peepo | the morning sun and the night sky.

the morning sun and the night sky.

[ all stories start with a first meeting.

the eremites have been waiting since dawn. the slave markets open for trade at the rising of the sun, the theory being that the earlier the riser, the keener you are to have another set of hands for the rest of your day. the journey to the palace overnight with their caravan of goods bound from the recent conquered territories, then, is a loss in revenue. what you do not sell at the market, you are not paid for. if it were up to azar, the eremites would be waiting for days, standing on their feet in the marbled waiting room of the ali qapu, the crimson crown jewel of the vissudha rainforests, a single, bleeding crimson gash within the heart of a land bound by the forests and the rivers and the rain.

for the desert tribes, nothing is more wasteful than ostentatious displays with water. today, the ali qapu lets down her proverbial hair, her aqueducts opening to drape an endless waterfall over her facade. the unending streams caress the mosaiced windows, the masterful frescos that change the surface of her walls and direct water into shapes the way a conductor draws together the disparate pieces of an orchestra. she, the proud mistress, celebrates the victorious return of her artesh, their banners flying the blues and whites of azar's household as they stream in through her city's gates. vissudha will be ostenatious in their celebrations tonight. bonfires will be lit, and a festival will be declared. maidens with kalpana lotuses braided into their long, dark hair will dance with young men of the victorious artesh; the night's wine will flow like the vissudha is long, the joy of a city-state conquest a song for its people. but the desert tribes, who led the vanguard and had done the dirty work of prying open the city gates of vissudha's enemies will not be allowed to partake. they will watch, the way they watch now, as wasteful water streams down the side of ali qapu's great gates, as it splashes along the carved grooves and channels that lead the water back to its source - they will watch, and they will wait, and they will resent.

alhaitham does not have them wait long. he allows them into the audience chamber in mid-morning with their tribute. matters of the treasury are not within his purview; azar had ensured that with a smile when he was seven, and the world still reeled of loss and blood, and its coffers will fill itself without alhaitham's involvement. this, however, is a personal tribute, a sweetener in alhaitham's morning coffee to distract the way you would distract a riboshland tiger from its prey with a carved rabbit. the seven attendants lining the walls of the audience chamber are his in the sense that avidya vultures belong to avidya forest. he pays the shrewd, sharp lancelet of their gazes no mind as he bids in the desert tribes with a wave of a silver hand. azar's presence seeps in through the cracks of the floor. the walls have eyes, and ears. but this, too, is none of alhaitham's concern. not yet.

the eremites prostrate themselves, as they do, one knee to the ground, a palm, the long, low dip of their foreheads. and then - the slaves. one by one, they bend their knees the way alhaitham had once seen willows do along the long, gentle lines of liyuen rivers, their jeweled hair glinting in the sunlight, refracted in through cleverly placed windows and silvered mirrors. the musical fall of their bracelets are like that of a baroque waterfall befitting of ali qapu's name. young men and women, eleven in total, five of one sex and six of the other, and cleaned and decorated like divine jewels. alhaitham's gaze skims over each the way you would a page of figures, and lands on one.

the flaxen gold of his hair contrasts with the red of the rubies woven in with deft fingers. the red of his eyes are like blood drops on a newly woven sheet of cotton. as the slaves kneel, one by one, he is the only one standing, and then - kneeling, head pushed down to reveal the clatter of golden manacles looped back into a thin, golden chain. he is the eleventh, and the one that azar intended for him to see. alhaitham's gaze allows for itself to rest upon the curve of his neck, the set of his shoulders, and then, it rises to the eremites and the audience beyond.

flowery words, meaningless praise. a curt speech of gratitude that have echoed within these halls since its conception. sumeru is a land of strife. alhaitham sits in his chair, and observes as the room kneels. but he is not finished. azar had intended a show. he raises a silvered hand, the rings on his fingers like refracted sunlight, and points. the air in the room stills. every soul bates their breath. ]

Bring that one to me.

