the morning sun and the night sky.

[loans]

Comments

this is love: to fly toward a secret sky; / CAPTIVE PRINCE AU

[haravatits]

[haravatits]

[ all stories start with a first meeting.

the eremites have been waiting since dawn. the slave markets open for trade at the rising of the sun, the theory being that the earlier the riser, the keener you are to have another set of hands for the rest of your day. the journey to the palace overnight with their caravan of goods bound from the recent conquered territories, then, is a loss in revenue. what you do not sell at the market, you are not paid for. if it were up to azar, the eremites would be waiting for days, standing on their feet in the marbled waiting room of the ali qapu, the crimson crown jewel of the vissudha rainforests, a single, bleeding crimson gash within the heart of a land bound by the forests and the rivers and the rain.

for the desert tribes, nothing is more wasteful than ostentatious displays with water. today, the ali qapu lets down her proverbial hair, her aqueducts opening to drape an endless waterfall over her facade. the unending streams caress the mosaiced windows, the masterful frescos that change the surface of her walls and direct water into shapes the way a conductor draws together the disparate pieces of an orchestra. she, the proud mistress, celebrates the victorious return of her artesh, their banners flying the blues and whites of azar's household as they stream in through her city's gates. vissudha will be ostenatious in their celebrations tonight. bonfires will be lit, and a festival will be declared. maidens with kalpana lotuses braided into their long, dark hair will dance with young men of the victorious artesh; the night's wine will flow like the vissudha is long, the joy of a city-state conquest a song for its people. but the desert tribes, who led the vanguard and had done the dirty work of prying open the city gates of vissudha's enemies will not be allowed to partake. they will watch, the way they watch now, as wasteful water streams down the side of ali qapu's great gates, as it splashes along the carved grooves and channels that lead the water back to its source - they will watch, and they will wait, and they will resent.

alhaitham does not have them wait long. he allows them into the audience chamber in mid-morning with their tribute. matters of the treasury are not within his purview; azar had ensured that with a smile when he was seven, and the world still reeled of loss and blood, and its coffers will fill itself without alhaitham's involvement. this, however, is a personal tribute, a sweetener in alhaitham's morning coffee to distract the way you would distract a riboshland tiger from its prey with a carved rabbit. the seven attendants lining the walls of the audience chamber are his in the sense that avidya vultures belong to avidya forest. he pays the shrewd, sharp lancelet of their gazes no mind as he bids in the desert tribes with a wave of a silver hand. azar's presence seeps in through the cracks of the floor. the walls have eyes, and ears. but this, too, is none of alhaitham's concern. not yet.

the eremites prostrate themselves, as they do, one knee to the ground, a palm, the long, low dip of their foreheads. and then - the slaves. one by one, they bend their knees the way alhaitham had once seen willows do along the long, gentle lines of liyuen rivers, their jeweled hair glinting in the sunlight, refracted in through cleverly placed windows and silvered mirrors. the musical fall of their bracelets are like that of a baroque waterfall befitting of ali qapu's name. young men and women, eleven in total, five of one sex and six of the other, and cleaned and decorated like divine jewels. alhaitham's gaze skims over each the way you would a page of figures, and lands on one.

the flaxen gold of his hair contrasts with the red of the rubies woven in with deft fingers. the red of his eyes are like blood drops on a newly woven sheet of cotton. as the slaves kneel, one by one, he is the only one standing, and then - kneeling, head pushed down to reveal the clatter of golden manacles looped back into a thin, golden chain. he is the eleventh, and the one that azar intended for him to see. alhaitham's gaze allows for itself to rest upon the curve of his neck, the set of his shoulders, and then, it rises to the eremites and the audience beyond.

flowery words, meaningless praise. a curt speech of gratitude that have echoed within these halls since its conception. sumeru is a land of strife. alhaitham sits in his chair, and observes as the room kneels. but he is not finished. azar had intended a show. he raises a silvered hand, the rings on his fingers like refracted sunlight, and points. the air in the room stills. every soul bates their breath. ]

Bring that one to me.

