peepo | the morning sun and the night sky.

[ tomorrow, kaveh says. alhaitham thinks - next time. the objective fact does not change simply because willpower dictates it so: that the eleazar is worsening, that the cycle of the sabzeruz continues. tomorrow, kaveh will once again find a place to hide; tomorrow, once again, breakfast will be cold. the unending cycle of the festival takes the mundane and turns it into the living cold of an unattainable future. but once again, today, alhaitham has found kaveh in the realm of the living. he has found his kaveh, even if he is but a shadow of himself. the disease has hollowed him. it has hollowed sumeru. alhaitham's priority has never been sumeru.

kaveh apologises. alhaitham does not bother to look up. he deposits a peeled rambutan into kaveh's hand. the peel is crushed into his palm. he takes up another. ]

Does there seem to be much work that needs to be done on the day of a festival?

[ it is not the first time they have had this conversation. it will not be the last. ] You seem more eager for me to work overtime than the staff of the Akademiya itself. If you were truly worried about my schedule, you should have chosen to stay in bed.

[ as usual, it is said without censure; a mere statement of fact. ]

Busy doesn't always mean with work. You sound more like you miss it.

[ busy could mean plenty. busy enjoying the birth of lesser lord kusanali, and the festivities that come with it. busy browsing the house of daena, always quiet but quieter still today. busy, not babysitting kaveh, not peeling his rambutans.

(its weight, light as it is, is welcoming on his hands. he does not eat it just yet.)

there is, however, guilt that comes with it. yes, perhaps if kaveh were to be truly concerned about alhaitham's schedule, he would have stayed in bed, not wandered alone through sumeru city without a word spoken to alhaitham. but staying in bed has never been something kaveh enjoyed doing. staying in bed meant giving up, meant giving in to feelings of hopelessness. he may not have the strength to peel a rambutan, but the sky is gorgeous, the people celebrate, and the leaves are a beautiful orange color. it feels, at least, far less lonely.

it should feel less lonely. the hollow feeling in his chest is not gone in the least. ]

You worry too much. Just enjoy your day. Or what, you're scared I will just suddenly disappear?

[ he just might, one day. ]

[ a second rambutan deposits itself in kaveh's hands. there are now two beaded fruits there, the colour of a small, pink universe unto themselves. alhaitham presses another thin stack of rambutan peels into the palm of his hand, and begins on a third. the edge of his nail pries apart the thick, hardened rind. the pads of his fingers break apart the pliable skin and shred it along the contours of its flesh. the final fruit sits, glistening, against the curve of his thumb. he eats it. the pit is a stone in the back of his mouth. the fruit is overly sweet. it is the season for rambutans, just as it is the season for autumn, and the season for the celebration of a birth of a god. alhaitham takes his handkerchief and discards the pit into it. then, he looks to kaveh.

in the thing, silverine strands of morning light filtering from the canopy of the divine tree, kaveh's skin is sallow. the pallid of his complexion is accentuated by the thin wisps of flyaway hairs along his forehead, framing the sunken pits of his cheeks. he has lost weigh. he has lost vitality, which has little to do with weight. the morning light is a halo. one would not be surprised if the light were to consume kaveh; one would not be surprised if kaveh were no longer whole.

alhaitham, who remains unsurprised, simply looks at him. he continues to look. ]

Fear suggests that I anticipate danger and uncertainty. [ is what alhaitham says. ] What is uncertain or dangerous about your state of being? I know where you are. Where would you go that I cannot find you? Where would you go where I cannot follow?

[ the green of his eyes flicker down, to the handkerchief. alhaitham holds it up, with a shrug of a gesture. ]

Eat. They are unbearably sweet. Though the illness has decreased the sensitivity of your palate, you will find them just so.

[ and discard the pits here. ]

[ two rambutans. kaveh, who graduated a kshahrewar, not a haravatat, finds poetry in it. two, never one. alhaitham says, where would you go that i cannot find you?, and it adds to the sentiment. always two, never one, never kaveh by himself, never just alhaitham. he waxes poetry on the red rambutans, gives himself the weight of guilt, to replace the weight he has lost, too. he bleeds for those who breathe and those who do not, and wonders, then, how he is supposed to eat one fruit at a time.

he does not eat, again, just yet, but does not say anything either. there is an answer at the tip of his tongue, but kaveh does not dare voice it.

there is only one place he could go that alhaitham would not be able to follow. sooner or later, he knows, he would have to leave him behind, and be met with loneliness once more. the sky is a beautiful shade of blue, the leaves are sunset-orange, the rambutans are unbearably sweet. it is a good day. kaveh would not spoil it. ]

... Omar must have personally sorted them for me, then. I should thank him later.