[ today, he meets the eleventh man. ]

[ all chapters have an ending.

the eremites had been waiting since dusk. lokapala kingdom rises with the sun, and settles with it: with their golden, burgundy and apricot hairs woven from sunlight, as though an infinite thread that they are trusted with, they are sun-kissed and sun-blessed. it is known that the padisarahs that bloom by the palace of alcazarzaray are of a special kind, unable of having their likeness replicated elsewhere; in the kingdom of golden shine, they adorn a special purple revered and adored throughout all of sumeru. there are visitors that come during their bloom season, rows and rows of ardravi-, ashavan- and even liyuen-born people that find worth in giving their time and money to see flowers bloom, and depart soon after.

they sing praises, then, of the sun-touched kingdom. teyvat knows well of sumeran strife, knows well it is plagued with conflict and bloodshed. sumeru, they think, should be synonym with greenery, but find that red is a color that suits it best. but lokapala, they learn, feels anything but. it is a kingdom of equality, where all its residents are children of the sun. there is a monarchy, yes, but many a time, the crowns that sit on the royals' heads serve only for décor. lokapala have found that they prefer to have a figure of authority to write their laws and administer their military, but in everything else, they are that: brothers and sisters.

in recent times, there are those who adore lokapala, but those who wish for its downfall. it happens, then, in what had felt much like a beat of a heart — loud crashes, the suffocating smell of iron, yells so fearsome that they could have been the origin of the word despair. there is fire, there is hurt, there is no more sun. night takes over the sky, and before bloodshot eyes, a full moon. the night is young.

the golden, cold touch against his skin is of a special kind, ore that is known to act as a nullifier. it is, he knows, highly effective on omegas. the metal has been reshaped into something, he notices later, that are of lokapala-make. beautiful ornaments that are meant to decorate; whereas many city-states have found use in them to be made into chains that adorn their slaves and prisoners, lokapala has turned them into something to be brandished, something to be proud of.

kaveh feels anything but.

he is presented before a court alongside fellow lokapalans, his people. he does not kneel when they are meant to, showing defiance in every inch of his body. he kneels because he is forced, but does not keep his head down. a fellow lokapala sister had once said, your eyes are the embodiment of love, you wield your heart in your gaze — here, they are of a bloodied hurt, a heart cut open with death and grief. every face they land on, he memorizes. vissudhan people. the regent. the prince.

he is, then, picked out of the batch, of course. his captors kick at him (with a comedic gentleness, not to hurt or bruise merchandise), calloused fingers hooking from right under his collar to force him up and bring him closer to the prince. kaveh falls on his knees again, which are likely to bruise in a few days (the sweet irony of it all), and behind him, the eremites kneel as well. even here, he does not keep his head down, however. his sun-kissed, sun-touched golden hair falls on his face, and bloodshot eyes meet their counterpart, a green-blue that do not suit vissudha's prince. defiance can kill. ]

[ 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. ]

As for him - bring him to me.

[ there are hearts that sink into the ground, so heavy in the weight they hold of concern and worry that the noise they make is loud and clear in the prince's ears. they fall for him, for his safety, out of love and admiration for the one who so often was revered as the light of lokapala. he is the morning sun and the rising star, and yet he bleeds — not for himself, but for his people. he bleeds in waves that could very well challenge the waterfalls of ali qapu, so unending in their fall that kaveh's heart could stain those waters red.

he bleeds for the lokapalans that are taken from right behind him, their chains rattling against the floor, their yelps of despair a haunting sound. he sees fit to bleed for avidya as well, once under lokapala's care. they had then said, we will extend you our utmost protection, and failed to do so. he bleeds for the faces of people he has never met, but people he had once considered his cousins. he bleeds from the red of his eyes, picturesque tears of blood unseen from the eyes of those who do not share his pain.

one moment they stare daggers into the turquoise of prince alhaitham of vissudha, and the next, nothingness.

they are smart to blindfold him. kaveh is a genius first, royal second. from his fingertips he creates alcoves, pedestals, sacellums. he thinks for a moment that this, too, speaks mountains of their own security. if they see fit to prevent a master architect from memorizing every arch, every turn, every pillar that composes their palace, it means there would then have a chance for him to be free from their grasp and escape.