[ today, he meets the eleventh man. ]

[loans]

[ all chapters have an ending.

the eremites had been waiting since dusk. lokapala kingdom rises with the sun, and settles with it: with their golden, burgundy and apricot hairs woven from sunlight, as though an infinite thread that they are trusted with, they are sun-kissed and sun-blessed. it is known that the padisarahs that bloom by the palace of alcazarzaray are of a special kind, unable of having their likeness replicated elsewhere; in the kingdom of golden shine, they adorn a special purple revered and adored throughout all of sumeru. there are visitors that come during their bloom season, rows and rows of ardravi-, ashavan- and even liyuen-born people that find worth in giving their time and money to see flowers bloom, and depart soon after.

they sing praises, then, of the sun-touched kingdom. teyvat knows well of sumeran strife, knows well it is plagued with conflict and bloodshed. sumeru, they think, should be synonym with greenery, but find that red is a color that suits it best. but lokapala, they learn, feels anything but. it is a kingdom of equality, where all its residents are children of the sun. there is a monarchy, yes, but many a time, the crowns that sit on the royals' heads serve only for décor. lokapala have found that they prefer to have a figure of authority to write their laws and administer their military, but in everything else, they are that: brothers and sisters.

in recent times, there are those who adore lokapala, but those who wish for its downfall. it happens, then, in what had felt much like a beat of a heart — loud crashes, the suffocating smell of iron, yells so fearsome that they could have been the origin of the word despair. there is fire, there is hurt, there is no more sun. night takes over the sky, and before bloodshot eyes, a full moon. the night is young.

the golden, cold touch against his skin is of a special kind, ore that is known to act as a nullifier. it is, he knows, highly effective on omegas. the metal has been reshaped into something, he notices later, that are of lokapala-make. beautiful ornaments that are meant to decorate; whereas many city-states have found use in them to be made into chains that adorn their slaves and prisoners, lokapala has turned them into something to be brandished, something to be proud of.

kaveh feels anything but.

he is presented before a court alongside fellow lokapalans, his people. he does not kneel when they are meant to, showing defiance in every inch of his body. he kneels because he is forced, but does not keep his head down. a fellow lokapala sister had once said, your eyes are the embodiment of love, you wield your heart in your gaze — here, they are of a bloodied hurt, a heart cut open with death and grief. every face they land on, he memorizes. vissudhan people. the regent. the prince.

he is, then, picked out of the batch, of course. his captors kick at him (with a comedic gentleness, not to hurt or bruise merchandise), calloused fingers hooking from right under his collar to force him up and bring him closer to the prince. kaveh falls on his knees again, which are likely to bruise in a few days (the sweet irony of it all), and behind him, the eremites kneel as well. even here, he does not keep his head down, however. his sun-kissed, sun-touched golden hair falls on his face, and bloodshot eyes meet their counterpart, a green-blue that do not suit vissudha's prince. defiance can kill. ]

[haravatits]

[ there are those who know of kaveh. it's not difficult to. the palace of alcazarzaray sits in the heartlands of lokapala nation-state. an avidyan poet of some renown once wrote of it with gentle affection: how pleasing to see growing in profusion / lai-ka-nyo creepers living among the paddy rows / with blue khatauk its fragrance filling the air. surrounded here by such beauty / i cannot help missing my lover.

as the green slopping rooves emerge from the viridescent canopy, the first of its famous gazebos rise from the precarious clifftops leading to its summit. it was said to have been impossible to build at that location, in that style, with rooves that steep, for that cost, in that timeframe, and within that kingdom. it hadn't only been the liyuen stonemasons, who had affection for the palace they lent their expertise to in the heartlands of a people so welcoming that they all but flung open their doors to share their homes and hearth. it hadn't only been the natlan glassblowers, bringing with them the tools of their trade forged under a volcanic mountain, who would later return to natlan with songs about the jeweled mosaics of alcazarzaray's frescos, which came to life under the touch of the morning sun. the name alcazarzaray was, in fact, synonymous with master architect kaveh, who boomed from the waterfields of lokapala's jungles and whom his people crowned not from blood, but out of love.

it was said that the ali qapu held not a candle to her green sister rising from the rolling lokapala rice-fields, swathed in the purple of the goddess's favoured flower. they ought to have scorned them, the brothers and sisters of lokapala. they already did. a lokapala maiden raises her head, terror overcome from worry for her prince. it's such a reflexive gesture that alhaitham, who had been watching, knows that she will pay dearly for it. but prince kaveh of the lokapalas, the gol-e sorkh of the eastern rise, he whom the planets move for in their sorrowful cry - he is kneeling, and he is not pleased.

