peepo | the morning sun and the night sky.

[ his body is awkward with the way it lays on the mattress, face down with his arms and legs still connected by an obnoxious golden chain, and kaveh would almost have had half the mind to say, unchain me if it weren't a foolish request to make. he's already doing what he does best: defying the impossible, challenging authorities. no other slave would have dared to talk back, to speak out of turn. they would have been beaten, tortured, punished, taught a lesson they would never forget. alhaitham does not do any of that, and kaveh hasn't yet had the time to wonder why. he doesn't bother to worry about what alhaitham thinks of him at all.

silence is, still, always so telling. kaveh listens, wishes he didn't, thinks on it. it is not something he would ever like to admit: that alhaitham is right. how is he to help another when he cannot help himself? how is he to ensure the safety of so many other people, when he can barely make sure he himself is safe?

with what autonomy, and under what authority? ]

Am I to accept my fate, then, and discard my personhood with so much ease? [ is what he goes with, quietly, from the bed. it is a half-minded reply, defeated. his body is sore, he's sleep-deprived, and when kaveh stops to think, he's also starving. he hasn't had an actual meal in an entire day.

what reason is there to argue, when all he has is words and not a sword? ] Do you treat all your slaves like decoration as well?

[ kaveh has worn himself out, but he has not worn himself thin. no, alhaitham thinks. he is not to accept his fate. it would not be like kaveh to do so. there had been a trellis, once, in the back gardens, sturdy enough that a small child weighing no more than a bag and a half of rice would have been able to climb with some assistant. alhaitham is the only one who remembers.

his missive is sealed with a flourish. alhaitham's head bows as he blows sand across the still-drying ink. ]

It depends on what use you are. [ he says, bloodless, and lifts his letter to shake it. sand falls and skitters across his desk. ] At least decoration don't talk, and they stay, with some exceptions, where they are placed.

[ the missive goes into an envelope. he seals it, then rises from his desk. ]

If you are done with your self-pity, I suggest stretching out your legs, and observing the layout of this room. Servants will be in shortly with supper. [ politely: ] Do you have any dietary needs or concerns?

[ the sheer comedy of everything alhaitham says would almost make him laugh if he found the will for it. he begins by lowering even more the value and purpose of a free person, demoted into a slave, demoted to decoration, demoted to something even lower than that. that's what he implies kaveh is, and kaveh himself feels like. he will not accept his fate, will fight tooth and nail against being treated or called a slave — but he'd much rather have something to do than deal with his current lack of purpose.

if he were here, and if he were dead: what difference does either make? a conversational partner? alhaitham could have plenty. ]

Oh, I'm sorry, are you bothered by the fact I have been leisurely enjoying my stay in your quarters? Woe is you. [ there's, then, louder rattling of chains, as though to bring attention to the fact that yes, he'd have loved to stretch out his legs, if he could. the cuffs around his ankles, connected by a golden chain to the cuffs around his wrists — neither really allow him the freedom to stretch.

as for his 'polite' question: ] ... None. [ mostly because he has no room to be picky at the moment. ]

Woe is me.

[ the look alhaitham gives kaveh clearly states that if he hasn't figured out how to stretch his arms and legs in the exact same direction, perhaps there's no hope for him yet. but it's been a long day, and the slaughter of kaveh's people still weighs heavily amongst the festivities. it is not an excuse, but it's a mitigating factor. a complexity to be accounted for. a reason - and alhaitham moves to the rhythm of it.

he crosses the floor to stand before where kaveh is still half-flopped on the bed, his limbs outstretched. alhaitham reaches forward for one of kaveh's wrists. ]

Remain still.

[ much easier said than done. despite all, his body responds with an instinctive jerk, something along the lines of fear. it's a trauma response, he knows. not one he'll be pride of anytime soon, or perhaps even at all.

kaveh tells himself that if alhaitham wanted to kill him, he'd have long done so. he wouldn't decorate him in extravagant and obnoxious garments if he wanted to kill him. he wouldn't bicker with him if he wanted to kill him. not yet, at least. not right now.

so he doesn't say anything, doesn't move. his body, instead, stiffens in a primitive fear. shameful. ]

