[ a quieter voice, like the vestiges of smoke. alhaitham, who does not believe that kaveh ought to dim the flame of his existence for anyone, merely sighs into his book. but he lets kaveh finish - this is something that is needed. for kaveh to speak his mind, for kaveh to figure out what he needs to do, for kaveh to find his bearing. one cannot survive solely on the flames of anger; one cannot live solely on the tears of regret. but one can find a balance in order to move forward. this, alhaitham does not only know in theory. he, too, understands the slaves beneath the high-vaulted ceilings of the ali qapu. it is sympathy, not empathy - but this, too, must be enough.
being asked for a favour is not surprising, not in the wake of the small revelation between the marble columns of alhaitham's room. ]
Am I a mouthpiece for the prince in my room, now? [ is what alhaitham says, ] Or did you forget how to speak to those of lower rank? Or have you finally accepted your status as a slave, and no longer feel worthy of speaking to servants? Which is it? Either way, your ability to use language seems unimpeded; the kitchen staff will be here in the morning with our breakfast. You may pass along your message then, if you still have the courage to do so.
[ because the only way to balance guilt is with fury. ]
[ indeed, the only way to balance guilt is with fury, and alhaitham excels at setting alight the flame of kaveh's fury.
kaveh is, after all, a humble prince. lokapala sees her people as equals, and kaveh behaves as such. the servants who once tended to the palace of alcazarzaray, he saw as family. the brothers and sisters of the sun, whose faces and names he keeps close to heart. he has not forgotten how to speak of those of lower rank, because kaveh has never acknowledged such a thing. he has not, either, accepted that he is a slave, for the flame of stubbornness burns much brighter than the one of fury.
kaveh clicks his tongue. the answer is, then, obvious. ]
You are their prince, not I. Your word is of far more importance than mine. What does it matter if I praise them, but you berate their craft? Whose opinion do you think they would take to heart?
[ kaveh clicks his tongue, as if contending with a particularly stubborn horse. the sound resounds throughout the bedchamber. alhaitham allows him to do so. he turns another page of his book; the line of his book hides a not-smile, one that begins with the curve of alhaitham's eyes, and ends along the shifting of his shoulders. it never quite makes it to his mouth. it has never needed to. it has always been enough for alhaitham to know for himself that he is amused.
instead: ]
First: your argument relies on the premise that I have berated their craft. On which day and at which meal did I do so? If you are accusing me of such behaviour, should you not have the evidence to back up your claim?
Second: which is best received, the words said for the sake of them, or words said with sincerity? Or have the Lokapalans always preferred lip service to heart-worthy praise? The difference in cultures between our kingdoms must be wider than anticipated.
[ the more alhaitham speaks, the more his guilt washes away. at times, kaveh finds he almost loathes the sound of alhaitham's voice. he speaks, and there's berating, there's arguing, there's poking and prodding at matters that should never concern him. time and time again, kaveh feels as though he is in the center of a room covered in mirrors, and there is nowhere to hide.
he shouldn't have asked anything of alhaitham. there is no worth in letting go of pride. ]
Do the Vissudhans have no respect for their prince, if words from his personal slave weight the same? [ kaveh bites back, the burning red of his eyes shooting daggers at alhaitham's visage. ] What need is there for caste, then, if between the Ali Qapu's walls, your servants hold pride in a slave's praise?
[ caste, says kaveh, with the imperious tones of someone who has never believed in it. this, alhaitham knows. for the lokapalans, there is no other word more distasteful, no other concept more wretched. the brothers and sisters beneath the sun, so they were called. a province of sumeru that abhorred slavery, that had prince and stablehand dine at the same table, with the same utensils, and the same camaraderie. alhaitham understands the concept as well as he understands the limitations. rank is a form of discrimination. from the start, it would have been impossible for the lokapalan stablehand to hire guards for his household the same way his prince did. it would have been impossible for the serving staff of a lokapalan palace to wear the quality of gems that kaveh did, with the frequency that he did. it would have been impossible for the cook to have the expensive education that kaveh did, with the people that he learned from.
the existence of the vissudha castes simply call out this form of inequality and inequity. neither systems boast perfection. but the importance, alhaitham knows, is spiritual. the lack of caste in lokapalan frees the soul of the common man. the caste system in vissudha guarantees hope for the next samsara. but that is a religous man's argument. alhaitham, who has never believed in the grace of the greater or lesser lords, looks to kaveh. ]
Are you reluctant to praise them yourself because you fear they will not respect your opinion, or are you reluctant because you, yourself, have too much pride?
[ and then, ] Regardless, in Vissudha, the words from the household of the prince hold the same authority as the prince. You will speak with my authority. My personal slave should still remember how to command that much, does he not?
