the morning sun and the night sky.

[loans]

Comments

[loans]

[ there's a look, here, that he shoots towards alhaitham that is far sharper than any words he could say. looks that could kill, fire that could not be tamed. he all but growls, again. ]

Are you used to putting your own dreams and plans ahead of other people's own? [ a question for a question. venom for venom. two can play this game. ] Do you think yourself superior, or perhaps you are simply egoist, and you don't want other people to succeed in life. What, you think Lokapala was going to ruin your life, so you saw fit to ruin ours first? Do you fancy ruining a person's life for your own benefits?

[ he stands, then, at last. there's very little food left, and if he's any lucky, no one will be punished for it. the weight of their pain will be too heavy to carry, but kaveh would still do it, damned be the consequences. damned be his own health.

without any direction, he leans against a wall furthest across alhaitham. any closer, he might have jumped him. ]

[haravatits]

Yes.

[ another answer, cut to the quick. whether it's the answer for a singular question or for several remains unclear - but alhaitham has said what he needs to say. ]

A prince is of an inherently different rank and purpose than those who are not. It follows that I understand that my actions will hold more weight, regardless of how I would like to be regarded. Luckily, I do not care how I am regarded. Decisions cannot be democratised, yet consequences will be. Any prince who does not heed the very real power dynamics at play fundamentally are unable to fulfill their role, which leads to the downfall of those relying on said role to maintain peace, security and comfort.

[ kaveh stands, and alhaitham continues to read. but the flicker of the connection between them is like an electric charge in the air. two binary stars opposing, spiraling into futility. ]

The personal attacks and baseless guesses regarding my intentions, however, are not worth addressing. You may believe what you will, as you will. But I am guessing you are not verbalising these accusations to understand me; rather, you are venting your own impotence and rage, are you not?

[loans]

[ insufferable. absolutely insufferable.

this time, no matter what question his answer is for, none of the options are good. he continues, then, as though explaining his answer, and the fire in those blood-red eyes of his only becomes bigger, as though his gaze would not only kill, but burn as well. it is, he can tell, an attack at his person, at his status as royal and prince, as though the fall of his kingdom had been, ultimately, his fault.

it's insanity.

he all but growls, again. it had been a good call to stand across alhaitham — by now, otherwise, he'd definitely have jumped him. it would have been a terrible, terrible decision, but impulsiveness is one of his flaws. instead, kaveh grits his teeth, clenches his fists. rage is not an emotion that suits him. ]

What would you know what I feel? A kingdom does not fall because its prince does not exert his power over his people. They may rely on him for all of those things, and still find a friend in him. You can be equals with someone, but have different strengths. A prince will command their royal guard when need be, will exert authority when it's required of him, and when that's all said and done, what truly differs a prince from a commoner? A crown, or fancier clothing? If you give those to a servant, would they now be royal? If one learns to do all that a prince does, would they be eligible to take his place, their status notwithstanding?

[ his hands hurt, nails sinking against his palms, but kaveh doesn't let go. ] Why is it that you are more deserving to control a person's life than anyone else? We all bleed red. We all die if slain. A title doesn't define who you are.

[haravatits]

[ alhaitham listens. kaveh's rage burns. it burns with the flame of the lost and the dying, the flame of something cornered and bleeding. a creation with claws and teeth against inescapable odds. that kaveh has chosen alhaitham for the target of his rage is obvious. he is, after all, the only one here. he is vissudha. he is alhaitham, the prince. the argument makes itself - that what makes alhaitham, the prince, worthy of kaveh's rage and not alhaitham's servants, or the soldiers of the vissudha, is because alhaitham is vissudha's prince.

but instead, what alhaitham says is this: ]

The difference is that your people are in the slave pens, and you are here with me.