if looks could kill, alhaitham suspects he would have been dead had the moment kaveh entered this room. the light of the sun filters through the glassblown mosaics, refracted through ali qapu's unending waterfalls. it adds green and red to flaxen gold, the shimmer of which bleeds. kaveh is gold, and the red of blood. alhaitham only has to look at the bruise of his lips, prominent even beneath the lip-paint that someone had gently applied to cover so, and see plainly what he is meant to see.

so, of course, he smiles. he lifts a ringed finger. at once, the room tenses up, anticipatory - waiting. ]

You may let Azar, the grand sage, he who safeguards beneath the wings of the great eagle, know that I accept what he wishes me to receive. [ alhaitham says, each word deliberate in its choice. ] Have them brought to the baths, and then to the slave quarters to be prepared.

[ and as for the eleventh man. alhaitham's gaze falls upon him, and never quite lifts. ]

As for him - bring him to me.

[loans]

[ there are hearts that sink into the ground, so heavy in the weight they hold of concern and worry that the noise they make is loud and clear in the prince's ears. they fall for him, for his safety, out of love and admiration for the one who so often was revered as the light of lokapala. he is the morning sun and the rising star, and yet he bleeds — not for himself, but for his people. he bleeds in waves that could very well challenge the waterfalls of ali qapu, so unending in their fall that kaveh's heart could stain those waters red.

he bleeds for the lokapalans that are taken from right behind him, their chains rattling against the floor, their yelps of despair a haunting sound. he sees fit to bleed for avidya as well, once under lokapala's care. they had then said, we will extend you our utmost protection, and failed to do so. he bleeds for the faces of people he has never met, but people he had once considered his cousins. he bleeds from the red of his eyes, picturesque tears of blood unseen from the eyes of those who do not share his pain.

one moment they stare daggers into the turquoise of prince alhaitham of vissudha, and the next, nothingness.

they are smart to blindfold him. kaveh is a genius first, royal second. from his fingertips he creates alcoves, pedestals, sacellums. he thinks for a moment that this, too, speaks mountains of their own security. if they see fit to prevent a master architect from memorizing every arch, every turn, every pillar that composes their palace, it means there would then have a chance for him to be free from their grasp and escape.

kaveh is taken away by different pairs of hands, hardly as calloused as the eremites' who had brought him here. the blood of his eyes may fail to memorize a path to freedom, but his mind has not been blinded. he can tell many a thing: how many turns they make, the length of their hallways, how many staircases they go through and whether they are spiral or winder. he maps it out with terrifying clarity, and the engines of his mind plan accordingly.

he is brought, then, to a stop. the blindfolded is not yet removed, but he is spoken to. you will from hereafter serve prince alhaitham as his bed slave, they begin, a voice almost saccharine, as though there is anything romantic in the idea, you are stripped of your name, status, and history. you are who your highness wishes for you to be, and you are to dedicate your life into abiding to his each and every will. do you understand?

lokapala does not hold slaves. people are equal under the sun's reign, and they do not see fit to be stripped out of the person the sun has made them in order to serve another. this is a reminder of their ideals, and kaveh scoffs. that earns him a grip at his jaw that is bound to leave marks, and the voice repeats, do you understand?

he does not, again, reply. they cannot harm or kill him here, he knows. now under their prince's possession, it is not within their will to do with kaveh as they wish, and he makes use of it. the loud and heavy noise that follows signalizes that this is a room with doors twice his size, fit for a noble. inside, they prepare him like a statue, atop soft cushions he judges a mattress. kaveh is placed on his knees, arms behind his back, and the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles are then connected by a chain twelve links long. escape, at this moment, is out of the question.

his eyes do not agree with the light as the blindfold is removed, and in the short time it takes him to adapt, he is left alone in the room, as a present to be unwrapped, a package to be opened, dressed in fine silk and adorned with delicate jewelry as they strip him of everything else. he is forced to wait, unattended and untouched, as though naught but a simply decoration in a room of obnoxious value. ]

enter this house, my love, or let me leave; / GODDESS OF FLOWERS AU

[haravatits]

[haravatits]