kaveh is taken away by different pairs of hands, hardly as calloused as the eremites' who had brought him here. the blood of his eyes may fail to memorize a path to freedom, but his mind has not been blinded. he can tell many a thing: how many turns they make, the length of their hallways, how many staircases they go through and whether they are spiral or winder. he maps it out with terrifying clarity, and the engines of his mind plan accordingly.

he is brought, then, to a stop. the blindfolded is not yet removed, but he is spoken to. you will from hereafter serve prince alhaitham as his bed slave, they begin, a voice almost saccharine, as though there is anything romantic in the idea, you are stripped of your name, status, and history. you are who your highness wishes for you to be, and you are to dedicate your life into abiding to his each and every will. do you understand?

lokapala does not hold slaves. people are equal under the sun's reign, and they do not see fit to be stripped out of the person the sun has made them in order to serve another. this is a reminder of their ideals, and kaveh scoffs. that earns him a grip at his jaw that is bound to leave marks, and the voice repeats, do you understand?

he does not, again, reply. they cannot harm or kill him here, he knows. now under their prince's possession, it is not within their will to do with kaveh as they wish, and he makes use of it. the loud and heavy noise that follows signalizes that this is a room with doors twice his size, fit for a noble. inside, they prepare him like a statue, atop soft cushions he judges a mattress. kaveh is placed on his knees, arms behind his back, and the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles are then connected by a chain twelve links long. escape, at this moment, is out of the question.

his eyes do not agree with the light as the blindfold is removed, and in the short time it takes him to adapt, he is left alone in the room, as a present to be unwrapped, a package to be opened, dressed in fine silk and adorned with delicate jewelry as they strip him of everything else. he is forced to wait, unattended and untouched, as though naught but a simply decoration in a room of obnoxious value. ]

[ as alhaitham conducts the rest of his morning, he ponders the oblique path of history and its pitfalls. it's hardly the first time he's ruminated upon this topic. he remembers sitting on his grandmother's lap, his hands slowly caressing the leather-bound cover of a worn and well-loved journal as she told him stories of his parents from their akademiya days. alhaitham knows that he is the only one who remembers such things. the disadvantage of history is that it relies on people to propogate its telling. people are unreliable at best, and apocalyptic at worst. they forget. they misremember. they lie, they squander, they alter. they die. alhaitham is the last one alive to remember the sad quirk on his grandmother's weathered face, two dimples like divots carved for a torch-sconce, as she leaned in to brush her leather-worn hand upon the crown of his head. if he were to die, when he dies, the memory would be lost forever, as would anything, save for a name carved into an epitatph, that proved her existence.

there are other things that only alhaitham remembers. the gardens had once bloomed profusely with rambutan flowers, little white clusters that made the women of the household sneeze as they went out to dry the laundry. the waterfalls and its basins used to house fish the colour of a thousand autumns, a gift from liyue when the ali qapu rose from its forest to dominate her landscape in her ruby glory. that pir kavekavus once walked these halls, a man before his time painting swathes of colour with his eyes alone. the ali qapu had been designed by a vissudhan architect of great renown. pir kavekavus, who was a guest-friend from ashavan, and who loved alhaitham's mother dearly, designed three rooms at her behest. the first is the great sitting room, the seventeen mosaiced mirrors casting a pattern of light in the morning like that of the spread wings of an eagle. the second is the great baths, whose continuous, circular waterfall diffused nilotpala lotuses from basin to basin, and with it its sweet scent and its soothing, medicinal oils. the third -

only alhaitham remembers this, that pir kavekavus had once walked into the unfinished marble fresco of a west-wing bedroom, had taken chisel to a canvas prepared for other genius of his mind, and etched out his will into the world. only alhaitham remembers, because his parents are dead, and the craftsmen and the laborers who dreamed the ali qapu's dream are dead, and pir kavekavus is dead, lost to a research expedition in the tumultuous winds of the desert duststorms. only alhaitham remembers this, that pir kavekavus once laughed at the tinkle of his mother's silver belled earrings, and carved a stand into the bedside just for them. only alhaitham remembers. he recalls this upon walking into his bedroom at sundown and remembering that there is now another architect decorating the inside of these walls.