[ he had, at some level, expected such a response. he had seen such things in prisoners of war, in newly-minted slaves and in the dogs that they sent into the pits, ever hopeful for a kind hand or a kind word but flinching at the mere shadow of human touch. kaveh is like one such animal now. his body shifts, the long line of which turns from defeated petulance to an animal in flight within the span of a human heartbeat. alhaitham's hand should not have paused, but it does so. his fingers hover above the gold of kaveh's bracelet before he realises what he is not doing. the suspended beat is like a held breath - blink and its gone, and his hand is once more in motion, fingers curled around the gold band keeping kaveh's wrist under lock and key.

the key shifts from his pocket to his hand. alhaitham unlocks it, brisk clinical movements that leave nothing to the imagination, his fingers sure and aloof. his skin does not brush kaveh's. he works on his other wrist, next, and then, bending, leans down to work on his ankles. first the left, then the right. the manacles fall where they lay, golden baubles glinting in the room's bright torchlight. the chains pool like sundered snakes.

last, alhaitham's detached gaze lifts to the sole collar left, resting against the sharp jut of kaveh's collarbone. ]

Lift your head.

[ he says, and reaches for it. ]

[ it should've stopped there. the weight is lifted off his wrists and ankles, the air kissing the skin there, red and slightly swollen, harmed by cuffs that were not kind to him or his own struggles. it's already more than kaveh would have asked for, more he'd have expected.

in his head, this went far differently. the chain that connects his ankles to his wrists is removed, and that's about it. the manacles remain, and he'd have been a fool to think alhaitham would unlock them as well. but he does. he does, and they're heavy on the mattress, and alhaitham speaks, lift your head. and what is kaveh to think of him?

there's another flinch here, and he feels his blood go cold. alhaitham could have killed him any time he wanted, he reminds himself. the hand that reaches for his neck will not choke him to death, despite the way he sees it so vivid behind closed eyes. at some point, they had shut by themselves. a primal fear response, one kaveh won't be happy about.

there's hesitance, but he lifts his head at last, and waits. either for the weight there to be gone, or for a hand around his neck to pin him down and prevent him from breathing. he hates that the latter is the one with a higher likelihood of happening in his reality. ]

[ the gol-e sorkh of the eastern rise is known for the ruby flash of his eyes and the crimson lash of his wit. songs have been written about the depth of his beauty that rivals the shine of the sun. red is the rarest colour of rose in the fragmented basin of vissudha. the sumeran rose, named for the ancient land that their city-states honour, is famously purple. for someone to have been born with such red in his blood, they say, the lokapalans were blessed with light. and so the story goes - red jewels for his first nameday, a bracelet inlaid with red star rubies for his coming to age, the crimson jewel of a natlan prince embedded into his hilt of his great claymore. red is a colour synonymous with kaveh. it had brought him great fortune, once.

his wrists burn red. the knotted red bruising reminds alhaitham of an ancient torture involving fire ants. the red of kaveh's eyes, squeezed shut, gives way to the painted red of his lips ostentatious enough that it hides the bruising of his lips well until you're close enough to taste. his people had been dyed red. his palace had been dyed red. the colour of soul must bleed, alhaitham thinks. but this time, he doesn't pause. sentiment will not reverse course the endless waterfall of history. sentiment will not give excuse against the fear. sentiment will not open the lock to a gilded, golden chain. only alhaitham will.

his fingers skim the gold of the collar, warmed by kaveh's bodyheat, the clinical press of his fingers terribly disinterested in anything more than the task at hand. his key slips in. the click of a finely-oiled lock seems to reverberate in the air between them, a shift in atmosphere as alhaitham slips the collar away. he drops it irreverently, where it bounces off the bed to roll to a stop at kaveh's unbound feet.

alhaitham rises. he pockets the key once more, and then straightens to stand. ]

Now, you may stretch without any force in this world commanding your legs and arms to be in the same direction. Or did you have more questions about the process?

[ then there's nothing.

no fingers that fit so neatly around his thin neck, thumb pads pressing against his trachea. when the red of his eyes close, it gives rise to recent memories. fire, screams, clashing — of few, few weapons, of glass breaking, of bodies falling. he remembers the way his own room had been stormed in, several men he hadn't recognized ransacking all they could find. jewelry had been stolen, furniture destroyed, and fingers, about the same length as alhaitham's, had taken his wrists, had covered his mouth, had put manacles of the same kind on him that fingers of the same length had just now removed.

the collar falls off the bed, and kaveh recognizes the sound. his own fingers reach for his neck, and the air around it is cold. he's not free. ]