[ neither, kaveh thinks. for once, he finds himself outside of alhaitham's intruding gaze. neither, neither, neither. he's not seen. his heart is safe behind walls, his intentions behind a mask. is it because kaveh is learning and adapting to this life he has been forced to live, or because he's slowly trying to understand the ins and outs of alhaitham's reasoning?
neither. perhaps, he thinks, it's simply because they're different people, of different blood, from different cultures. a kingdom of faux equality, and a kingdom that does not lie to its people on where they are in the pyramid of life.
the trishiraite red of kaveh's eyes do not look away, for once. they burn brighter, if anything, with the flame of anger. it is cynicism when he speaks the words that he had, but when alhaitham calls him the same, his personal slave, kaveh grits his teeth. it's a wound that has yet to close, and won't for a long time. ]
And the limits of my 'authority' are? [ he does not, after all, trust leaving this room. he does not trust being able to see the ali qapu's waterfalls, the gardens, stroll around a palace made of marble. to say kaveh has any authority at all is unthinkable. they do not lie to their people in lokapala. they would never dare give them such false sense of hope. ] Your servants may bring me food if I personally request it, but how far will they go? Would your guards listen to me? Am I to believe I have half the same freedom as you do?
[ the phrasing has hit home. alhaitham looks. kaveh's fury simmers. he, too, will someday burn out. all those within the ali qapu's walls are fated to do so. but that does not mean, however, that there no longer exists flame. you have to ration your anger. alhaitham knows this better than anyone. he will continue to know this, long after all else has burned out. there are certain things you cannot let go of, lest you lose your way. one must have something they are willing to hold onto until the very end. his grandmother had taught him so.
still, kaveh's anger is expelled through word and motion, the crystalline dagger of his eyes. the poems describe the eastern rose as red; today, the angle of kaveh's head brings out the cooler shades of it, the pink of which is like blood in water. it is, however, beside the point. ]
Why? [ alhaitham asks. there are no side-paths that he is willing to embark on. not in this argument. see - ] Do not deflect. Must you have the same freedoms as I before you can allow yourself to praise your own people?
[ because the slaves in the kitchen are kaveh's people. because kaveh needs not ask alhaitham to praise them for him. ]
Praise your own people, or don't. It matters little to me. But do not conflate it with your perceived sense of agency. I will not be your excuse not to. [ alhaitham's gaze is hard, the green of an emerald mine, the red of a blood diamond: ] You know this better than I, Kaveh.
[ no, he thinks again. of course he doesn't need that false sense of freedom. he would praise them time and time again — he did, before, with elham, and will continue to do so. he will praise them for staying safe, for not losing hope. he will praise their skills, will praise them even for the perfect way they may blink their eyes. praise, after all, has always lived easily on the tip of kaveh's tongue, for those who deserve it.
he would, kaveh thinks, praise them even if he would end up being lashed for it. ]
Answer me. If I'm supposed to hold about as much authority as you do, then where does my freedom lie? May I see fit to punish those who hurt my people? May I order your guards around? Tell me.
And who here has diverted the point? Did this conversation begin with authority in mind, or praise?
[ kaveh's voice rises. alhaitham observes. the conversation spirals, from beginning to end and the end to beginning. but it is a conversation worth having. the act of getting to know someone is messy. it is circuitous. language is. but if language were not verbalised, it ceases to have its meaning - only by speaking thoughts aloud are you able to test its validity.
kaveh's thoughts have remained unsaid. they are now being said. alhaitham looks to him, the quirk of his brow a punctuation at the end of a wending sentence: ]
Which is the conversation you intend to have with me?
[ insufferable. absolutely insufferable, he thinks, and it works on kaveh. a conversation does not need to be streamlined, and the one he wants to have is one both are aware of the answer. he doubts he holds the same authority as the prince. it would be too much of a flawed system, and the little he knows of vissudha, he could still assume it is not something that would put into place.
he can feel the headache incoming, the way his eyes hurt from how much he has been frowning. they will continue to argue, never truly reach a conclusion, because alhaitham is too prideful, and kaveh is too stubborn. ]
You know what I'm trying to do. I don't have the same authority as you do. My praise does not hold the same weight, and your servants and guards will not listen to me the way they do you. Do you fancy feeding your people lies, so that they may believe what they think you can give them? That won't work with me.
Do I seem as if I would gain much by lying to you? [ is alhaitham's quiet rejoinder. steady, like an even-keeled boat amidst lashing waves. it occurs to alhaitham, suddenly, that kaveh lives in the future of things. the act of speaking praise is rooted in the present; the act of accepting it inhabits an uncertain future. an action can be infinitely put off if one fears not knowing the consequences. there is a phenomenon in the rainforests of sumeru wherein ants lose their way and begin to blindly follow the one in front of them. on, and on they pick up followers, until an entire colony of ants march steadily in a repeating circle, a maelstrom of bodies and footfalls. it is called the death spiral, because it only ends when the entire colony is dead.
alhaitham considers this. the page of his book turns. the sound rasps in the hush that follows.
finally, he speaks. ] Try it tomorrow, then. If you are so certain that I am deluding you, then it should be easy for you to find proof, no? Or are you so afraid of wasting your precious breath that you would not even deign to speak the words aloud to prove me wrong?