[ on the heels of kaveh's fury, the impotence of his rage, the hard heel of his distress - in the hush of a silence, the reply comes like a whisper.

the difference that kaveh, the prince, can be here with alhaitham. the difference is that all others cannot. the difference is that kaveh's gold manacles lay like decorative baubles on the ground, and the slaves below are being scrubbed with course sand-soaps and dressed in rags. the difference is that the slaves below are currently being sent to bed. they are not being sent to their own beds.

alhaitham says, again, quieter: ]

Kaveh, you are here. And they are not.

[loans]

[ the meaning of those words are obvious. the only reason he's given food to eat, the reason his manacles now lie on the floor: it is solely because alhaitham is prince, and he has authority, and he has power. no one aside from azar could tell him what to do with his belongings, with his slave.

kaveh recalls then, for a moment, the tormentous trip to vissudha. he was an offering, alhaitham had said. spoil of war, a gift. the eremites had known he'd be, if not the prince's, the regent's property. the eremites hadn't cared then, and kaveh wonders, how much authority can a prince really exert?

better him than any of his people, at least.

his fingers loosen their grip, the nails stained with a faint red. there's no winning in this argument. ]

I shouldn't be here. None of us should. That's the whole point, either way.

[haravatits]

No. The point is that you are here. And that this is reality, not ideal.

[ it is an old argument, but not one had by them. the scholars in their towers would argue this in times of peace. poets and writers and thinkers would come together beneath the trellis of aquamarine lotuses to cajole and debate and remake the thoughts of this world. but not, as it were, in times of war, and vissudha has been at war ever since alhaitham could remember.

kaveh's fingers loose their grip. his nails are stained with red. alhaitham flips another page of his book. ]

But if it pleases you to think so, you may do so. Expend your rage. You will sleep better tonight for it.

[loans]

This isn't supposed to be my reality, Alhaitham! That's the whole point! You forced it on me!

[ raising his voice, he knows, is not something he should do. there'd be guards outside, most likely, and for all that alhaitham has authority and power, they also have a duty to him. for a moment, he expects them to barge in, and that, too, makes him pause.

silent is deafening. it enhances his fears. how is anyone supposed to live like this? ]

... I'd rather be in the slave pens than here. I can't stand to be in the same room as you.

[haravatits]

[ it did not need to be stated, alhaitham thinks, something as obvious as this. kaveh is like a pacing riboshland tiger. he has regained his strength, and his fury, and suddenly, even the vast expanse of alhaitham's personal room seems too small of a place to hold him. it will, however. even unchained, there is nowhere kaveh can go. even in his unbridled rage, kaveh is no fool; he wouldn't put the safety of his countrymen on trial to go gallivanting without a plan. there is no place for kaveh except for here, in alhaitham's room. that's what separates kaveh from the rest of the salve entourage, because he has a use, a role that only he can fulfill.

it is, in fact, discrimination. to think that all people are made equal and can be equal is folly, when it is acknowledge their individual strengths, abilities and shortcomings that allows you to see clearly who and what they are. ]

My condolences, that being here means you are fed and unchained. Still, it does not change reality: you are here. There is nowhere else you can be. You have not entered another dimension; reality has not warped between yesterday and today. This is your reality, Kaveh. You will do well to accept it.

[ and then, in the same, bloodless tone: ] Choose a divan. You will sleep on it.

[loans]

[ he won't. not today, not tomorrow. and if he comes to at least acknowledge it, he will fight against it. if this is his reality, he doesn't want to be part of it. he will sleep, he will dream of a better world. of home, with his father, and mother, his people. he will sleep, and it'll be warm again.

this is all just — a nightmare. a bad, terrible dream. the war had been getting to him, maybe. the endless strife between vissudha and lokapala over avidya, the inability of pretending they hadn't had their men and women captured, murdered. his reality had always been a perfect fantasy land of peace and joy.

it's fine if he pretends. it'd be better than accept this pain. the weight of his guilt that maybe, if he weren't here, at least one of his people would replace him. they'd have food, they wouldn't be in chains. it's a bold thought, but it haunts him nonetheless. ]

That one. [ kaveh jerks his head towards the divan furthest from alhaitham's bed. at least, if anything were to happen and alhaitham dared approach him in the middle of the night, he'd have a chance to wake up and defend himself, fight back, just — keep his eyes on alhaitham. he'd be a fool not to. ]

[haravatits]

[ the divan, which alhaitham had moved furthest from his bed. it sits next to a view of the courtyard below and out into the green of the blossoming rainforest for a reason. alhaitham doesn't look up from his book. ]

A fine choice.