kaveh sits upon his bed, his legs bent into an unwilling kneel. he observes the long trail of his golden leash, twelve links of a chain designed to suppress as much as to restrain. he bears the scent of nilotpala lotuses, and something sweeter - a flower of unnamed variance, honey dripping from a fresh bee's orchard, a familiar scent on a nostalgic breeze as one's face turns to the east. alhaitham, who has always been that of bird feathers and the loamy scent of petrichor, closes the door behind him, and without bothering to address his jeweled prisoner, falls into his bed. the weight of his body jostles the golden decorations draped across kaveh's body. with his eyes closed, they sound almost to alhaitham like the jingle of silver bells.

alhaitham lets his face bury itself into his mattress. he does not look up. ]

[ there is time to ruminate and remember.

for all the while he is left alone with his thoughts, kaveh wanders. when he closes his eyes, he pictures alcazarzaray, the padisarahs that bloom their brightest come spring, the rare nilotpala lotuses that all but denied their involvement with the sun kingdom, and found will to bloom under the moon. he recalls a day only a couple moons ago when he had asked a friend for ornamental flora, for he'd loathe to harm the environment for decoration. living beings are not supposed to be such.

history relies on people. thoughts fester, people misremember. they lie, they squander, they alter. memories of the amicable lokapala and her children will not die with her king, her prince, her citizens; there are many who have come bear witness to her kindness. but the memories of fire, of screams, of blood equal to his eyes — those memories have either died with its victims, or will not see their truth. kaveh wonders here: what have vissudhan royals told their people? what sin have a people so welcoming of their cousins committed, that they deserve to have their home ransacked and invaded? vissudhan mothers care for their children, as their grandmothers love their grandchildren. what difference does it make, between vissudhans and lokapalans? for what reason is he perceived an enemy that his defeat is cause for celebration, to have history changed and altered?

thoughts fester, and kaveh misremembers. when had the conflict between vissudha and lokapala begun, and what had been its cause? does it matter? is he supposed to perceive a people willing to slaughter the sun in order to bring about the moon as welcoming, warming? is he supposed to say, thank you for killing and enslaving my people?

thoughts fester, and night falls. his legs have long lost feeling by the time alhaitham enters the room at last, his arms sore, and kaveh would almost wonder, what has taken you so long, if he truly cared to know. he does not turn his head to watch his steps, offering naught by the corner of his eyes. he is, still, untouched. alhaitham falls into his bed, and kaveh has to balance himself in order not to fall over — he would not lay on the enemy's bed. he'd much rather be stubborn and stop his own legs' blood circulation.

there is silence, unchanged. he is not addressed, not touched, not even acknowledged, and kaveh is left wondering, again.

thoughts fester, and kaveh misjudges. he speaks at last: ]

Have your festivities ridden with blood exhausted Your Highness? How unfortunate. It must truly a burden to partake in so many celebrations. Do your people know the nature of their joy, or do they care so little for the death of the innocent? Which is it?

[ kaveh speaks. his tone would flay the skin off of a prone sumpterbeast with its desiccating sting. a lesser man would have looked behind him to see if he had lost skin. alhaitham, with his face still pressed into the warm recess of his bed, revises his opinion - he is the only one who remembers, and perhaps, there is potentially one more. it's that thought that has him turning his head, finally, to look to where kaveh is still sitting, kneeled, like an ornament on the prow of some ship waiting to be sunk. there's a proud tilt to his head that feeds into the illustrious descriptions of him circulated in various circles: a golden foal, the toss of an arrogant head, a little princeling down to to the last fiber of his being. he is not, alhaitham notes, wearing remotely enough to leave anything to the imagination. that is, certainly, the intent. he is also furious.

of course he is.

alhaitham observes him for a moment. he doesn't bother to get up; there is, in fact, no obligation to do so. kaveh's spitfire temper illuminates the carved edges of his vermilion eyes, and alhaitham thinks that flames burn more than just flesh. it burns soul. ]

You have let your emotions cloud your judgement. [ is what alhaitham says instead, because nothing that kaveh had said is worth addressing. not by him. ] You kneel out of mere spite, when swallowing your pride and working circulation in your legs will ensure that when the rare opportunity comes for your chain to slack, you will be able to run. You must have memorised the route here, at the very minimum? You would know that one of the western window overlooks an aqueduct pressed against the outside wall. You would have heard its splashing, and known that it could not be guarded.

