[ the phrasing has hit home. alhaitham looks. kaveh's fury simmers. he, too, will someday burn out. all those within the ali qapu's walls are fated to do so. but that does not mean, however, that there no longer exists flame. you have to ration your anger. alhaitham knows this better than anyone. he will continue to know this, long after all else has burned out. there are certain things you cannot let go of, lest you lose your way. one must have something they are willing to hold onto until the very end. his grandmother had taught him so.

still, kaveh's anger is expelled through word and motion, the crystalline dagger of his eyes. the poems describe the eastern rose as red; today, the angle of kaveh's head brings out the cooler shades of it, the pink of which is like blood in water. it is, however, beside the point. ]

Why? [ alhaitham asks. there are no side-paths that he is willing to embark on. not in this argument. see - ] Do not deflect. Must you have the same freedoms as I before you can allow yourself to praise your own people?

[ because the slaves in the kitchen are kaveh's people. because kaveh needs not ask alhaitham to praise them for him. ]

Praise your own people, or don't. It matters little to me. But do not conflate it with your perceived sense of agency. I will not be your excuse not to. [ alhaitham's gaze is hard, the green of an emerald mine, the red of a blood diamond: ] You know this better than I, Kaveh.