[ this time, the dream begins as thus: the ravishing blue sky above a sea of tender purple. he knows the colours well. once, his civilisation had dreamt it themselves. the blue of the sky was the water of an endless oasis, brimming to completion; you only had to reach for it to taste its waters upon the tip of your tongue, to soothe the parch of your throat in its bountiful embrace. the purple of the flowers was a land fertile with promise, the petals of which part for laughing feet as vegetables and grasses took root to feed the soul of those who lived and died upon it. you could dance upon the sand; the fleeting rhythm of your footsteps shift in the wind, and come daybreak, they, too, will be gone like dust. but rock and stone were forever. you could build the bones of a civilisation like that. you could enshrine love. hadn't his civilisation done so in honour of that rare purple? hadn't he done so for the taste of something eternal? he looks to the clear, ravishing blue of the sky, and thinks -

he is not deshret.

he is alhaitham.

and alhaitham is dreaming.

he knows this is true because in the field of flowers stands kaveh the way like he has not seen of kaveh in days. the purple flowers spring to life, nipping playfully along his heels. their petals shower in joyful celebration of a reunion that had never, will never be, meant to be. flowers do not dream. they only know of dreams. and theirs is in an oasis of eternal sleep, still-dreaming, still-eternal, waiting for the day that time will allow its course once more. that is not, however, today. kaveh is here instead, surrounded by flowers, and light, and the gentle playful lilt of an agonised breeze, and alhaitham thinks - he needs to see his hands.

instead, alhaitham wades through the flowers. they allow him to pass. gossip flits through them with the breeze. their shiver their petals and he brushes them from his cape, his hands, and, then, allowing them to become a lost cause, still the shake of his head. ]

I am surprised you are not sneezing. Does the pollen not get to you this time of the year?

[loans]

[ there is comfort to be found in the company of flowers. they begin like this: buds, planted in fertile soil, covered in dirt. they are unseen, hidden from prying eyes, small little things that bear the weight of the world. with time, they grow, grow, grow. their existence brings anticipation, expectation. they bear titles, and roles, a duty. they bloom, then, and become the most beautiful thing the world has seen.

and under all that pressure they, too, wither and rest away their life, the memory of something so beautiful.

the goddess of flowers had just been the same. her memory is immortalized throughout all of sumeru, embed into their history. her dances, nilou replicates to perfection every time sabzeruz festival comes around. any lover of arts knew to appreciate her, and the legacy she left.

the perfect purple of real padisarahs. they bloom under kaveh's feet, much like a dream. he kneels to admire them, under the perfect, everlasting sunset. ]

Not at all. Spring revitalizes me, I think. I find it comforting.

[ words sprinkled in melancholy. those who know kaveh know this as well: from summer to winter, kaveh does not have the strength for most tasks. he's easier to exhaust, more likely to be found sitting on a bench in sumeru city, admiring the mountains and flora and the way the sky paints itself beautiful colors. come spring, and he blooms alongside sumeru roses and padisarahs, as though the embodiment of the season himself.

careful fingers touch the perfect purple petals of the flowers, and he smiles at the softness against his skin. ]

Shouldn't you be the one sneezing?

[haravatits]

[ more than the fields beneath his feet: kaveh blooms. he blooms profusely. he is nourished by the perfect golden slant of the sun. he is fed by the fertile loam of the mud. he blooms as if he were on the verge of apocalypse, a single flower against the veritable coming end. all dreams eventually come to an end. this one is no different.

alhaitham observes the bloom of his smile, and begins, as always, to mourn it. he crosses the purple sea to stand before him, his feet carefully navigating the stems of whispering purple and the gentle caress of green. alhaitham leans down, and takes kaveh's hands into his own. ]

Should I? Name me a padisarah this purple, and I will tell you when it went extinct. We do not have an allergy baseline for extinct species.

[ kaveh's hands are warm. it is, in fact, another key component of this dream. it has been some time since kaveh's hands were this warm. the calluses of alhaitham's hand seeks the long line of kaveh's. his thumb runs itself down the curve of his palm, the edge of his index, the curl of his littlest one, like the pantomime of a long-held promise. ]

Your calluses have receded.

[loans]

[ warm. the sunrays against his skin had been warm, once. the carelessness when he'd attempt to cook and lose strength in his hands to hold the pan, accidentally touching skin against a hot surface — warm. the touch of alhaitham's skin on his own. that, too, was once warm, just like this.

he takes that hand in his own, fingers between fingers. most flowers thrive in sunlight. kaveh is no exception. ]

I don't draw as much as I used to.