[ the eyes of a predator never falter before its prey. kaveh watches, observes, remembers. his name is synonym of much, heard and spoken across sumeru. his reputation certainly precedes him, and there's a sage who has once said, keep your allies close and your enemies even closer. it's no wonder alhaitham knows much of him, and yet—

if he's aware of that much, why has he not done something to prevent it? ]

I also know the likelihood of escape today is close to none. [ there's far too many people, celebrating the death of another.

but more importantly, what goes unsaid is this: he cannot escape just yet. not by himself. if he does, and vissudha inevitably finds out, who's to guarantee the safety of the lokapalans that remain inside the ali qapu? there has been enough bloodshed. kaveh can't afford more. not because of him, not under his name. ]

With what strength shall I defeat you in a fight, that the moment you unchain me I might see fit to walk out the door? If you're so aware of my skills, you'd know I do not excel in physical labor.

[ does alhaitham remember, or does he cling to a memory of a time that no longer exists? ]

Then, you would simply give up? You would prove yourself to be more gol-e sorkh than Master Architect.

[ it's said with the clinical, detached tones of an academic, a far-away eye examining an far-off universe. alhaitham's gaze dissects. he partitions the fury from the man, the press of his knees into his bed and the sweet, bell-line tones of his finery. he looks aside the flaxen gold of his flyaway hairs that multiply every furious shake of his head. kaveh is more than just the veneer of gold and a heart of burning crimson, more than just rose and role. he is, at heart, one who is beholden to his people. there are ten others trapped within this palace. even if he could escape by himself, he could not bear to. not until he has brought all of them to safety.

it's a short-sighted thought process. kaveh, a prince of a recently fragmented nation and whose people will still need guidance and direction, can do so much more outside of the palace than within. but cannot teach a beast to light a flame. you cannot teach the trees to fly. in this moment, kaveh is more rose than architect, more architect than prince, and more prince than alhaitham is, face-down on his bed.

alhaitham closes his eyes. he finally rises. ] The day of the celebration is the day where escape is closest to your grasp, Kaveh. It would have been the day nobody would have expected such a thing. You will not have another chance in the days to come. [ alhaitham pauses, his hand on a book unearthed from a pile of cushions as he considers this, ] Training in physical labour, however, can be arranged. You seemed very familiar with the process of being on your knees.

[ it is the mention of pir kavekavus that lights the fire in the red of kaveh's eyes. he'd have here seen fit to spit out, do not mention his name, had the sheer, sudden anger allowed him.

history relies on people, and for all kaveh remembers and not, this, at the very least, he holds dear to his heart. an ashavan architect of such great renown, he had, and to this day is, kaveh's biggest inspiration. he had been the one who lead kaveh's first quill against sandpaper, the one who aided him into envisioning his designs. his title does not belong on alhaitham's tongue.

he speaks his own name, then. it sullies it, he thinks. kaveh had been said, you are who your highness wishes for you to be, and yet he'd prefer to have been given a whole name altogether than to have his own, so lovingly given to him by his mother and father, spoken from the mouth of a man who destroyed their dream with a snap of his fingers.

if looks could kill. the chains rattle behind him. ]

Spoken like a true prince, so privileged in his own world he does not know another. Nobody would have expected it? You think, for a moment, that there would not be at least one person, in the right time at the right place, who wouldn't have seen the recently purchased prince of Lokapala, still wearing obnoxious golden chains, and thought something is wrong? [ kaveh all but growls back, stripped of his honor, of his people, and almost stripped of his own intelligence. almost. ] Teach a tiger how to bite, why don't you? I'm sure it will be the first smartest decision you'll make today.

If you are to leave yourself undisguised and walk with dignity out the front door - then yes, Kaveh, you will be spotted. [ flatly, without sympathy. ] My guards have eyes, if not brains. But if you cannot grasp the fundamentals of jailbreak with the quickness of planning, then no matter how many days you spend plotting within these four walls, you will have no recourse for freedom.