[ the silver bell rings. servants enter once more, and slaves follow to bear away the mostly-empty platters. a young woman with red hair and slave trappings rolls up the dinner rug and works together with two other slaves to carry it out of the door, where it will be washed before being utilised once more tomorrow. alhaitham directs two servants to leave kaveh's sleeping clothes on kaveh's chosen divan. they leave behind two modest silk skiffs, both made in the traditional blacks and greens of the vissudhan lands, hemmed in blood red and golden strands. a hairbrush, a set of towels, a jewelry stand, on which hands a single pair of earrings - the earrings that had been taken from kaveh's nightstand at the palace of alcazarzaray.

the servants and slaves leave. alhaitham, finally, shuts his book. ]

I will take a bath in the adjoining room. Do as you wish.

[loans]

[ all the while, kaveh watches. the red of his eyes always tend to fall on the cuffs, and without fail, melancholy rises to his face. they do not need to be blood of his blood for him to feel anguished over them. no matter which nation they hail from, which kingdom they belong to, it is not a sight he is used to, not a sight he enjoys.

the only time he breaks contact with them is when they set down the jewelry stand, and there, he finds old gifts he could have sworn he would never see again. the same pair of earrings his parents had gifted him in his coming of age celebration.

how? why? surely they should have been sold. surely the eremites would have made at least a good amount of mora if those ended in the market. when kaveh inspects them up close, there's no mistaking it. these aren't replicas.

he turns to look at alhaitham. ]

Where did you get these?

[haravatits]

[ alhaitham pauses at the threshold to his adjoining bathroom. the palace hadn't meant for there to be a bath on this floor. it had been a recent renovation, a request from the crown prince of vissudha for his personal use. the marble is new. the threshold's door is carved with a contemporary style of working marble. it is, despite the artisan's best efforts, incongruent with the sure, steady hands of pir kavekavus.

he turns back from it. kaveh is gesturing at the jewelry stand and its sole occupant.

oh, that. ]

An eremite pilfered it from your room. She had sold it to a fence. The household paid 1.3 million mora to buy it.

[loans]

[ 1.3 million. it's not surprising to hear the number, but it's— so much money for a pair of earrings. if it had belonged to anyone else, he knows, the value would have decreased far, far more. he stares at alhaitham the same way as he always does: trying to find the lie, the joke, the punchline. neither of those come. ]

Why are you giving them back to me? It— It makes no sense.

[haravatits]

[ alhaitham looks at kaveh as if he suddenly spouted something in ancient liyuen. ]

Who else would I have given them to? They are yours.

[ with that, he disappears through the door. ]

[loans]

—Hey! We're not done talking!

[ what's he supposed to make of that statement? yes, of course they belong to him. that's why they had been stolen, that's why they had been sold for so much mora. what's the point of returning them to him? to ease the walls around his heart and make his opinion on alhaitham better?

that would never happen.

it wouldn't, but kaveh can't shake off the relief, and the weird feeling of... gratitude, maybe. he takes them in his hands, so careful as though they'd break upon touch, and sits on the divan to admire them. not a scratch, nothing broken. a frozen moment in time. they'd have looked exactly the same on his nightstand, back in alcazarzaray. they'd have felt the exact same on his hand, and that alone pains him. a reminder of better times.

being alone with his own thoughts hadn't done him any good so far, but he clings to the one untouchable, unshakable thing about his past. not everything has to change. ]

[haravatits]