... Why? [ is the only thing he says in response, brows furrowed at alhaitham. he's not happy — there's no reason to be. but kaveh, even here, is still transparent, a fault in a prince. the anger is visible, but the confusion overshadows it. lokapala does not succumb to slave trade, has never considered partaking in it. the slave market is not something kaveh has knowledge in, but he's no fool. keeping a slave unbound is not heard of.

then why? what is he purpose there? what could alhaitham possibly want with him, then? ]

[ kaveh looks at him. in the refracted reflections within his eyes, alhaitham can see the shards of war. anger, confusion, wariness, terror, an unsaid sorrow that permeates the very living fabric of what kaveh stands for. to use emotion, you must first recognise it. alhaitham's grandmother had walked him to the leather-bound journals of his parents, and said to him - alhaitham, my haitham, you must learn to weep.

the red of kaveh's neck stands for condemnation. alhaitham looks back at him, at the question being posed, and shakes his head. ]

I had thought the reasoning is obvious. [ is what he says into the stunned silence. ] How can you eat supper while chained?

[ as if on cue, the doors to his suite opens. servants with their heads bowed low enter. the headmaid looks between alhaitham and his slave, and merely gestures for the slaves to bring in their platters. one with silver manacles carefully lays out a dinner mat on the floor, dyed jute and woven cashmere depicting a repeating geometric pattern in blues and greens. dinner is spread: silver platters of khoresh-e ghormeh sabzi, laden with fragrant lamb and peppered with acrid morsels of yellowed ormani limes. an ash reshteh heralding the scent of spring, fresh greens imported from pardis dhyai coupled with beans and soaked in the salt of a fragrant yoghurt. platters of tomato salad coupled with diced green cucumbers interspersed with the purple of crips onions. chunks of chickens skewered laid out on a bed of flatbread, dotted with minute strands of saffron. one by one, the slaves bow their head, and one by one, the room clears, leaving behind alhaitham, and kaveh, and food enough to feed a small contingent of elephants.

alhaitham is the one who sits down first cross-legged at the end of the dinner mat. he wipes his hands with the moist towels provided in a little bowl of rosewater, and, without further ado, picks up the ends of a skewer. ]

[ none of this is right.

not the answer he's given, not the way the red of his eyes watch slaves, chained ones, set down the food he's supposed to eat. his stomach churns in rejection, but a part of it falls victim to the several different smells. it is, he recognizes, dinner fit for a royal. in lokapala, they dined all around a wide wooden table, humble, kings and queens and princes and princesses and servants alike. in lokapala, they are all equals, all children of the sun.

here, kaveh is a slave, alhaitham is a prince, and their food is served by people stripped of their names, history, titles, honor and pride, chained and bound. his pressure drops.

and because this is kaveh, prince of stubbornness: ] ... I'm not eating that.

[ 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.

[ his father had once told him that the window to a person's heart should ever only open for someone who will treat it with care. his mother, in turn, chuckled, and said that the reason their kaveh was so beloved throughout lokapala and its neighboring villages was because he allowed all to peek inside his chest, hiding nothing from no one. she thought of it a strength, while his father wished only for him to exert caution.

humans come with strengths and flaws, and what once kaveh brandished as a weapon, today its blade is turned to him, a cut made across his chest where he bleeds and bleeds and stains the endless waterfalls of the ali qapu red. what is, after all, one more bloodfall in the hands of vissudhans? lokapala's prince has the reddest blood of them all.

his pressure drops even further, because alhaitham has that advantageous point into his heart. he knows what will hurt him, knows the exact words to say to counter kaveh's stubbornness. he rises, then, without a word, mindful of the lack of strength in his legs. he takes the plate that is offered to him, sits right across alhaitham, and just— stares.

at the plate, at the food, at the floor. if he had been pale before, now he much resembles a corpse, so overcome and lost in his own despair that he's barely recognizable as a child of the sun. this is, after all, what happens when you bleed so endlessly towards another. when he wishes for nothing more than his people's happiness, for their wellbeing. the very idea of causing them distress and hurt is one that does not agree with kaveh's essence, and all of his leftover strength is spent simply trying not to show any more weakness. he couldn't bear to shed tears for his people today, because there is still a tomorrow, and neither of them knows what tomorrow will bring.

without a single word spoken, then, kaveh slowly finds will to start eating. ]