[ teach a tiger to bite, however. that's a new one.

he returns his book to its growing pile on the divan. the room itself had been significantly redecorated in the intervening years since pir kavekavus carved out the frescos and worked the single piece of marble into its current, still lovingly cherished components. green and black drapes, dark satin throws on top of downy-feathered pillows. bookshelves from wall to wall packed tighter than any library, piles of books strewn wherever the eyes can feasibly lay. alhaitham approaches his singular desk, the solid wood of it gleaming ebony in the torchlight and settles down to draw up paperwork. he begins to write. ]

But fine - if you insist, you may kneel at attention on the bed. If such matters please you to do it, then I can hardly insist otherwise. A single point of correction, however.

[ as bloodless as stone - ] You were not purchased. No monetary benefit was exchanged for your existence. You were claimed on the battlefield, and delivered as a gift. You are a hostage as much as you are a prize.

Have you considered, for a moment, that perhaps the problem is that I would have to learn how to jailbreak out of a place at all?

[ because, after all, this is kaveh. idealistic, romanticist, who believes in the good of people. in his heart, sumeru is not a land of strife, and he calls those that are not lokapala-born his cousins, blood of his blood. in his upbringing, he was not taught to fight, he was not taught how to break out of captive. he was taught to love his brothers, show kindness to his sisters, and respect all.

it gives rise to feelings he himself has never experienced in such intensity. rage, hatred, vengeance. they culminate and fester inside his ribcage, alongside a gentle, bleeding heart, and stains it black.

at the very least, kaveh finds room to set his own pride aside. the chains rattle behind him as he moves, or attempts to move, his body falling onto the mattress with a lack of grace, and he finds will to puke all over it as an unfamiliar scent enters his nostrils. his legs, at the very least, thank him for the lack of pressure. ]

Battlefield? You ransacked my palace at nightfall, murdered people who held no weapons, who could not defend themselves. There was no battle. You cannot claim people as yours. I'm no hostage nor prize. I'm my own person!

[ kaveh collapses into a clanging pile of gold-linked chains and jeweled baubles. alhaitham notes the sound, but does not bother to look up to note the source. it was enough that he alone knew that kaveh has broken out of his futile gesture of defiance. he will need to keep up his strength, though judging from kaveh's current expenditure in righteous fury and indignation, he will burn himself out soon enough. flames tend to. a human mind isn't meant for the consistency of a sunburst's existence. any anger that one might want to maintain will need to be nurtured, its flames stoked low, a single flicker of a spark kept warm for the day it may see sunlight. it was the way of things.

but it is kaveh. his voice rises in archon-given wrath. the words paint themselves what alhaitham had already known. a night raid. flames in the dark. masked soldiers cloaked in darkness scaling the curved rooves of the palace of alcazarzaray, the splendor of its own beauty creating natural footfalls for cat-like steps and precise measures of rope. the palace had not known what was descending upon them until the first fires broke out along its eastern perimeter. the alphas were killed in their beds; the betas and omegas were collared and enslaved. the destruction spiralled outwards from there, village by village until dawn crested upon the bloodshed of the night to illuminate the trail of blood that followed. the few outlying villages will surrender tomorrow; they have no other recourse. they have nowhere to run, and no aid to call for. the palace of alcazarzaray has been defiled, and their protectors slaughtered.

there is no honour in breaking in a nation like thieves - but there is no honour in war. and vissudha has been at war with the rest of the world for as long as azar has existed. it is the way of things, and the way of things is that those who fall to the blade are made, not as people, but into things. ]

Elucidate, then, what decisions your own person is going to make at this juncture. [ is what he says, quietly, from his table. alhaitham's voice does not need to pitch to carry. the natural acoustics of the room amplifies even a whisper, at this distance. ] With what autonomy, under what authority? Praytell, how are you to assert your own personhood when you have ten other lives depending on you, and further numbers outside these walls? You claim personhood as fuel to your anger, but at what future cost? I look forward to your justification.

[ 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.

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the morning sun and the night sky.

this is love: to fly toward a secret sky; / CAPTIVE PRINCE AU

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