This one was fun. I've been to Tblissi but never made it to Armenia. Long story, but my time in Georgia ended too soon. Went to Istanbul afterwards. That whole are fascinates me. I only know about Armenia second hand. I'd love to go there.
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A Thousand Windows
by 
From the Little Ararat’s peak, Vartan "tiger's eye" observed his hometown, Yerevan. In the ample pocket of his tunic, well sheltered from the harsh wind, his squat fingers played with two graceful jade discs, while his steed, foaming with fatigue, seemed suddenly reinvigorated at the sight of home after months of traveling. If it had not been an animal, it would seem that he was moved. In Vartan's eyes, the only veil was that of travel fatigue.
Armenian merchant of precious stones, merchant son of merchants, he did not care how dangerous the journey was, nor how many moons had rotated above the long caravan: his mind was a precision balance that incessantly weighed and estimated without respite Indian emeralds, Burmese rubies, Pakistani aquamarines. This was Vartan's life since the cradle: he made a profit, and he did it surprisingly well.
A brisk early March night, something unexpected happened to him: he had a dream. Being an unusual experience for him, he awoke to throw in a far corner of the room the brocaded bedspread, upset and wet with sweat despite dawn’s breeze. In his family no one used to dream, there was no space for these frivolities. If he reflected well, maybe a couple of times he had dreamed of carving a gem or making a good deal, but he never came across those surreal dreams like a sand mirage in the ocean. After that episode, dreams began to visit him more and more frequently, as the unstoppable progression of pot-bellied drops in an August downpour. Frankly, it was a very unfortunate situation for Vartan, who was soon forced to invent every kind of wild night escapade to justify the increasingly evident dark circles under his eyes.
Then one day, while he was dreaming, the unthinkable happened: he suddenly perceived that he was in the dream. That first experience of dreamlike lucidity did not last long, nothing but an imperceptible beating of wings of awareness before the rules of the dream came back to swallow him and to dictate the story, relegating him to a mere spectator. Night after night, he began to acknowledge the laws that governed that world and how to bend them to his creative power. Thin and rarefied realms could become dense with colors, shapes, and perfumes. The Escheresque geometries of dancing fractals disobeyed space and time. Gradually, Vartan learned to attribute a new meaning and content to the term comprehension. For every new dream he was immersed in, the breath of those universes and his soul were united in one single essence longer and longer. In those dreams, Vartan traveled in the folds of reality, learned the language of angels and played dodges with them in the heart of perennial storms of unknown planets.
Soon, what was happening in Vartan's soul could not remain hidden to the eyes of the family, his friends, and the entire city of Yerevan.
My Ending
Vartan descended on the town of Yerevan, holding the reins of his steed and greeting the townspeople, drunk by this time of night. The Armenians, always enjoying their wine, but it never brought about a festive atmosphere. His people were somber, drunk or not. The wine only made them more dreary, more impossibly dour. It was said that the only thing that could crack a smile on a drunk Armenian was a joke about a Georgian. The only thing that could start a fight between drunk Armenians would be calling them an Azerbaijani. And if you wanted a knife in the back, call them a Turk.
As he walked over the cobblestone streets, a mist descended from the hills. It swam through the city, meticulously filling every walkway and alley, swallowing up the Yerevanis. Vartan reached his family's manse, and before entering the gate, attempted to see through the mist. The figures beneath danced and swirled. He gripped his jade discs. They remained, smooth, unblemished.
"So, he's returned," Vartan's father said beneath his stern, salt and pepper beard. "The caravaneer. Master of gems. It's nice to have you home for once."
Vartan sipped his wine. His brothers and sisters sat around him in the parlor.
"Did you befriend any muslims on your travels East?" his younger brother asked, the freshly shaven chin glinting in the candlelight.
"Tell us all about your journey, brother," his younger sister said. She knelt at his feet and squeezed his hand.
Vartan glanced around the parlor, envisaging himself as a child. The memories gripped him. His sister squeezed again. He sunk into the chair.
"Be comfortable, my son. Stay awhile."
The flames of the candles flared. The room twisted. He stared down at his sister in time to see the flesh of her face begin to slide off as if sliced with a saber. She began to mumble about a loan, about the despair of her dead suitors.
His brother stepped forward from his chair, bones clinking as the flesh sagged off in heaps like rotten clothes. “I need a loan for the business, brother. I’m investing in a new ship in Batumi. We can use it together to sell your jewels off in Turkish and Ukrainian ports.”
Vartan reached for the jade discs.
“My son, stay,” the talking skull said. “Stay like you never have. Like you never did. Stay, now, as a man, for your lonely father. Do what you never could, being busy in your dreams. Always off in another world, hoping to ascend those mountains of fortune. Stay here, once, with your dying father, drinking himself into oblivion over the memories of your dead mother.”
A door opened behind him. That distant voice, loss reflecting on a thousand windows.
Vartan gripped the jade discs.
He woke, sweating beneath the silken sheets in a resplendent room of his manse. He called for his house servant to ready hot tea. Vartan set to work on his will.