[ 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. ]
no subject
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.