—if someone is there to help him light it again.”
And together, they carried it forward.
The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: How Second (Or Third) Marriages Can Thrive Successfully
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