[ no, he does not. but kaveh, who learns not to trust people the hard way, does not believe those words. alhaitham would instigate him, would tell him try it tomorrow, and watch as kaveh is laughed at, mocked, touched. it could be logical to assume that yes, what reason would there be to lie about this, but finding logic amidst people he does not know is not easy. logic comes with honesty, and honesty comes with trust. kaveh does not trust alhaitham, therefore he cannot achieve that honesty.
kaveh watches, because it is all he can do. he watches, as though trying to unravel alhaitham's secrets, as though he could peel off his skin and see his heart as it is. he will continue watching, the flame of his stubbornness enough to keep him warm come winter, until he finds truth in his words. ]
Your guesses about me aren't as sharp. Don't project yourself on me. [ because kaveh would never be afraid of wasting his breath on anyone, no. he would not see it as a waste. he would, instead, willingly give it to anyone who would be happy to listen.
he sets his feet on his divan, as is routine. legs to chest, head to knees, eyes to the outside. at the very least, his body has gotten used to the position. ] If I speak to any of them, it is simply because I want to.
[ further proof, alhaitham surmises, that insults work as intended. kaveh retreats back to his divan. he curls into a form that creatures of the forest take on when they are burnt alive - head to knees, legs to chest, the slow immolation of skin and feather and bone taking their spiraling path down to the curl of protective hands. what poets will surmise is that the creature is protecting their heart. what amurta biologists know is that the creature is protecting their head. tonight, once again, kaveh has been derailed from his downward spiral of self-immolating grief. the quiet whisper of his earlier plea has morphed into the raised voice of an imperious demand. alhaitham thinks - that kaveh has not known the shape of his skin for some time. lokapala has been peeled from it. lokapala has been cloistered within him. but he is still lokapala, down to his very marrow, a prince from a society desperate to create equality from inequity, who has yet to know what to allow himself to be.
with anyone else, the answer is easy to say: alhaitham does not, in fact, care if one wishes or does not wishes to speak. but this is kaveh. it was kaveh, it has not yet been kaveh, and it will be kaveh. there were two children up in the tower, once. the tower is still there. both children are still here. two people died that day.
alhaitham breathes out from behind his book. the faint amusement in his tone says thus: ]
Of course. How could I forget. I was attempting to bar you from speaking this entire time, Prince of the Lokapala.
[ the pages flip closed. alhaitham rises. ]
I am dousing the torches. Sleep, or don't, it matters not to me. But remember - you will be meeting two more of your kin in two days' time. Consider what you will say to them; it should be easy for you, since you will want to.
[ it is at moments like this that kaveh is reminded of their differing cultures, moments like this that he is homesick, and in spite of the insults, grief and guilt are not so easy to be ridden of. they have opinions that crash and burn, they have views as different as day and night, they stand on different ends of the war. kaveh was ever so idealistic, once. young, bright like the sun, his eyes so big and so full of hope. he thought, back then, that he would certainly find a friend in other kingdom's crown princes and princesses. they are, he had once said, the same.
in a world he does not remember just yet, the chance was there, once. two children, so different yet so similar, with the unique innocence only children their age have. kaveh smiled there, extended a hand. kaveh might have made his first friend there, another princeling like him. he does not remember it, a page in the book of his life stuck between two others.
it will be seen. ]
I don't need your reminder. [ no, he does not. it will weight in his mind for the next few days, after all. it will be all day kaveh will think about, and there will not be room for forgotten memories.
night falls. it will be dark. and kaveh will have trouble sleeping, that night. ]
[ night falls. night passes. dawn comes. dawn, too, passes. the ali qapu blooms red beneath the pale-pink reach of new light. alhaitham wakes, and exists, and is, as always, indifferent to it. the next two days passes without incident. alhaitham performs the duties as his role entails, and waits for the natural progression towards the next stage of his plan. the details of the meeting are passed along - eleven pm in the back gardens where the aqueducts burble, beneath the light of three lit lamps in a half-hidden pergola. food is brought, food is taken away. the slaves, with their bowed heads; the servants, with their brisk professionalism. the household bustles with undue activity. just on the heels of a treaty signing, there is much to be done - diplomacy to be had, guests to be settled, hospitality to be extended, gifts to be procured.
it is the last that the girl with the swaying dress returns with in a small, black box. a pair of silver rings, from the raid on the palaces of the lokapala. the vow-rings of kaveh's mother and father. she delivers them with a cant of her head; her skirts sway as she retreats into the light and life of the palace proper, leaving behind the marbled quiet of alhaitham's room and the singular, solitary guest within.
the issue arises on day two's lunch. the spread of freshly picked greens and tomatoes tossed with a spiced dressing, along with great, big steaming bowls of lentil soup and the small, stuffed roasts of tiny quail-like birds. the dessert of lunchtime's repast is a fragrant jasmine-and-coconut cake decorated in green and white layers so translucent that one can see through to the other side of the room warped only by the tint of the dessert itself. the issue builds in the cooling breeze of the afternoon. the northern wind blows gentle respite for the usually unbearable mid-day heat. but even that does nothing for what builds. by evening, the heat is like a boiling furnace, enough that when alhaitham finally returns to the room proper, his hand pauses upon the door itself.
the scent is unmistakable. the conclusion, however, impossible. therefore, the impossible is discarded. the alacrity of alhaitham's mind bolts through several options before landing on the one that has mild annoyance crossing his face for the first time since the invasion proper.
artificially induced heat.