[ he tries, of course. kaveh is stubborn no matter what. there are times he manages a couple strokes, but never enough to quench his desire for creation. his voice is low, with a hint of sorrow. the memory isn't pleasant around water so clean. it's pollution itself. ]

Surely you're not going to only talk about my constitution, right? I thought dreams were supposed to be pleasant. Are yours not?

a million lifetimes away, still here; / FATE AU

[loans]

[loans]

[ with time comes change.

change is natural, change is healing. with change comes improvement, with change comes new findings. it is within their nature to adapt, to reflect on the environment around them and make best use of it. to refute the strengths that come with time is to regress, to lose sight of a brighter future. even those who keep their prints on the world wish for it to last generations, but ultimately, to be bettered and improved, studied and perfected. society begins from dirt.

the rakes, he finds, are still of his make. the gables, the roof ridges, the railings. the exterior design in its entirety has its modifications, but the core is one easy to recognize. a touch remained through time, unaffected by change. not quite yet. the interior bears familiarity. it is of kshahrewar nature still, of a making born from change and improvement. pride is timeless.

what is not timeliness is a task meant to take ten minutes. instead, time, that moves too fast when it is not meant to, and too slowly for one's own good, is merciless through and through. a task meant to take ten. it takes, instead, forty. it is, at the very least, carried out flawlessly. ]

Truly, what kind of Master sends out their Servant to do something for them, and don't even specify what it's for?

[ it starts, then, like this: speckles of golden light appearing into thin air, and the materialization of a body. kaveh exhales a long, tiresome sigh, and hands his master a notebook so thick in nature that it much resembles a tome. he dared peek, of course. curiosity is human, and he was human, once. still is, in part. and it's hardly as though the contents were hard to understand.

kaveh couldn't read them at all, to begin with. a notebook so thick it could be a tome of eld, written in a language other than common sumerian. ]

Must I remind you I'm a Caster? You didn't even go with me. What if I came across an enemy, hmmm? Is your book worth losing your Servant over? Do I look like I'm built for direct confrontation?

[haravatits]

[ change, by definition, needs time.

one can sift through the annals of history to behold humanity's leaps and bounds, and merely attribute it to fate. one cannot have history without change; therefore, one cannot have humanity without the inevitability of change. however, correlation has never found its equal in causation. for every era in human history that has seen tumult is an era where very little actually happened. it follows, then, that change is active. need and want bite each other in the throat and refuse to let go, and the ensuing bloodshed brings a new era kicking and screaming through the traumatic birth of creation. for every era that passes peacefully into a new form is an era where a small handful of people sought to change the world because they could not bear to leave it be. to do so has always required the cooperation of time. whether time gave enough of itself to set the battleground has always been up to its own discretion; this, alhaitham knows well.

it had been in the third iteration of the holy grail war, wherein the jungles of the avidya had burned overhead sending great plumes of smoke like the harbinger of the end of times that alhaitham, who had laid in the great magic circuits beneath the land and who had opened his eyes to think - that change is needed. it had been the fifth iteration that alhaitham remembered. today, time had taken him to the divan by the open window. the slanting sunlight is like ribboned honey this time in the afternoon. a cat could steep in dreams curled up beneath its lazy light. a cat does.

the little orange tabby that kaveh had fished into the household the very first night alhaitham had grasped his hand and pulled him from the summoning circle sits now-curled in alhaitham's lap, its head turned and buried into the circles of its paws. in contrast, alhaitham merely reads. he reads with the precision of something tuned to do so, each page turn timed like a clockwork machine. he does not, in fact, look up. he did not need to look up. ]

Yes.

[ as answer to which question? pick one. but alhaitham knows without looking up - kaveh is gold in the atrium. he fusses as he hands alhaitham the notebook. the weight of the pages is merely the weight of time, collected and coalesced into physical form. he puts aside his own book so he can heft its weight. and then, because he is alhaitham, he merely sits back to allow the cat a bit more room to stretch, and thumbs it open. ]

And the cat food?

[loans]

[ and yet, sometimes still, one is too stubborn to change.

what comes first is the click of a tongue, followed by the crossing of arms. then, a voice: ] 'Yes', to what? Would it kill you to elaborate?