[ he bites into one of them, eventually. for kaveh, whose taste buds are not what they used to be, the rambutan tastes just perfect. not overly sweet, he finds. not for him.

he bites into the second rambutan after, and decides to eat them together. ]

Do you remember what you dreamed of last night? [ in between bites, kaveh asks, a quiet voice so light the wind carries it with ease. ] Tell me about it if you do.

[ kaveh consumes two rambutans. flesh, blood, pit. alhaitham knows. deshret had not been a man that the gods could rob. in the end, he, too, watched the downfall of his kingdom, as catastrophe beyond his control took what he loved and held dear, and tore it into the smother of golden sands. inevitability, scholars would say, pouring over the relics of a civilisation lost to time. folly, alhaitham says. if deshret had wanted, truly wanted, to keep his civilisation, he would have gone with it. there had been an eagle soaring high. there always is. but eagles can be made to land. an eagle is known to roost. and there is no destruction on teyvat quite like choosing self-destruction. kaveh would know.

instead of answering, alhaitham observes. the rambutans were picked appropriately given the season and the circumstances. it follows that tomorrow's rambutans would be much the same. the confluence of time and space continues in a cycle. however, it's in the differences that the cracks form - if omar the stallkeeper were to sell mangoes instead of rambutans, if the rambutans were any less sweet, if the weather were any less ravishing and the colour of the sky any less blue. kaveh eats his rambutans, and alhaitham looks to the future for a permutation of kaveh who will not.

there is only one place kaveh would go where alhaitham cannot follow. but alhaitham, whose name is not synonyms would the improbable, knows that he will, regardless.

so instead, alhaitham shrugs his shoulderless shrug. ]

Are you aware that the purple of the padisarahs of the past are different than the ones of the present?

[ the answer is not one he expects, and caught halfway through a bite, kaveh finally turns to look at alhaitham. the purple of the padisarahs, he says. alhaitham does not care about flowers the same way artists do. he does not see them with the same eyes, with the same mindset. yet, he asks nonetheless, and kaveh blinks once, twice.

the purple of the padisarahs. ]

I have read something of the kind, I believe. [ he has not. ] Or Nilou has told me about it. [ she has not. ]

[ kaveh bites into one of his rambutan, and recalls the memory. it comes, instead, so vivid in his mind, as though he has seen them himself. a perfect purple, from stalk to petals, dots of purple that decorated land in imitation to the sky and its stars. they are soft to the touch, softer than the padisarahs close to their house. he's sure, too, that he has a memory retelling their smell, sweeter, often used as an aphrodisiac. the padisarahs are flowers of love. kaveh recalls reading about that somewhere, perhaps a poetry book of liyuen origin.

no such book exists, no.

the thoughts, he realizes, make him acutely aware of the lack of padisarahs come autumn. it is not their season. time and time again, kaveh reminisces about them. ]

Am I to believe you have dreamed of padisarahs so purple they are rumored to glow come nightfall?

[ kaveh, who has neither read about or been told about the padisarahs, bites into his rambutan. alhaitham peels another. he eats it slowly as the memory unfurls between them - purple of the land, framed against the blue of the sky. the sweet scent of something warm and alive, alight with laughter and dance. alhaitham has never liked purple. kaveh does, as he does anything with colour. between the two of them, they sit against the divine tree, kaveh thinking of padisarahs that he has never seen, alhaitham seeing the padisarahs that kaveh has never seen.

the flowers of death.

the comment amuses him. only kaveh - bold, beautiful, impossible you - could come up with a thought like this, to a person like alhaitham, whom nobody in sumeru would believe could dream anything with colour, let alone with delicacy. but it is kaveh, and it is alhaitham. the sound that comes from alhaitham is one of consideration. he presses the last peeled rambutan into kaveh's hand. ]

It had not been nightfall. But the flowers defied shadows. Dreams are not meant to make sense, but their purple was not a colour that I had seen in this world. I identified them as padisarahs through that alone.