[ alhaitham finishes his evening ablutions in peace. the baths are a little too opulent for his tastes. cool water to rinse himself off, a quick soak in the warmth of the several waterfall basins built into the marble, the hot water in perpetual flow, and then he's drying himself off before any more of his evening's time is wasted. the day has been long. it is also the beginning of many long days to come. the night will be an interlude, not a reprieve.

he's using the ends of the towel to tweeze out the last bit of moisture from the ends of his hair as he emerges, draped loosely with a robe the colour of a pre-dawn night. kaveh's existence is like a footnote. his gaze slides off him as he takes a seat on his own bed, shuffling the last of the golden chains off of it as it they were particularly expensive nuisances.

kaveh doesn't seem like he's about to rise. alhaitham rubs his towel over his head, and, without looking up- ]

Your turn.

[loans]

[ against his best wishes, he watches alhaitham as he emerges from the bathroom, vermillion eyes watching carefully as he strides towards his bed. still nothing. no attention, no touching. not that he had expected it, at this point — but still, what's the point, then? it worsens everything.

kaveh won't say he almost wishes there was at least something, but — ]

Huh?

[ this, too, he should have expected. there was food, there were no bindings, there's even his own sleeping space (a divan of all things, but in a way, his). most importantly, there's his earrings again, safe on his palms. of course, to add it on top, he'd be able to bathe. by himself, without other people manhandling him.

still. he can't help but be suspicious, every time. why shouldn't he? ]

My turn to what? [ just in case he's misunderstanding it. he'd have to be, right? ]

[haravatits]

[ kaveh observes him like alhaitham is going to turn around and bite him. he doesn't blame him. it's only expected, given the situation. the irony comes from the objective fact that it had been kaveh a single insult away from biting alhaitham's head off not a scant thirty minutes ago, like a cat facing off in uncertain territory. alhaitham looks up, and notes that kaveh hasn't moved from his position on the divan. he surmises that he had been looking at his earrings.

it hadn't been difficult, to track them down. the eremites took whatever they liked from the palace of alcazarzaray - a stipulation of azar's that gave the desert tribes just enough appropriate incentive to join forces - but the war-scribes kept impeccable records of everything that was taken. jewelry is generally difficult to document, but items of enough significance tends to attract attention. the household has a list of two hundred and ninety seven items that alhaitham has put personal notice on, but it will take time before each one is tracked down, purchased, logged, itemised and returned. alhaitham will not have time until he has completed what he has set out to do. but the earrings - those were a simple matter. kaveh of lokapala's coming of age celebration was widely lauded for its artistry, symbolism and beauty. everyone knew the cut, colour and make of those earrings. alhaitham did, too.

it's not difficult to imagine what kaveh had been thinking, looking at them.

alhaitham lets his towel drop down next to him. ]

Take a bath. [ is what he says. ] Lokapalans are aware of such practices, are they not? And they call us Vissudhans backwards in design. Or is it that you've never bathed without a servant to help you with the process?

sorry for my fanfic. it will probably happen again

[loans]

I don't want to hear that from someone who sees fit to own slaves.

[ there's venom on his tongue, and whatever nostalgia clouds his heart is so quickly replaced with that same familiar rage. kaveh does not think twice before he rises, taunt successful, taking with him the clean robes and dry towels the servants had brought, alongside his earrings. no matter what happens, he refuses to take his eyes off of them. he storms to the bathroom, and kaveh being kaveh, he's loud even when he shuts the door behind him.

it takes him a long, long time to bathe.

the first half is spent thinking. he has had several moments by himself, him and his thoughts. almost the entire day, from morning to evening, when alhaitham went to bathe himself, and now. he does not strip just yet, and allows fatigue to catch up to him. mental, emotional fatigue. in his intricate mind, his memories are put together like a jigsaw puzzle.