[ time and time again, kaveh wonders, why him? he is well-aware that when a master conducts a summoning without a catalyst, the grail chooses a fitting servant. whether the personalities align or not matters not, something kaveh has never quite understood. after all, how are two people meant to work together to victory when they can barely work together between each other?

whether his was performed with or without one remains a mystery still. sumeru itself could've been his catalyst, he thinks. it is his birth place, where he lived all his life, where he performed his greatest deeds, where he eventually died. the house of daena still stands, and in it, there are books with his name on them. the light of kshahrewar, sumeru's most talented architect. to this day, decades later, he is still known as such.

and yet— yet, really, what is he here for? to go grocery shopping, of all things, while his master doesn't even bother to look at him when he speaks? ]

... I couldn't. [ kaveh finds room on the divan adjacent to his master's, a long sigh escaping his throat. his body might lack the physical exhaustion, but his mind surely shoulders it. ] There was a Servant nearby. I couldn't tell where, so I left. I wasn't just going to steal from the market either. [ he pauses for a moment, reaches out to give the poor little kitty some pets, before he speaks again. ] I will just go back later. Go with me next time.

[haravatits]

[ the cat is like the vibration of a warm little sun. it purrs, as cats down when met with ceaseless attention, and curls in on the stoic lap it has taken shelter in. the stoic lap: alhaitham's fingers draw itself over the rough-hewn pages of the journal. it is the scent of paper and memory, of dust and a time long spent. it is a life lived condensed into the form of mere ink and paper; it is a life lived that alhaitham has never, and will never experience. alhaitham handles it with the reverence of a man picking through the scripture of something holy. his seeking fingers are not meant for the ears of a cat, who stretches and turns its body so it can sun its other side.

for kaveh, the mere briefest of flickers - as if attention is a finite resource meant to be conserved: ]

Why? So I can observe for myself my Servant running from battle, dogged, like a hunted criminal?

[ and then, in the same, bland tone: ] Which Servant?

there is a loneliness more precious than life; / GAY FOR PAY ✨

[haravatits]

[haravatits]

[ twenty years ago on the fifth of may, alhaitham passed away. this is a metaphor reaching its inevitable conclusion, filtered through a poet's way of perceiving the world. through the looking glass, one can see the pieces align: a child barely five years of age, dead parents, a grandmother on life support and the fragments of an entire life before him shattered like fractal stars. alhaitham should have ceased to exist that day. children tend to do so when passed through the crucible of an overtaxed foster care system. but there had been a question posed that day - and alhaitham, who had looked to the choices before him scattered upon the broken flagstones of the path leading into an uncertain galaxy, had looked back, and merely said: yes.

they say chess is a primordial game that has existed since mankind have known games. if alhaitham were to describe it, he would akin it to a sea. its depths are known, but not mapped. its perils are described, but not catalogued. the colour of it on a sunlit day is the blue of a ravishing sky at dawn; the colour of it in storm is deeper than the far reaches of a hallowed galaxy. one could skim along its shores and make a good living. to wade too far into it is an ever-decreasing ratio of returns; to sink into its depth without a tether is folly. but if described in plain terms, alhaitham would akin it to this: chess is merely a means of survival. as a five year old child, he'd understood it as such. even now, the analogy stands. to win, one merely needs to be the last one standing.

tonight: alhaitham stands. the ticking of the grandfather clock reverberates beneath the rumble of the incoming storm. sumeru city has always been like this, with its roiling clouds tearing themselves apart over the peaks of jagged mountain tops, only to descend into its fertile, rainforest valleys before scattering over the expanse of an endless desert. the tailend of the monsoon season brings fresh migrants to its doors. there are those who live and die by the seasons. alhaitham's home nestles itself above the floodplains. its sloped rooves need seasonal cleaning. his gardens need biweekly trimming. his fences need yearly mending. there is always work to be done for those who look for it. and within its cloistered walls, alhaitham sends messages into the void, and waits.

the ritual is thus: a message to the service, a three-day waiting period. an appointment booked. in a fortnight, disappointment. it has been like so ever since alhaitham moved to the city proper with nothing but a slip of paper in hand and the knowledge that he owes a debt. at five years of age, he had not thought the debt could ever be repaid. but time has a way of whiling away the impossible. alhaitham works seven days a month. he finds solace in a private wall-to-wall library; he has found time to learn twenty languages. and every week, alhaitham sends a message to the service, and allows the wrong person in through his doors.

this, too, is a debt.

this week, alhaitham bends over his board and makes it his world. the doorbell chimes; a mere swipe of his phone, and the door unlocks itself. alhaitham does not bother to look up. he never does. the silence of the house steeps within the pages of the books that it keeps, muffled by the thick, dark carpet that wends its way through the sole animal trail that allows footfalls. the kettle boils. it whistles, announcing the completion of it task. and through the murk, alhaitham says: ]

Make tea.