alhaitham opens the door. he closes it behind him. he closes his eyes, and opens them, slowly, with painful reluctance. ]
[ night falls. night passes. the first day, kaveh misses breakfast. he wakes up at noon, five hours after his usual waking time. he does not address it, and continues on with his day. there is lunch, and he says nothing. there's dinner, and he says nothing, either. there's a gift, and here, kaveh wants to say something, whys and hows and what fors, but none of it is voiced, again. his corner of the room, he finds, is slowly being painted the traditional colors of lokapala. the marble on the walls, lighter. the view outside, an endless waterfall. the scent of parisarahs that bloom come spring. none of it is real.
kaveh leaves the tiny, neat box next to his sketchpad.
night falls. night passes. the second day, kaveh misses breakfast. he wakes up two hours past noon, and does not address it, either. the day continues on as intended; with lunch, with anxiety, with a gift. his corner of the room is no longer lokapalan. it bears gloom whites, mossy greens, colors he has come to despise. it ties him back to reality. the gift is not well-welcomed.
it starts slowly. summer, he thinks, is on its way. sumeru is always hit with it first, a tropical nation as it is. the heat always makes him sleepy, but it is not the reason he sleeps in. he should not be so hot. the cooling afternoon breeze would promise him so. then comes the inadequacy, the sweating, the lack of breath. kaveh knows what this is. he knows, too, that it's a fortnight too early. therefore—
of course. it makes sense, when he forces himself to think about it. how long has it been since the fall of lokapala? a man can only be so patient. an alpha, even less so. i wonder why prince alhaitham is so nice to you — he is not.
the door opens, and that familiar voice reaches his ears. ]
Get out!
[ it takes strength and will to voice words his body wishes not to speak. kaveh does no mind the tone of his voice, cares not for who might hear it. it is a ploy. it is a scheme. it is something that has been bound to happen the moment he was delivered to alhaitham's chambers, clad in golden manacles. a gift from war. kaveh sits there, in a corner of the room, behind the divan. curled up, with thoughts that are not his, and desires he does not claim. he forces himself to think of kurash and akram. they would be waiting for him. they are. there's so much he wants to tell them. like... like what?
he doesn't remember anymore. ]
Get out, [ less of a demand, and more of a plea. it is weaker, it is softer. it is words his body wishes not to speak, still. ]
[ kaveh's tone is desperation-made-form. alhaitham stops at the heel of the wall of it. the sound tears from a throat, reverberates across the marble of his room, and ends somewhere lodged in the narrow confines of his chest. kaveh's scent is like spring flowers in bloom. the scent is thick enough that alhaitham tastes it upon the tip of his tongue. the breath he holds is perfunctory; this far into a heat, alhaitham would need to stop breathing altogether to find himself unaffected. but it buys enough time for him to think. really think. the door closes. alhaitham leans against it, and engages the lock. he locks himself in on the wrong side as he surveys the sorry mess that kaveh has been made into.
kaveh, curled behind his divan. even from here, he reeks of scent and sweat and fear. it's the latter that alhaitham knows is the downfall of rationality. the heat strips an omega of self-control, replaces want with autonomy-denying need. it's an antiquated biological function that should not have persisted for so long in the gene pool, if it weren't for the societal functions it fulfills and the stigma that comes with it. the lokapalas, alhaitham recalls, as he moves step by step into the room, were the ones who invented birth controls beyond what nature and nurture would have provided. equality comes in more than one form. malice comes in another. alhaitham does not need to think far to conclude that this is azar's doing. the issue is what comes next.
kaveh's scent curls. alhaitham looks down, and notes that his hand has curled unconsciously into a fist. potent, he thinks, and takes his own measure. ]
This is my room. [ is what he says. ] I have no reason to leave.
[ and, obfuscated: no reason to leave kaveh alone, because the complications of that has the potential to send a message to azar in ways that alhaitham is not interested in handling. alhaitham's brisk steps take him to his desk where a small stack of his plumes sit. he takes one and engages the pneumatic tube.
deed done, he looks across the room. it is the crucible of his self control that keeps him from feeling ill. ]
[ the first hour, kaveh finds, had been too easy. in the quietness of alhaitham's quarters, he has no terrific distractions. his corner of the room, at the very least, smells like him. the divan, his blanket. his sketchpad. his earrings. he found comfort in all of those, and they allowed kaveh to have control over his own body. the second hour, he finds, is far harder. there is alhaitham. there is alhaitham's voice. there's the hyper-awareness of each and all of his movements. he moves, and his body follows. he speaks, and kaveh shudders. it is, he knows, pride and stubbornness alone that has kaveh withstand his body's desires. this is, after all, his first ever heat. it was never meant to be experienced like that.
kaveh has always romanticized it. a partner for whom they bore the most genuine feelings of love. a planned time, so it is remembered, so it is made special. he would lay himself bare — emotionally, mentally, physically — to the one he wishes to spend a lifetime with and more. kaveh has wished for it for as long as he could remember. an idealistic world born from rose-tinted glass, encouraged by blood of his blood. such has been lokapala's wish for her omegas: to be in control of their body's wants, and allow only those they deem special to experience them at their most sensitive.
it is of no surprise that this dream has been since crushed. with no kingdom, no people, no dreams, and no control of his own body, what does kaveh have left? ]
Yes, [ he lies. barely, is the truth. kaveh dares not move. if he does, he will lose control of himself. he will enjoy the dark, instead. it would be calming. it could be comforting.
it is, too, volatile. darkness is a canvas, and without full control of his mind, it paints itself any picture it longs for. kaveh has been in this same room for too many days. he knows its layout. he can picture alhaitham's bed, which he knows the size, how soft it is, how it feels under him. he recalls a memory. he recalls the first day he spent in this same room, the hours spent on that same bed, the way he had laid on it.
he distorts, then, the memories that follow. ever so vulnerable. ever so needy. so easy to please, so eager for want. he would have readily allowed alhaitham to have his way with him, back then. (he would not.) he would have invited it, even. (he would not.) begged for it. (he would not.) he would crawl onto it now, even, lay himself bare, turn himself into temptation.