his mother had been away on a trip to fontaine to visit a friend, ever so clueless of what would befall lokapala in her absence. he thinks by now, surely someone would've sent her a missive, and his heart sinks with worry. her people murdered or enslaved. her only son claimed by the enemy kingdom. her husband—

murdered, too. the news were delivered to him by the eremites, spoken between casual conversation. their voices ring in his ears as though they are people who stand right next to him once again: what of the king?, dead, with barely a struggle. not that he could have done anything, eight against one. fool that he is doesn't even keep guards around. one of us could've handled him easily.

that same day, kaveh had told his father's personal guards to leave their post if only for a night. brothers, he remembers them, one recently turned father. they were loyal, committed to their duty, eager to serve. kaveh had told them to celebrate the birth of a new life, a new addition to their family. a person's happiest memory will always be of their home, and a child should have the company of their mother and father. they insisted to stay. kaveh retorted that one night would do no one any harm.

what a fool he had been. he has never been one to be blessed with good luck, but this he does not blame on whatever god is responsible for a person's fortune or misfortune. alone with his thoughts, he had constantly blamed no one but himself. would the raid have gone differently, had he not said anything? would the guards have been able to defend their king? their prince? their people? would he be at home now, back in a kingdom stained red, but a place he belongs? is he the one meant to carry the sorrow and guilt of all the lives lost?

would he let anyone else carry his burden? of course not.

drowning in his own melancholy, the other half of his bath is spent under cold water. most of it is used to rinse his mouth, over and over and over, but it never feels truly clean. kaveh rubs and scrubs at his skin time and time again, and that, too, doesn't wash away the filth. only when it's red and hurt and burning under the touch, is when he considers his bathing to be over.

it had been forty minutes since the bathroom door had been closed, and he emerges from it without a word. he does not offer a look at alhaitham either, instead finding his way to the divan again, where he seats himself with a towel over his head. the scenery is, at the very least, beautiful to look at. he'll be admiring it for most of the night. ]

i love ur fanfics, chinhands

[haravatits]

[ the goad moves kaveh the way a puppet would be tugged by the strings of a puppetmaster. a jerk in the right direction, and the puppet goes, stumbling, across a poorly-worked stage. alhaitham watches him go. the solid oak of the door slams shut. the sounds abate. he returns to dressing himself. he pulls on his nightdress, and tosses his discarded night robe over the back of a chair for a servant to collect. he has his book. the room is lit in shadows from the torchlight sconces; it is enough to read by, though he does not need his eyes to read this specific book. alhaitham knows the welts and frayed corners with his touch alone, he can recall the words in their slanted handwriting well-worn with time and love with his eyes closed. he can see etched into the backs of his eyelids the quirked notation and footnotes added in over the years, first by an uncertain hand, and then next by steadier, uniform, slanted hand-writing. he remembers, he remembers, he remembers.

luck had nothing to do with her death, he knows. old age was a sort of fortune, when you live in his world. it means that you've lived long enough to outlive most of your enemies, but not all. it had been the same for his parents. it will be the same for him, though he knows that he sees far more clearly through the darkness than they ever had. he had the eyes for it. the vultur volans, they say, is brightest of the night constellations. the beak of the eagle sits altair. in its triangle sits alshain and tarazed, the heralds of balance. an eagles wings, when spread, carries with it the weight of the world above and the balance of the world below. only with the keenness of its sight can it see through the darkness, and alhaitham has the eyes for it. he always had. it means the world has never seemed darker for it - the world, instead, has always been bright enough to lay before his feet its tragedies.

only in the dark can you not discern the colour of blood.

there are preparations to be made. he will make them come morning, when the sun rises and the world begins to awake to a continuation of its reality: a world where lokapala no longer exists, annexed into the folds of a nation-state so vicious that its name has become synonymous with bloodshed. avidya will send their envoys. ashavan may do so too, if they have any they could spare; all of them would be competing poets by morning, each coming up with a verse more scathing or more tragic than the last. politics always came later, when it comes to the dreamworld's ashavan and their philosophers. fontaine and liyue would undoubtedly ask after the status of their embassies. the world order will change, shift like chess pieces on sand, and then, as always, it will settle. and what comes from it will be as solid as stone.