[ the beautiful purple of real padisarahs. alhaitham speaks of them, and kaveh can almost picture them himself. anyone would be more inclined to believe that is a dream kaveh had, not alhaitham. but alhaitham, he knows, is a person like everyone else, who bleeds when cut, and bleeds the exact same red color. dreams are not meant to make sense, no, and they do not distinguish between a romantic idealistic man and his seemingly insensitive, cold roommate.

kaveh, whose world is much brighter than everyone else's, had not been given that same beautiful dream. alhaitham, who sees the world much like other people, deserves an unforgettable sight.

the first rambutan, kaveh discards its skin onto alhaitham's handkerchief. the second, as he bites its final bite, follows along. he does not start on the third. ]

I'm jealous. [ he is, of course. ] I should sit you down and teach you how to draw, one day, so you may replicate their likeness. I would have loved to see them.

[ jealous, kaveh says. it is but a dream, alhaitham thinks. a figment of the imagination of a long-dead king. it does not bear jealousy. not kaveh's. not anyone's. but this, he does not say. kaveh's head tilts with the peel of his rambutan. alhaitham's handkerchief rises to meet him halfway.

amused, and quietly so: ]

Do my hands seem like they are meant to draw?

[ to that, kaveh finds purchase to squint, but does not face alhaitham when doing so. he would see it, nonetheless. alhaitham is, after all, always looking at him.

he bites into the third rambutan, first, before he voices: ] There's no such thing. If you want to learn, you can.

[ nothing can stop an artist from pursuing a dream. kaveh believes wholeheartedly, after all, that passion can move mountains. passion overcomes hardships. passion will not bring food to one's table, or money to one's wallet, but it will make you stand out from other people. it is one of the reasons kaveh, and not one of his seniors, nor any of his juniors, is the light of kshahrewar himself. ]

What stops your hands from picking a pencil and putting it to paper? You know how to draw a circle, or a square. Shapes are not hard. With practice comes perfect. Even you can do it. [ a pause, and then: ] Or are you so advert to the arts you cannot bear to try?

[ kaveh squints. he sees it not in kaveh's eyes, but in the set of his neck, in the way he leans forward just so as the gears in his head spin. the eleazar has robbed kaveh of much. the pain in his fingers, the creak of his joints, the shaking of once-steady hands versus the flaky calluses from dehydrated skin. but it has not robbed kaveh of the alacrity of mind and the singular focus of his existence. this much, alhaitham is sure.

alhaitham removes from his pocket the little wooden container of balm that tighnari had put together. the faint scent of jasmine permeates. ]

The same reason that once stopped you from learning another language. [ he puts down the rambutan peels and the handkerchief so that he can twist open its cap. jasmine now flourishes. ] Unless you have suddenly developed an interest in the syntactic topology of Ancient Enkanomiyan? I turn the question back to you: are you so adverse to languages that you cannot bear to try?

[ a parallel conversation, conducted without words: alhaitham holds out his hand for kaveh's. the intention is clear. his unoccupied hand, please. ]

You know that's different. What use will Enkanomiyan have in my life? If I would like to converse with other Haravatats, I could use the language we both speak.

[ he would have once thought, yes, why not give enkanomiyan a chance, why not visit enkanomiya itself? surely with alhaitham's prestigue and position, he could manage a field trip down sangonomiya. he would have much been willing, but this kaveh does not bear the same hopeful dreams. he would not make it across the sea. he would not have the strength in his legs to explore an ancient civilization. he hasn't in a long time.

he bites into the rambutan, and gives alhaitham his left hand. anyone else, he would have hesitated, likely not even complied. alhaitham knows him, however. alhaitham takes care of him. why would he not? ]

With art, you can easily immortalize memories, or translate dreams into paper. It's more about the sentimentalism of it, and not its usefulness. Though, well, I'm certain you could find purpose for art as a hobby.