(he would not.) ]
... It's harder when you talk. [ kaveh does not lie, this time. he has no reason to trust alhaitham. not when he assumes all of this is his fault, his scheme, his plan. but when all of this has always just been a matter of time, what use is there to put up a fight? ]
[ kaveh responds. his voice is far away. distance is not only measured in metres, but in timbre and tone. kaveh speaks as if he were at the end of a long cavern, the echoes of his voice like something scattered into stardust. kaveh sounds unmade. the rasp of his voice carves through alhaitham, whose nails dig briefly into the palm of his hand before he makes them yield. the order of operations piece themselves together. kaveh's condition needs to be monitored. information must be gleaned. alhaitham's wing of the palace must be vacated. regulations must be set in place. and alhaitham cannot leave. azar would have counted for this; a surrogate must be selected. and kaveh's people must be warned. everything is not quite in that order. it is, in fact, a mere sketch of a beginning, but alhaitham's mind has already prioritised the man on the other side of the room.
the first time alhaitham had known the presentation of a heat had been his mother. he had been cloistered then, scheduling made to send him away to somewhere appropriate while she agonised behind closed doors. the second time, a young soldier crumpled in the heat of the noonday sun, and alhaitham had carried her from the training ground to the medical bay. she had been warm. she had been tree nuts and silk candy spun fresh. the vissudhans posit that alhaitham, named after the bird that takes wing, lofty, above its people, is a man untouched by the rigours of every day hassles. he is stone; he is marble. but what is often forgotten is that alhaitham is but a man. a man that bruises when hurt. a man that bleeds when cut. a man that burns when put to the torch.
it follows: blankets and warm materials to create a safer environment. food and water to be left where kaveh needs them. bedding for alhaitham, to relegate himself to the bathroom. but before that, kaveh is still lucid. there are answers that alhaitham needs. he begins to move sifting through the room in gentle, quiet motions. ]
Then I will make this brief. [ is what he says, ] When did your heat begin? Who else has been in this room? [ alhaitham brings himself to the other end of the room, where bedding has been stowed into wooden cabinets. colourful blankets, woven covers and expensive fur stoles of creatures from the far north. alhaitham gathers all of them with indiscriminate motions. ] And who is it that weathers your heats with you?
[ that is not the right answer, he manages the thought. the right answer would have been not to say anything. the right answer would have been to leave. kaveh knows not what would be of him in the quiet of alhaitham's room, but it is much better than to share it with the man himself. it is much better than having to listen to his voice. it is easier on his thoughts. it is nicer on his body.
questions, questions, questions. they enter one ear, and leave the other. the words become soup in his mind when he tries to picture them. kaveh, still, forces himself to rationalize it. when did your heat begin? does he even know how to answer it?
his ears ring. his body defies biology. it is hotter beyond belief, it is hurting, it is wanting. kaveh moves at last — uncurls from his position, leans back into the wall and lays there, exhausted. it is fine if he does not look at alhaitham. the ceiling will be, suddenly, the most fascinating art piece he has ever laid his eyes on. think. ]
... After lunch, I think. [ the answer is not unfamiliar on his tongue. somewhere in his mind, he thinks, that conclusion had long been reached. he breathes in, then out.
the second question is much harder to rationalize. had he even paid them any attention? the servants. the slaves. that familiar maid. kaveh attempts to picture them all. but the mind is a tricky little thing that has been studied for years, yet never understood. a person's dreams, and what instigates them. intrusive thoughts, and what births them. its own independency, and whyever so hard to be controlled.
kaveh does not picture the servants, the slaves, the maid. he pictures, instead, alhaitham. alhaitham, who brings him food, then mouthfeeds him. alhaitham, who comes to retrieve lunch, but spares time to lose himself in kaveh. alhaitham, who brings gifts for kaveh, and makes kaveh into his own.
kaveh shakes his head. none of those things happened. ]
I can't... I can't remember anyone. Probably the same people as always?