[loans]

[ twenty years ago on the fifth of may, kaveh, too, passed away. for this side of the story, there is nothing as sentimental, or special, or worth telling. it is a story easily forgotten, of a child who has been forgotten, in a world that prefers to remain forgotten.

twenty-seven years ago, a child had been born into a loving, caring family. that, too, is a story forgotten. at age four, that same child had learned the importance of care, and that all that is fragile is wont to break. it had lost its foundation, but it received, in exchange, a single pillar. that child had not lost its shine, or forgotten that to smile, the ends of a mouth must reach one's ears. the child still had room to shine, and gleam, and glister, until its light dimmed, and died. until its pillar had been taken, and the child crumbled, and fell, and lost itself amidst the rubble.

the child's story, then, begins here: a hand taken, and a child that could no longer be called a child, for it had then lost its innocence and purity. kaveh, the not-child, fell into the well of a world that knew only to abuse his desperation, his dependency, his need for attention. kaveh, barely ten years of age, not yet stripped of selfishness, would cry, cry, cry, and beg: please love me, please need me, please don't leave me.

he had, then, been loved. he had, then, been needed. he had, then, kept a company, and another, and another, until a debt, too, had been built. until a web had been formed, and at its center, kaveh. stripped of want, and need, and independence. all he had for himself was a name, and a filthy, scarred body. a suit that fits him just perfectly.

and such is the other side of the mirror, deprived of light, deprived of importance. it is, after all, a story forgotten, until that same pillar is rebuilt. until a voice is heard. until a face is seen.

twenty years. kaveh, who clung to what made him whole, would not forget. kaveh, who held onto the debris, and dreamed of that pillar, told himself: this will not be forgotten. the kettle is. the birds outside are. but not the pillar. never the pillar. ]

... Alhaitham? [ twenty years. kaveh had never allowed himself to forget, but he knows well that he is so easily forgotten. that the child who had died twenty years ago is, after all, dead. that kaveh has not been that child in a long, long time. ] I, uh. Nevermind. Sorry, haha, I was just making sure you're the right person. ... That's your name, yes?

[haravatits]

[ tea is not being made. it takes alhaitham a moment in the murk to understand why. they say the best stories are ones not worth repeating, the ones that each life lived knows down to its very marrow its beat and turn. alhaitham looks at the repetition of one such story standing there in his doorway. the motion-activated lights flicker on one after another, carving a path into the chiaroscuro of alhaitham's living room. in direct opposition: the spotlight lingering upon flaxen gold, the moonlit silver in the living room before the grid of a chessboard. surprise has always been worn in glinting threads upon the tapestry of alhaitham's self-expression: the barest flicker of his gaze, the curve of his eyes widening just enough to catch the moonlight. and then - no more.

it had not been the expected disappointment. alhaitham does not know what it means. but kaveh, the orphan, stands in alhaitham's entranceway like a wayward deer, LEDs refracting off of the deep, sanguine red of his eyes the way saline lights do in the unfettered dark. he is wearing little. alhaitham is aware of the service he has called and been calling. the two are congruent, but without true meaning: what alhaitham searches for is not relief, but release. tonight, however, can only be described by a word that has yet to be invented. alhaitham does not know if it will be, or by whom.

still, the gaze lingers, before it flickers downward. three chess pieces are moved in succession before alhaitham speaks again, his voice echoed and clear across the length of the apartment: ]

I said to make tea. [ the click of piece against board. it reverberates, as it has always done so, like clipped moonlight.

then, as if in afterthought: ] Can you cook?