[ kaveh slips his left hand into alhaitham's. he has always run cool, even at the height of summer. the eleazar affects body heat regulation, or so tighnari had taught alhaitham early on, when the prognosis was still unclear. it affects the stiffness of the joints and the quality of the skin. the skin is the body's largest organ. it regulates body temperature and protects nerves. alhaitham is no amurta, but he learned. he always did. with care, he turns kaveh's hand over so that he can see his palm. the calluses have faded through years of intermittent use, but the pads of alhaitham's fingers, painstakingly searching for traces, still feels the thick nubs of skin that indicate their existence. pulls out a second handkerchief to wipe away any last vestige of fruit juice, and then, with care, begins to rub ointment.

first, kaveh's joints. the long line of bone and the crook where cartilage swells. they're the first to go in the winter, when the plunging temperature brings out the flaky red of eczema. alhaitham says, as he does so: ]

I already have a hobby. [ next, the pads of kaveh's fingers, the ointment worked in with the gentle touch of someone used to working with irreplaceable manuscripts of dubious fragility. the ointment seeps. ] I am hardly in need of another.

You can have more than one hobby, last I checked. You certainly have the time.

[ alhaitham's touch is routine, and in spite of their touch, their skin has long become one. as always, alhaitham is gentle in the way he holds his fingers, applying salve so carefully on his joints. the jasmine is nice. tighnari is a professional in what he does, and kaveh never fails to thank him for sparing some of his time to take care of kaveh. alhaitham is enough. alhaitham is, at times, too much. wouldn't it be so much better if kaveh took care of himself, without burdening anyone?

thoughts that are haunting. even on such a beautiful day, they do not find will to be merciful. kaveh's fingers twitch reflectively at the touches, and he sets the half-eaten rambutan down.

at last, kaveh turns to look at alhaitham. he bears a half-smile on his face that is all too devoid of feelings. ]

Let me teach you how to draw. [ so when i no longer can, someone will have my skills. ]

[ kaveh smiles. the smile is like that of a hollowed fruit. it is not a pleasant smile. alhaitham recalls a thought. kaveh, amongst the carved statues of masters lining the walls of the kshahrewar hall, each marbled body forever suspended in the dance of ordinary existence. alhaitham remembers thinking thus: that kaveh seems as if one with the petrified storytellers in eternal narration, that their bodies, carefully sanded of blemish and fault is that of the light that surrounds the heart of the kshahrewar. that looking at the display, one forgets that stone, too, can be shattered.

alhaitham's fingers continue their ministrations. he runs his palm over the back of kaveh's hand, feeling for changes in the set of its curve. and then, finally, he lets him go, so that he can gently take his other hand into his. he begins anew: handkerchief, balm, and the first of kaveh's fingers, as cool as freshly fallen snow.

he says: ]

No. [ no is a sentence unto itself, a fully formed thought with no room for dispute. alhaitham gently rounds kaveh's knuckle. he continues: ] Do I seem like a man in need of more sentimentality in my life? If you wish to see more art in this word drawn in your style, with your skills, you will do it yourself, Kshahrewar.

[ he knows what this is.

this is alhaitham preventing kaveh from accepting defeat ever so readily. this is alhaitham being his pillar of support. this is alhaitham telling him it is not over yet. this is, simply, alhaitham.

what alhaitham doesn't know is that kaveh has long accepted his fate. what good is an architect who cannot draw straight lines? what use is an artist who cannot hold a pencil? alhaitham doesn't understand, because alhaitham does not draw. he does not understand the inadequacy that comes with inability, how small the once light of kshahrewar feels when he holds a pencil and cannot tell how much pressure is put on paper.

his eyes fall on their fingers. alhaitham, whose touch is measured and careful, does not understand, because he deals in the delicate papers of books and documents, but not the sturdiness of a pencil. here, kaveh holds his fingers back. they are long and slender, and he may not be allowed their warmth or their texture, but neither quite matters. he locks them together — valley to valley, palm to palm.

today, his hands work. he is not as clumsy. today, he thinks, alhaitham would say— today, you can draw. if tomorrow you cannot, the next day you might. if not, there will be a day where you can. draw, then, when that day comes. kaveh smiles that empty smile, and finds that the alhaitham that leaves in his mind is far kinder. the alhaitham whose fingers he holds is too realistic to be so optimistic.

but that, too, is fine. he is more inclined to listen to an alhaitham who exists in his mind than the demons that haunt it. ]

Do you? [ that same empty smile — kaveh is enough sentimentality in his life. it fills his quota. it checks out. ] What need is there for apprentices who carry out their master's legacy, then, with your reasoning? Art may outlive the artist, but an artist's skills die with them unless passed down upon someone else. There is still time for me.

[ kaveh needs not repeat his request: ] Please.