[ probably is never enough. it is, however, what he can offer. and as for the last question—
the earliest memory he has on it is his mother explaining what he is. omegas, she had said, are special. they are, she continued, the greater lord's favorite children. those who are meant to bring life into the world, regardless of their gender. it comes with great responsibility, and it is not something to be abused. lokapala has since allowed her omegas to choose the right person, the one meant to see them at their most vulnerable. his mother had, then, told him the symptoms, so he is not afraid once it happens. kaveh has waited ever since. for the right moment, the right person.
he turns, and looks at alhaitham. he should not. ]
... No one. [ honey. that is what his voices tastes like. honey harvested from avidya, delivered across sumeru. it is temptation taken form. it is the most primal form of nature. it is want, and kaveh weaponizes it unconsciously. ] This is... my first time.
the biological rationale is this: that fertility is vital to the survival of the human race. that protection and provision is needed for procreation. that need and infatuation is impetus for behaviours that promote survival. you will protect that which you, if not love, then at least desire. in theory, the amurta biologists posit, the strata of secondary sexual characteristics creates a society where each know their own roles. alhaitham knows the arguments well, because they form the foundation of the basic caste system. vissudha had her roots in a nation state that worshipped fecundity. vissudha stratified her society in order to create a population dedicated to formalise the most savage qualities of desire.
kaveh is devastation-made-form. my first time, he says, in a voice like spun honey. desire carves through alhaitham like a quake. he is blind with it. the world is white-hot and bright, the light refracted from marble and glass like lancelets. nothing is meant to withstand the siren of that tone. nothing dares.
alhaitham crosses the room. the air is thick with scent. his body burns through it like the careening of a comet. each footfall drags alhaitham through time and space to a kaveh who is simultaneously too near and too far. there is nothing inviting about the curl of kaveh's body. he hides, like a creature burned, a golden curl against the corner of a wall that could not possibly contain him. he is light, and sweetness, and a galaxy of yearning. he belongs in a case for display; he belongs in the folds of a bed. alhaitham looks down with the hard, hewn lines of the divan between them, and thinks -
alhaitham is not yet unmade.
with uncertain precision, alhaitham drops what he is holding. the smattering of blankets and comforters deposit themselves over kaveh's upturned face. ]
You should have said, Prince of the Lokapala, that you were on suppressants.
[ the gravel of his voice is unfamiliar to even alhaitham, who tastes iron on his tongue. he has, he realises, bitten through his lip.
it is not worth considering. ] How long on average? Think, Kaveh.
[ there are fantasy books that give birth to creatures of fontainian sea able to enchant travelers with their voices alone. they sing, they lure, they bite. it is, ultimately, fantasy, but kaveh finds room in his mind to think, this is it.
kaveh is unmade.
alhaitham approaches, and he finds his body expecting. wanting. he is eager, and thoughts leave his mind. in the shelves of his mind, his mother had spoken of this. in memories now forgotten, there is an instance of time when the sun shone high, at the height of summer. a younger kaveh sat on his mother's lap in their gardens, served tea, shared secrets between each other. she spoke of love, of desire. she spoke of a time where kaveh will be rid of rationality, and will want ever so egoistically. she had said then that selfishness is part of human nature, that there is no shame in it. kaveh, in spite of the love he held for his mother, grew selfless.
kaveh, rid of rationality, wants the way his mother had told him about.
the blankets and comforters, he finds, are not enough. they are clean, smell of soap and flora. it is not what he wants. it is not enough.
kaveh sets them aside. want ever so egoistically. he reaches across the divan that separates them, and holds onto the fabric of alhaitham's clothes. want.
the question has never reached his ears. ]
Your bed, [ there are fantasy books on fontainian mythology. they lure with honey-coated words. they bite. ] Take me to it?
[ kaveh wants. he wants, ultimately, to lose himself in the smell of alhaitham's covers. ]
[ kaveh reaches across the divan. no, alhaitham thinks, with some resonance of desperation, that what reaches across the divan is no longer kaveh. a creature is made in part through the predictable internal workings of their thoughts and the rational constant of their behaviours. that people did not always act rationally did not detract from the internal consistency of said logic. a man who chose irrationality would always choose irrationality given the same circumstances and impetus. outliers exist, but infrequently. and alhaitham has always known that there are things a person must always hold onto, lest they are led astray by the vicissitudes of life. you were not you if you allowed yourself to stray.
the thing reaching across the divan is not kaveh. kaveh, who detests the prince of the vissudha. kaveh, who still mourns the loss of his people. kaveh, who refuses to let go of a pride so fundamental to him that to strip him of it is to shame the world that allowed it. you could remove kaveh from lokapala, but you could not remove lokapala from kaveh. not kaveh, not like this. something in alhaitham whispers from the unknowable: is this the kaveh you love, or is this the kaveh you could love?
there had been two children, once. alhaitham had seen sunlight all his life, but it had never been so golden as the day it fell upon the flaxen strands of kaveh's beneath the mottled shade of the palm trees. kaveh is liquid sunshine across the divan, and a part of alhaitham, the part of him that had been born for this, this, thinks this: that alhaitham has failed to tell kaveh all this time, that he has been hungry, to tell him that he had been searching for him like meat, like water -
like blood. alhaitham tastes it where he had bitten through his lip. the taste of iron carries forward the steel-clad crucible of his self-control, it feeds it as it writhes. fishermen, alhaitham remembers, used to bind themselves to the masts of their ships so that the fontainian sea would not have them. not once - never. alhaitham pulls kaveh into his arms.
he tosses him into his bed.
the motion is not a kind or playful one. what follows is a pillow and the put-aside comforter, distance created through layers. alhaitham bares his teeth, and, because it is necessary, bites down onto the back of his arm. his teeth sink in. blood slinks. pain blooms. clarity of mind returns. alhaitham bites himself a second time, incisors sinking in until the protest of his arm gains flame - and then looks back to the bed with a haggard breath. ]
Kaveh. [ even kaveh's name is liquid sunshine given form - but alhaitham's eyes remain clear. they must. ] Do not leave that bed. I will tie you there if I must. [ and before the protests - ]
Kaveh.