[loans]

[ the script ends there. there is no sequel, no continuation of any kind. kaveh, who had been expecting something, knows not what that something is.

acknowledgment? a touching reunion? words of affirmation? fury? worry? disbelief? something. anything, even. but not... this. this nothingness without a name. he should have seen it coming.

he is, after all, the forgotten child, whose story begun and ended with no overarching plot, or development, or good ending. it had been just that: the story of an orphan who had everything he cherished and loved taken from him. his innocence included. himself, especially.

alhaitham's voice echoes. it stiffens kaveh's already-stiff body. he swallows, it hurts, and he's reminded that he is here for a job.

a job that should not involve making tea, or cooking, but there had been no rules against it, no. it almost makes him forget this him. this kaveh, unforgettable, a kaveh who weights down his mind, and grounds him to reality. ]

Um, somewhat. Mostly easy things, like rice, eggs, and uh... [ the kettle whistles, and kaveh attends to it, lost in his own thoughts. it is only when the tea is poured into a cup at the very least that kaveh becomes aware of his own inadequacy.

he sets the tea down on the table with the gentleness of a man with evident trauma, and continues: ] ... That's it, actually.

goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes; / vampires (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

[haravatits]

[haravatits]

[ the thing about vampires is that they can't help but develop a codependency. it is in their very nature as creatures who drink the blood of others - to crave sustenance from other living beings is to be denied independence. on thursday evening, with the day's rain still wending its way down the muddy alleyways of sumeru city's streets, alhaitham tips his umbrella down as he observes the vampire still-sitting there perched along the railings of the partition between library property and the diner next door. it hadn't been the first time alhaitham has seen him there. it won't be, alhaitham surmises, the last. but alhaitham's sense tell him a far more complete tale. what he knows without a shadow of a doubt: the scent of blood has never lingered.

it is a paradox, an oxymoron seen fit to wend its way through a city that has always, at minimum, attempted to make some kind of sense.

tonight, alhaitham's umbrella tips as it blocks the incoming fat droplets of rain shedding from the dark, towering clouds sailing forth like ships in the night. the set of his gaze peers down on the drenched, golden flax of the vampire's hair.

without premable: ]

Here.

[ a towel, from a nearby convenience store that alhaitham ducked into after leaving the library. he tosses it to the vampire with a lazy flick of his wrist. ] Are you coherent?

why must u spoil me

[loans]

[ the rain is never truly cold. on a body that lacks warmth, it is simply wet, and that, he finds, is enough. it's always about the meaning behind an action, the analogy, the metaphor. it's about the play which has a script penned by himself, starred by himself, and seen by himself only. the premise is as such:

punishment is on the eyes of the beholder. in a dry land that has created a ritual for the gods in search of their favor, rain is a blessing. in a green, wide forest that relies on droplets of water to keep itself alive, rain is a necessity. to a creature that cannot feel it the same way others do, it is simply there, and he gives it purpose: to punish. it is, if only, a curse. willingly inflicted upon himself.

a curse that has, without his consent, been removed. kaveh looks up, and finds a familiar face, and a less familiar gesture. the towel, before eyes of a color that kaveh has learned to despise, almost seems like a foreign object. he takes it, eventually, and knows not what to do with it.

it is, at the very least, soft. soft, and warm. it feels wrong on his fingertips. ]

Um. Yes. [ in spite of his hunger, after all. kaveh is nowhere new to the feeling. the madness that follows starvation hasn't caught up to him in a while. ] I can't take this. I don't have anything to give you in exchange, so just keep it.

[ the towel, that is. it's not as though the rain would kill him, or make him sick. after all, who has ever heard of a cold being harmful to vampires? ]

anything for friendo... ✨

[haravatits]

[ what alhaitham had seen in kaveh: the blond of his hair, and the sanguine of his eyes. the long line of his jaw upon which rainwater wends in a rivulet down beneath the soaked ends of his collar. the flyaway hairs that cling to the pale of his temple speaking to the sordid, post-monsoon weather. the way the long length of his fingers curl around the towel as if it has not held one in some time. alhaitham thinks - what he sees is a ghost. there had been a picture of a young woman, once. that picture is still there pressed between the pages of a book that only alhaitham knows the location of, bound in silk the colour of dyed blood. by the interference of casual genetics, the dead wont to come back to life. only in this universe is that not a miracle of happenstance.

instead, the green red of his eyes shift so that the harrowing red burn of his iris focus first on the unsteady lilt of kaveh's hands, and then down to the soaked tail of his clothing. ]

The towel has already become soaked from the moisture on your hands. [ is what alhaitham says. ] I no longer want it back. Therefore, do with it as you like.

[ and then, in that selfsame tone: ] Answer this for me: a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river. What does he have left?

come out of the circle of time; / happy birthday kaveh!!!

[haravatits]