[ he knows what this is.

this is kaveh performing a singular, soulful action of selfish sacrifice. this is kaveh looking at fate the eyes and deciding that it is easier for those around him if he were to walk towards it in careful embrace. this is, simply, kaveh.

what kaveh doesn't know is that alhaitham, who knows that kaveh has accepted his fate, will never let into existence an universe that honours it. kaveh's fingers draw back. he locks their hands together - valley to valley, palm to palm, and alhaitham thinks - that kaveh feels not for the strength left in them, the tenacity of his grip and the solid weight of his all-consuming focus because he is putting it all towards something that is not himself. through this single, solitary gesture, kaveh is declaring that he is his art, and that he is nothing else, and that without his art, he is nothing, and therefore nothing to those around him. with this single, solitary gesture, hand to hand, palm to palm, wrist to wrist, kaveh is saying, paradoxically, thus: for alhaitham to be the first to let go.

alhaitham stands the opposite of kaveh. alhaitham, who has never let himself need beyond reason; kaveh, who has never allowed himself to want without guilt. he looks at him. kaveh says please. the word carves through alhaitham, cleaves through the fabric of his existence, and alhaitham continues to look. the weight of his gaze says thus: you say that word knowing what it does to me. you know. you know.

still: his fingers curl around kaveh's. the warm of his hand is like stone. ]

Is this how you beg?

[ the weight of his gaze speaks words that kaveh understands, and he replies with that selfsame smile, weak and forced, small and empty. it says i'm sorry, and kaveh needs not voice the words. he knows.

it is unfair. kaveh is never proud of it. had he not been born with eleazar, he thinks, that sentence would have annoyed him. he would not have laid down pride to beg, and would not have asked such a thing of alhaitham, to begin with. a kaveh who is born with eleazar has no choice. he knows the effects he has on alhaitham, knows the strength of his words. he avoids saying them, time and time again. avoids speaking of his fate, of the inevitable day that he dies, earlier than his friends, way before alhaitham. please is, at least, something he can voice.

he is not proud of it, still.

his fingers curl around alhaitham's, in response. i'm sorry. ]

It depends. Is it working?

[ kaveh's fingers curl around alhaithams. i'm sorry, he says, with gestures alone. alhaitham thinks, and not for the first time, that if he were sorry, he ought not have said it in the first place. not like this. not now. but that, too, is an unfair statement to superimpose upon a nuanced reality. the bite of kaveh's sorrow has teeth. an apology is no guarantee that kaveh will not bite again; he cannot stop, he does not know how. not when kaveh has lived its sorrow as if it were the very fabric of his soul himself.

please, kaveh says.

alhaitham, who has never done anything he didn't want to do, looks at kaveh. ]

I am demanding of my teachers. I am not interested in knowledge that does not challenge the fabric of what I desire. I will not stop until perfection. [ alhaitham's hand rests in kaveh's. it is betrayal; it is, also, a statement of precise intent: that alhaitham is not doing this for kaveh. he will do this for himself. ] I also reserve the right to dismiss any instructor that does not teach to my standards. If these terms are agreeable to you, you may choose a time to begin, Kaveh.

[ it is equivalent exchange. kaveh begs, alhaitham demands. kaveh smiles in response, fuller this time, albeit still defeated. alhaitham demands for himself, not for kaveh's plea, not for kaveh's whims, not for kaveh. everything he does, he does it for himself. alhaitham, he thinks, still has no need for a new hobby, not one in the arts. alhaitham, he thinks, has no true use for art. alhaitham, he concludes, is doing this for himself — for if he were not, kaveh wonders, would the regret of his choice be too bothersome to bear? he does not do it to avoid breaking kaveh's heart; he does so because the resounding crack would leave a tear in his own.

alhaitham is not a man for sentimentality. he is reasonable, logical. sensical. but alhaitham, too, is human like everyone else.

it is a victory in itself. he would continue to beg, when kaveh is desperate for a more personal mark to be left in the world, and he could continue to feel sorry for it. it is, he thinks, the least he could do. ]

Practice makes perfect. I hope your books won't be jealous of the time you will spend perfecting the art of drawing, then. [ the joke is lighthearted, and it confesses to kaveh's mood. there is no such thing as perfectionism in drawing. an artist will be satisfied with their work, but perfect is an individual value.

kaveh squeezes alhaitham's hand in response. ] Hmmm, we could start later tonight with the basics. I might have some books that could be of help, if you would like.