[ like the syllables of a serrated knife. alhaitham's lips drip red. ] Understand.
[ the last of his mother's teachings had been thus: you have inherited my beauty, kaveh. there will be none who will resist you. none who will dare.
there had been admirers. letters sent anonymously. there had been flowers, there had been dates, there had been confessions. the crown prince of lokapala has always been popular. the golden of his hair is purer than the gold mined from the chasm. the red of his eyes leaves the trishiraite harvested from sumeran desert jealous. his smile becomes the sun itself. he is a child blessed by the gods, many have said. it is a rumor that has seen all that teyvat has to offer, a rumor even those across the seas have heard.
there were those who came to lokapala for the padisarahs that bloom come spring. there were those who came to lokapala for the crown prince, unmated, untouched, pristine and pure. given the opportunity, it is known, there would be none who would deny a chance to have a taste of him.
alhaitham does.
alhaitham, crown prince of vissudha, who kaveh has personally picked to blame for tainting him, bleeds to retain reason. red is a jewel oftentimes associated with the prince of lokapala. red is an anchor. red grounds alhaitham, and questions kaveh.
kaveh, who feels his body melt under the smell of sheets and cushion touched by alhaitham. kaveh, whose own reason has long left him, whose fingers clutch around the blankets, whose body burns for attention, whose body hurts if left untouched. kaveh, whose red meets alhaitham's red, and wonders, as he is wont to do, why?
red is an anchor. it grounds alhaitham, and wakes kaveh. ]
... Three pills, every six months. [ the question has long been forgotten. he recalls, however, the weight of alhaitham's tone on a specific word. ] They are due in a fortnight.
[ not now. not this early. the signs were there, but kaveh knows this has been induced by something. someone. not alhaitham, he thinks. elham might have been right. alhaitham knows how to speak. he is well-versed in the intonation of words and its hidden meanings as haravatats are wont to be. he says understand, and kaveh, who is, instead, well-versed in people, sees it as a quiet plea.
understand, he pleads, and kaveh wonders, understand what? kaveh wonders — ]
[ as always, alhaitham thinks, kaveh asks the wrong questions. from the very beginning, the questions had come as a deluge. no waterfall of the ali qapu could sustain it. has alhaitham enjoyed the slaughter of the lokapalan people? is kaveh to accept his fate? does the fate of the lokapalan slaves matter to alhaitham? why do you return my jewelery? why are you doing this? why? why? why?
why won't you touch me, kaveh asks. the wrong question again. alhaitham thinks, perhaps the right question can never be voiced: who is alhaitham, and what is kaveh to him? one's fate is tied to the way an individual chooses to interact with the world; one's fate is tied to the way an individual chooses to allow the world in. alhaitham has not allowed the world in, not once. not ever. there is no room within him for anything save for the sole purpose that he strives towards. he had once looked into the abyss of probabilities, and identified a door in a far-off, far-flung galaxy. he had looked at it, and put down the first flagstone of a path built towards this impossible destination. he had been ten, and he had been angry, and the world had seemed terribly small for it.
the question cannot be why. but it is in kaveh's nature to ask. three pills, every six months, and due in a fortnight - but not tonight. alhaitham only needed this in order to confirm the game afoot. his mouth is stained red as he looks at kaveh, really looks. kaveh's limbs tangle within the rope of sheets. he is agonised. he is unmade. and alhaitham - cannot be unmade. ]
Because [ alhaitham says, in a voice like tainted iron, with a rasp like rusted steel, ] it would please Azar too much, and please me too little.
[ the crucible of his self-control holds. alhaitham breathes in. the air is musk and honey-sweet. ] You do not want me, Kaveh. You merely need me. Is this how you wish to be?
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no subject
Date: 2023-05-13 01:26 am (UTC)being asked for a favour is not surprising, not in the wake of the small revelation between the marble columns of alhaitham's room. ]
Am I a mouthpiece for the prince in my room, now? [ is what alhaitham says, ] Or did you forget how to speak to those of lower rank? Or have you finally accepted your status as a slave, and no longer feel worthy of speaking to servants? Which is it? Either way, your ability to use language seems unimpeded; the kitchen staff will be here in the morning with our breakfast. You may pass along your message then, if you still have the courage to do so.
[ because the only way to balance guilt is with fury. ]
no subject
Date: 2023-05-15 03:20 am (UTC)kaveh is, after all, a humble prince. lokapala sees her people as equals, and kaveh behaves as such. the servants who once tended to the palace of alcazarzaray, he saw as family. the brothers and sisters of the sun, whose faces and names he keeps close to heart. he has not forgotten how to speak of those of lower rank, because kaveh has never acknowledged such a thing. he has not, either, accepted that he is a slave, for the flame of stubbornness burns much brighter than the one of fury.
kaveh clicks his tongue. the answer is, then, obvious. ]
You are their prince, not I. Your word is of far more importance than mine. What does it matter if I praise them, but you berate their craft? Whose opinion do you think they would take to heart?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-15 07:57 pm (UTC)instead: ]
First: your argument relies on the premise that I have berated their craft. On which day and at which meal did I do so? If you are accusing me of such behaviour, should you not have the evidence to back up your claim?