pir kavekavus had been a master stonemason. there were people like that, to whom stone is simply another material to be molded.

kaveh returns. forty minutes later, he is wrapped in his bathrobe and wrapped in his thoughts. they come with him like the uncertain trail of feathers, curled vines from a tender forest jungle or the nettles of a spring harvest. he does not, alhaitham notes, look at alhaitham. of course he would not. the night stretches out far like this, outside of that sole window. alhaitham allows it. kaveh has been fed, and watered, and bathed. he has his earrings. he has his fury and his hope and his despairing reality. he has everything that alhaitham knows how to place within his reach. tomorrow, alhaitham will reteach him again the things that he loses in the night, but that is for tomorrow. ]

Sleep. [ is what alhaitham says instead from the foot of his bed. he rises, and one by one, begins to douse the torchlight. ]

[loans]

[ and sleep he does not.

the room goes dark, and kaveh, sweet, special kaveh, son of the sun, is illuminated by the moonlight, as though claimed by it. the stars weep in sorrow for the loss of their kin, but the moon, star that it is not, still shines with hope in the evening sky. kaveh's own light hasn't been extinguished yet. there is hope. there is always, always hope, if one knows where to seek for it. if one knows to fight.

kaveh does not sleep. from the divan, he stares into the outside, a bird in a cage. here, he thinks, the night is calming. just a day ago, night had been too bright, scorched by the fire. ever so loud, disrupted by violence. here, he finds none of that. it is gentle, and it is calming, and it almost convinces kaveh that it is fine to lay, and close his eyes, and rest.

he had thought so before, too.

kaveh sleeps, eventually. when the sun rises behind the tall mountains of vissudha, it tells kaveh, i will keep you safe. when yellow meets gold, and the sun takes over the flame in kaveh's eyes, he finds will to give in to his fatigue, but he does not move. does not fit neatly under the blankets, does not lay his head on the pillow.

he stays, here he is. hugging his legs, seeking their comfort. he rests his head on his knees, and only then, without the comfort of a better sleep, he allows his body to rest.

not for long, he knows, but at the very least, it'll give him the comfort of not being alone with his own thoughts. ]

[haravatits]

[ morning comes. the sun rises. time passes. and what kaveh will thusly wake up to is this: a fresh change of clothes on a little pedestal by his divan, fit to his size and carefully embroidered in the colours of black and green, save for the blood-red needlework along the inside of its seams. new toiletries, pale silver bangles fit for thin wrists, a silk bathrobe faint with the scent of fresh silkflowers, a comb carefully carved and inlaid with mother of pearl.

a dark, woven blanket draped over his back, curved like the tail of a long, ancient beast.

at noon, a servant comes in her swaying skirts and brings in a profusely blooming bouquet. sumeru roses flower alongside of the gentle sway of padisarahs. not true padisarahs, never true ones. not since the last ones along the hills of vissudha river faded, never to return, never to the land where it is said the goddess of flower shed her last tear. the card reads thusly: long may the eagle's eyes adjudge.

alhaitham doesn't return. not on the first day, not on the second. the third day, music fills the halls, loud enough to permeate even the deepest of rooms. zithers and sitars, the pattering footfalls of light-spun dancers. gentle laughter and the wafting smell of food. kaveh gets his. dinner rug by dinner rug, day by day, savoury curries and herb-like stews and little paper-thin layered desserts topped with dried green ajilenakh nuts. on the third day, there's a portion of a sumpterbeast turducken, layered with crocodile, and deer, and avidyan peacock, and rabbit, all wrapped up in one another in carefully designed layers. it is, in fact, a significantly proper cut of meat.

it's not until the evening of the fourth day, long after the quiet servant in her swaying dress had come and gone to leave kaveh with a sketchpad and charcoal - drafting paper woven from the toughest fibers of lotus stems; charcoal ever-burnt from the sprouts of adhigama trees - that alhaitham re-emerges from the depths of the palace. the steel of his gaze glances past kaveh as if he were decoration. it lingers upon the bouquet, still-blooming, just a little less profusely, and ignoring it, lets the door fall behind him before his shoulders shift. his cloak is discarded half-way across the floor as he steps to his bed. his face meets its covers, and he is still.