[ they had met in kaveh's second year in the courtyard. the back gardens bloomed profusely in the spring. the amurta students were involved in collecting samples in the rainforests. the haravatats utilise the gardens to lay out arguments. and kaveh, of the kshahrewar, drew. he had a reputation, kaveh of the kshahrewar. everyone knew. his work plastered the first-year halls as blueprint exemplars. the herbads welcome the inclusion of his views in their classes. and kaveh, senior kaveh, never said no. the akademiya is a place of collaboration, a social ladder climbed through the alacrity of your research alone, and senior kaveh extended his hand and time to anyone who opened their mouths to ask. alhaitham would often read in the gardens and observe as senior kaveh of the kshahrewar agonised over his drafting papers on projects that burned up so much of the little time he had left, and wondered, and wondered. throughout the years, alhaitham knew - that kaveh thought that was kindness. goodness. that doing so made you kind and good.

it has always seemed to alhaitham that kaveh uses his art as a form of forgiveness. something in him chases the impossibility of a future where his hands worked not just when the weather was good or when the balms worked or when his joints didn't ache, that because he was diseased meant that he had so much more to prove. you couldn't be a good person if you didn't put others before yourself; you couldn't be a good person if you prioritised your illness above all else. and so kaveh didn't; why wouldn't he then change the lives of others for the sole purpose of leaving behind the proof of his existence, and why would he not condemn himself for it? and so, how many ways could alhaitham tell kaveh that he despised that about kaveh without saying that he despised kaveh?

please, kaveh says, after his arguing and cajoling did not move alhaitham. please. alhaitham thinks - that he has never told kaveh that he hated the word please. that he hated it from kaveh's mouth. that kaveh knew that it was so rare for alhaitham to hate something, and that it was kaveh's last resort, and alhaitham would inevitably, always buckle to, with the fury of something de-winged. because alhaitham has always believed that kaveh should never need to beg for anything. not kaveh. never kaveh.

you, alhaitham thinks, wake up all the sentiment in me. this, too, he does not say.

kaveh smiles the smile of a man hollowed, and alhaitham does not say that he hates, too, that smile. instead, kaveh squeezes alhaitham's hand, and alhaitham thinks - he will not learn to hate this, too. there is nary a beat when alhaitham squeezes kaveh's hand back, warm, and full. alhaitham closes his eyes. ]

Begin with your own instructions. What is the point of choosing an instructor, when a book will do equally well? Why would I need you? [ alhaitham's eyes open to green; the red of his eyes are like a forest fire. ] Begin by proving to me that I have not erred in deciding not to look immediately to the instructions left by other members of your darshan, and we shall see from there.

[ kaveh had once thought that no one would understand. it is a culmination of several different causes. it is guilt, it is regret. it is the death of a family member by his own hands, it is the way he had painted the world gray. his mother, then, left, and kaveh allowed her. kaveh lied to her. kaveh had said yes, i will be fine; he had said, no, the eleazar hasn't worsened in years. kaveh had thought, i deserve this.

it is known that eleazar robs. it robs a person of their senses. it robs a person of their motor skills. it robs a person of their identity. kaveh would have been known as the kshahrewar student with eleazar. kaveh's designs would have been obscured by his illness. kaveh's name would have been forgotten. how was he to allow such a thing? kaveh's name would have been synonymous with unattainable.

and so, he proved himself. that he is better than his disease. that he could do his work, and the work of others, and excel greatly in all that he does. he shone, he glimmered, he made himself known. kaveh, the light of kshahrewar. so much more than the eleazar. some had thought he was cured of it. some were sure of it.

he is, ultimately, a sunburst. he burns for others, provides them warmth, but burns himself to exhaustion. he will burn himself into dust, and dust is never remembered. a mark has to be left. and alhaitham, the pride of haravatat, who observes history as it is made, and records it for the future— alhaitham, he begs, please remember me too. ]

The same point that the Akademiya exists alongside the House of Daena. [ kaveh begins, nearly matter-of-factly. ] Books are complements. I will teach you everything I know, but it is within a scholar's nature to seek further knowledge. There is ignorance in relying on a single source of knowledge; otherwise, what basis is there for debate, and what reason would we find in discussion?

