[ kaveh stands there. it's the expected reaction. dinner would weigh uncomfortably in the stomach of someone who still remembers, to no fault of his own, the dying screams of his kinsmen. but that, too, is sentiment. sentiment doesn't build strength. it won't nourish the body. it won't ensure that an empty shell will see tomorrow. alhaitham picks apart his skewer. he does so without looking up. he lets kaveh stand there, the scent of the food wafting, the sound of eating pushing at the thin line he's drawn of his boundaries. sometimes, time works with you.

then, after his first skewer is picked clean, alhaitham takes a plate. he ladles stew, chunks of tender lamb and supple peas, and picks onto it a bed of greens, tomatoes so fresh that they still gleam. ]

If there is a significant amount of food left over, the staff in the kitchen will assume that my household was not pleased with tonight's meal, and the slaves will suffer the consequences of it. What will they feel, I wonder, when they learn that you are the source of their distress? Starting from tonight, some of them may even be Lokapalans. [ alhaitham holds out the plate to kaveh. ] Sit, and eat. They will be rewarded by their slavemasters if you do the bare minimum.