[ kaveh begins to eat. it begins slowly. he takes a seat, he takes the plate, he takes a bite. alhaitham observes him for a moment, watching as a living corpse would going through its motions. blood has drained from him. it has drained, and it has gone somewhere else - to the hearts of others, perhaps. if he were to akin the lokapalans right now as an organism, kaveh would be its still-beating heart, draining into endless reservoirs. he doubts kaveh knows what he is eating. he would not see it. its taste would be as ash upon his tongue. but he is eating, and alhaitham could look away, satisfied that he is going through vital motions to keep his energy up and his health in check.

tomorrow, it will likely need to be said again. kaveh will have to relearn the hurt before he numbs to it. he will once again no longer wish to eat; alhaitham will say words to have him do so. but that is tomorrow. just like motions and poems pressed between paper-thin manuscripts, emotions can be relearned. kaveh will relearn no matter how many times it takes, and alhaitham will teach him no matter how many times it takes.

but that is for him to handle tomorrow. today, alhaitham finishes his portion of stew. he mops up the remaining broth with a piece of flatbread, and then, putting aside his platter, considers the situation. ]

What are the names of the Lokapalans that were brought in with you?

[ the statement has truth to it. kaveh does not know what he's eating, doesn't bother to really tell apart spices, tastes, smells. he eats because his body needs the food, he eats because his people need him. he eats to survive another day.

but alhaitham, oh alhaitham. alhaitham knows what to say, each time. when night falls, and he's on the verge of sleep, kaveh will think about this. is he truly so transparent? is the window to his heart so wide open that even the enemy can read him? why does alhaitham know him so well?

the flame rekindles within crimson eyes. and then, with the same protectiveness a mother shows a child, a prince shows his people: ] What does it matter to you?

[ for a moment, kaveh looks nearly himself again. there's you, alhaitham thinks. there's the you who wouldn't dim your flame for anyone. it's a valid question. it's also a question that alhaitham has considered, and discarded. there are some questions that don't need answers to stand alone. there are some questions that are better not asked. this one may belong to both.

alhaitham looks at kaveh, considering. ]

Did you already forget their names?

[ kaveh is a child of the son, as are all those who hail from lokapala, but many have considered him a lion, too. fierce, intense, who will brandish his claws when need be. this here is one of those times, and the raw anger on his face is not one that suits it. a smile better suits a prince.

he all but growls at alhaitham. ]

If you are so concerned, ask them yourself. I do not owe you anything. Their names are not mine to give.

[ in more ways than one. ]

[ nobody can look at the flames of rage and think them the warmth of a hearth fire. but alhaitham thinks of the motions of a walking corpse, and knows that this is the preferable outcome. life is a strange concept. it is made of components so entirely disparate to each other that one needs to wonder how they come together at all - but it's equally true that you cannot have the presence of life without it. shelter, food, emotion, drive. sometimes, the flames of rage.

alhaitham is unflinching. ]

Their names have been discarded. They would be under the threat of death if they speak their names; you are, as of right now, the only individual in this nation still able to speak on their behalf. You still will not speak?

[ silence is telling. kaveh watches, studies, tries to find fault in alhaitham's features, in every motion he makes, in the way his lips mouths the words he speaks, as though there he would find a tell that this is all an elaborate lie, that he's being played with. kaveh, trusting, loving, naive kaveh. he would be easy to manipulate. his father worried much about him, but never saw the opportunity to warn his son. lokapala was perfect. sumeru, then, hadn't been so tumultuous. so full of conflict.

he puts his plate down for a moment. there is no need for a prince to recall the name of every single one of his people, but kaveh does. they're family, after all. in the intricacies of his mind, their names are all written on a large wall, never to be forgotten. ]

Akram. Kurash. Nasser. Bita. Panah. Goli. Sanad. Varsha. Elham. Izad.

[ slowly, he recites each of their names, their faces fresh in his memories. they had all smiled, once, dined around the same table, celebrated the same festivals. now, with luck, they're all under the same palace, enslaved. with luck, they're still alive — or would it be luckier to be met with death? ]

Not that you will remember, or assign a face to a name. Again, what does it matter to you?