[ the sun is warm on his skin, but he cannot feel it. kaveh yawns, nonetheless. ] Don't be so stubborn. I will recommend you books whether you read them or not.

[ with the mulishness of a man who knows the stakes at hand are inconsequential. the basis for debate has always been the conflict between views. there had once been a time where two views were aligned. there had once been a falling out where two views diverged. for kaveh, it has been two years. for alhaitham, it has been two hundred. two binary stars became aware of each other's existence, and began their spiraling orbit. once, alhaitham did not believe in fate. even now, he still does not; reincarnation does not set the course for the same wheels of samsara. one cannot use the past to predict the future when the future refuses to be predicted. this, he has always believed. but kaveh once again repeats another day on the birthdate of a goddess, and alhaitham knows that the wheel cannot continue to churn.

there is ignorance relying on a single source of knowledge. there, too, is ignorance in relying on a single source of faith. ]

To learn from a stubborn, inflexible instructor, must I not be stubborn and inflexible myself? I am yet to be convinced of the value of your teaching. [ kaveh yawns. the day began not four hours ago. sometimes, a day can only be four hours. alhaitham feels the yawn as if it were his own, a shiver that begins in kaveh's shoulders and ends lodged somewhere in his chest.

the motions are rote: alhaitham leans kaveh against him, coaxing him to his feet. he pockets their handkerchiefs and secures his cloak around kaveh's shoulders. alhaitham continues, ] You are, after all, the one who believes that whether the drapes are orange or blue have any bearing on the quality of light through our windows.

[ the next motion eases kaveh up into his arms. alhaitham tilts him just so, the shifting of a motion designed to slide kaveh's arms over his neck. with the line of his lips: ] Don't kick. Argue with words, not violence.

[ a day starts and ends not when the sun rises and sets, but when his body decides.

a day, sometimes, is twenty-four hours. a day, sometimes, is only four. if he is less fortunate, sometimes kaveh skips a day in his life, then two, then three. when he is bed-ridden and a victim of the eleazar, he cannot walk. cannot perform his routine, cannot see the blue sky outside, what color the trees will be, water his plants. it is excruciating. it is limiting. it is, he finds, so unbearably unfair.

kaveh finds, too, that sometimes he hates not being able to touch the floor. it grounds him. it is a privilege of the masses, and what good are his legs if he cannot use them? alhaitham eases him up into his arms, and the motion is not unfamiliar. it is home as alhaitham's house is. it is, still, broadcasted weakness.

the motion is routine: he holds onto alhaitham, bites into his lip. their argument now long forgotten. ]

I can walk. I don't want to go home yet. [ yet, still, he does not fight back. ] At least take me elsewhere.

[ kaveh is light. it is not, however, worryingly so. alhaitham knows the cycles of kaveh's weight, tied intrinsically to the cycle of his illness and what it will allow him to eat or not eat. the fragility of his body is belied by the voracity of his mind. kaveh has always wanted what he could not allow himself to have. a wound gives off its own light, or so the doctors of the bimarstan say. if all the lamps in sumeru were turned out, you could dress this wound by what shines from it. it is only with alhaitham that kaveh's desires, the selfish light of them, can take on form.

elsewhere, he says. alhaitham thinks - there is nowhere where he can take kaveh that is not here, in this place, where his illness roots. where kaveh wants to be taken is not a place for his body, but a place for his mind. there had been a field of padisarahs beneath a sky so ravishingly blue, that one could lean up and drink from it.

the akasha had taken the dreams of the people and used them as fuel for a new god. this, alhaitham can never forgive. but that is neither here, nor there. kaveh's dream remains elusive; this, alhaitham cannot compromise on. not on this, not on kaveh. ]

You may be able to walk, but your manners are atrophied. Is this how you ask someone to take you elsewhere, Senior? [ alhaitham begins to walk. his steps are sure. they take him, with unyielding assurance, down the wending path circling the divine tree. ] In any case, elsewhere is not a location. Be specific.

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immortalize this tag as the tag written during my 70min run rabanaste

i will frame this tag tbh, 'longest 70 minutes of kain's life'

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i wish i could print out this tag and hang it on my wall

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https://twitter.com/ToraeKi0319/status/1666804755992313857 a hkvh a day keeps the pain away

https://twitter.com/chikological/status/1666816652141531142 and now im revived... thank u friend ;o;