god would have at least made it to day seven, but alhaitham is no god after all. ]

happy to announce i did not die :)

[loans]

[ this is, surely, an elaborate joke.

at first, he had not questioned his waking to be so quiet. kaveh did not sleep soundly, plagued by nightmares as he had been, but he slept, and was not roused. the room is empty, he figures, because alhaitham is crown prince, and he has duties and responsibilities. kaveh had been the same way once.

on the first day, his thoughts are nicer to him. it is not as excruciating to be by himself, and he doesn't hate the quiet. the clothes, he rejects them until he's uncomfortable in his own filth, and finds that greens do not suit him nearly as well as lokapala's whites do. he spends the night reminiscing over it. the bouquet goes completely ignored.

on the following days, when alhaitham doesn't return, the weight of his thoughts are heavier. he overthinks, overassumes, makes up impossible scenarios that didn't feel so impossible anymore. alhaitham is making plans to sell him again. alhaitham is having meetings to find all the lokapalans that weren't in the kingdom at the time of the raid. alhaitham is torturing the other slaves. alhaitham, alhaitham, alhaitham.

he has nightmares on the third day, and forces himself to eat that night as well.

on the fourth day, the sketchpad had been appreciated, and it's the first time he feels gratitude since his capture. it's a moment too late, but better than nothing. here, he then wonders, someone surely must be requesting such things of the slaves and servants. alhaitham isn't dead, of course not. there had not been bells rung announcing the crown prince's passing, no mourning rituals. the idea that alhaitham has been thinking of kaveh is one that upsets his stomach, and he figures eating will be hard on the fourth day, too.

except it is on the fourth day that alhaitham returns, without a word, without a glance. kaveh is decoration. that much was obvious on day zero.

here, kaveh learns to despite the quiet.

he does not move from his divan (his, now, that he had spent enough time on to rid it of alhaitham's smell, only to be replaced by his own), but he sets the sketchpad and charcoal down, as though they are his, too, and not a commodity at all. ]

Where have you been?

good. now sleep!!!! doctor tomorrow!!!

[haravatits]

[ kaveh speaks. his voice rises in outrage. it's the most novel thing that alhaitham has heard in four days, so much so that he is compelled to turn his head to look at him. kaveh, in vissudha greens and blacks, putting down the sketchpad that alhaitham had asked the head servant to requisition from the engineers. he has been kept busy. he can't quite gauge how much kaveh has eaten, though given that the kitchens have not been a flurry of belts and whips, perhaps he had taken some of what alhaitham has said to heart. he still has energy to be angry. alhaitham supposes that that, if nothing else, is progress.

he is looking at him, and his eyes are terribly red. alhaitham suddenly feels terribly tired. ]

Tending to my duties. [ is what he says. speaking through half a cheek becomes tedious fairly quickly. it warps his words and strains his mouth. alhaitham flips onto his back after a beat, and breathes out. his head is still turned. ] I have those, you see. I may not be paid for it, but it is work nonetheless. [ and because kaveh expects it: ] Would you know what work is? What have you achieved these last for days, former prince of the Lokapalans?

just one more tag...

[loans]

[ the days spent in silence surrounded by his own thoughts had him almost forget that this is alhaitham, insufferable prince, and that talking to him without feeling that selfsame rage of days and days ago is nigh impossible.

kaveh's voice rises, and so does kaveh. on day four, he doesn't mind his distance, and stands by the foot of the bed. had his mind not been clouded by a red-hot anger, he'd almost have thought that looking down on alhaitham is a good look on him. ]

What could I possibly have achieved, locked in your room as I was? You've made me into decoration. You left without a word or warning. What was I to do for four days all by myself?!