[ names recited from memory. a prince, no matter what manner of heart he possesses, is forced to confront the limitations of the human body and mind when recalling the names of every subject in his domain. it then confirms alhaitham's suspicions that each lokapalan had been selected based on their connection to the royal palace itself. he considers the perspective of the eremites - they would have been ordered to choose and select the best and most viable slaves for serving the vissudha palace. what better quality of slaves to choose than individuals who once served a palace themselves? he considers, and rejects, the possibility that azar would have given orders to the eremites directly as to where the slaves must be sourced. communicating little details like that to eremites, the scourges of the desert and mere dust beneath his heels, would be beyond him.

alhaitham knew that he could use this. there were a few elements to be confirmed, but the facts slot into his pre-existing plans with the neat click of a chess piece in place. alhaitham looks at kaveh, still defiant, chin jutted out in a contemptuous lilt, and rests his chin on the heel of his hand as he thinks. ]

The young woman who was brought in with you, with long light hair braided along her left shoulder. Purple painted lips, gold foil on her eyelids obscuring the reddening of her eyes, extensive bruising beneath the make-up on her right arm, and the tri-coloured bangles on both wrists - which of the ones you named was she?

[ he watches, again. studies, again. analyzes, again. the description is an immediate match to the name in his mind, and he finds it unnecessary the continuation. they are truths that kaveh knows, truths kaveh watched happen, but truths he does not want to be reminded of. it is wood thrown into his fire, igniting it, making it stronger. it rekindles the flame in his eyes, again. ]

... Elham. [ he complies, then, and there's a small ball of fear deep in his stomach. what if, by giving a name to a face, he's going to indirectly be the cause of her distress? what if, indirectly, her prince brings her hurt?

alhaitham hadn't choked him when he had the chance. hadn't killed him yet. he could, if he wishes, kill those around him, again. the knot in his throat is not an easy one to swallow. ] Why do you ask?

[ once again, kaveh asks. once again, alhaitham is disinclined to respond. the intention does not - and never has - mattered. he is the prince of a state that soaked lokapala in blood. nothing he says will assuage the evident suspicions that swim in kaveh's blood-like gaze. and so he doesn't. elham's name is inscribed in the neat annals of his mind, carefully filed away for actionable outcome. beneath her name, there is a blank to be filled. the only person left alive in this world who would know the answer is kaveh.

what use are you, he had asked kaveh, not having expected a response in turn. but alhaitham knows kaveh's use. ]

Is she good with dance, or numbers? Or perhaps is she a gifted equestrian?

[ number would be idea. he had never had a spy within the hall of the master of numbers. and have someone within the stables with the master of horses and sumpterbeasts would further facilitate travel opportunities.

knowing, however, his questions come without explanation, alhaitham inclines his head. ] Answer the question, and I will arrange for you to meet with her.

[ alhaitham always knows what to say. he is the perfect example of what a prince should be; cunning, intelligent, authoritarian. kaveh would agree to disagree.

he stares, again, because it's all he can do. his heart sinks into his chest, again, because alhaitham reads him like a children's book. there is no reason to believe those words, but kaveh is optimistic. bright, he gleams and shines, always finds the glass to be half-full. even here, that side of him hasn't been extinguished yet.

yet. ]

... She was our treasurer. [ was. it burns in his tongue.

these memories, too, are vivid in his mind. elham had never agreed with the way kaveh was so lax with money, so often offering his to those in need, so often being close to being in debt. a dear friend, above all. a sister. the memory, too, burns in his heart. ]

Is it your way of speaking of the living as if they were dead?

[ but alhaitham's thoughts are already moving on. treasurer - impressive, for a woman of her age. she would be underestimated by the hall of numbers, but her beauty would allow her closer access than others in her position. the blank page within his mind fills. he will be able to use that. there are arrangements to be made and underhanded meetings to involve himself, but success viable.

he gets up. ]

Eat. [ alhaitham says to kaveh as he moves back to his desk, taking a towel with him to clean off his hands. ] I will arrange for the meeting with her within the week. She will be inconsolable if her prince visibly lost weight. Do you want to be further impetus for her worries? At the very least, if there is nothing else you can do, you can put on a brave smile.

Your people have stripped us of our essence and being. Do not place the blame on me. Or do you intend to bring her name and status back?

[ who would have thought alhaitham would be vissudha's royal jester alongside crown prince. a man of so many talents.

his blood-red, fire-lit eyes watch each and all of his movements, as he stands and returns to his desk. there is a natural curiosity here that has him wondering he had been doing there moments ago, what missive he had written. kaveh is optimistic, but that does not apply to matters what come from alhaitham. he'd have been optimistic vissudha and lokapala's personal enmity would come to an end, once.

it did, but in all the wrong ways.

kaveh turns back to the food. it's his turn to pick apart one of the skewers left. alhaitham is always good with his words. ]

Why are you doing all of this? [ he inquires a third time. ] I don't understand you.

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