Second: which is best received, the words said for the sake of them, or words said with sincerity? Or have the Lokapalans always preferred lip service to heart-worthy praise? The difference in cultures between our kingdoms must be wider than anticipated.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-15 10:05 pm (UTC)he shouldn't have asked anything of alhaitham. there is no worth in letting go of pride. ]
Do the Vissudhans have no respect for their prince, if words from his personal slave weight the same? [ kaveh bites back, the burning red of his eyes shooting daggers at alhaitham's visage. ] What need is there for caste, then, if between the Ali Qapu's walls, your servants hold pride in a slave's praise?
i never got this notif wtf ????
Date: 2023-05-24 01:16 am (UTC)the existence of the vissudha castes simply call out this form of inequality and inequity. neither systems boast perfection. but the importance, alhaitham knows, is spiritual. the lack of caste in lokapalan frees the soul of the common man. the caste system in vissudha guarantees hope for the next samsara. but that is a religous man's argument. alhaitham, who has never believed in the grace of the greater or lesser lords, looks to kaveh. ]
Are you reluctant to praise them yourself because you fear they will not respect your opinion, or are you reluctant because you, yourself, have too much pride?
[ and then, ] Regardless, in Vissudha, the words from the household of the prince hold the same authority as the prince. You will speak with my authority. My personal slave should still remember how to command that much, does he not?
dw thinks we've had too much fun with gay men
Date: 2023-05-26 12:49 am (UTC)neither. perhaps, he thinks, it's simply because they're different people, of different blood, from different cultures. a kingdom of faux equality, and a kingdom that does not lie to its people on where they are in the pyramid of life.
the trishiraite red of kaveh's eyes do not look away, for once. they burn brighter, if anything, with the flame of anger. it is cynicism when he speaks the words that he had, but when alhaitham calls him the same, his personal slave, kaveh grits his teeth. it's a wound that has yet to close, and won't for a long time. ]
And the limits of my 'authority' are? [ he does not, after all, trust leaving this room. he does not trust being able to see the ali qapu's waterfalls, the gardens, stroll around a palace made of marble. to say kaveh has any authority at all is unthinkable. they do not lie to their people in lokapala. they would never dare give them such false sense of hope. ] Your servants may bring me food if I personally request it, but how far will they go? Would your guards listen to me? Am I to believe I have half the same freedom as you do?
ur not wrong tbh
Date: 2023-05-26 01:10 am (UTC)still, kaveh's anger is expelled through word and motion, the crystalline dagger of his eyes. the poems describe the eastern rose as red; today, the angle of kaveh's head brings out the cooler shades of it, the pink of which is like blood in water. it is, however, beside the point. ]
Why? [ alhaitham asks. there are no side-paths that he is willing to embark on. not in this argument. see - ] Do not deflect. Must you have the same freedoms as I before you can allow yourself to praise your own people?
[ because the slaves in the kitchen are kaveh's people. because kaveh needs not ask alhaitham to praise them for him. ]
Praise your own people, or don't. It matters little to me. But do not conflate it with your perceived sense of agency. I will not be your excuse not to. [ alhaitham's gaze is hard, the green of an emerald mine, the red of a blood diamond: ] You know this better than I, Kaveh.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-26 02:35 am (UTC)[ no, he thinks again. of course he doesn't need that false sense of freedom. he would praise them time and time again — he did, before, with elham, and will continue to do so. he will praise them for staying safe, for not losing hope. he will praise their skills, will praise them even for the perfect way they may blink their eyes. praise, after all, has always lived easily on the tip of kaveh's tongue, for those who deserve it.
he would, kaveh thinks, praise them even if he would end up being lashed for it. ]
Answer me. If I'm supposed to hold about as much authority as you do, then where does my freedom lie? May I see fit to punish those who hurt my people? May I order your guards around? Tell me.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-26 03:32 pm (UTC)[ kaveh's voice rises. alhaitham observes. the conversation spirals, from beginning to end and the end to beginning. but it is a conversation worth having. the act of getting to know someone is messy. it is circuitous. language is. but if language were not verbalised, it ceases to have its meaning - only by speaking thoughts aloud are you able to test its validity.
kaveh's thoughts have remained unsaid. they are now being said. alhaitham looks to him, the quirk of his brow a punctuation at the end of a wending sentence: ]
Which is the conversation you intend to have with me?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-26 10:50 pm (UTC)he can feel the headache incoming, the way his eyes hurt from how much he has been frowning. they will continue to argue, never truly reach a conclusion, because alhaitham is too prideful, and kaveh is too stubborn. ]
You know what I'm trying to do. I don't have the same authority as you do. My praise does not hold the same weight, and your servants and guards will not listen to me the way they do you. Do you fancy feeding your people lies, so that they may believe what they think you can give them? That won't work with me.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-27 01:56 am (UTC)alhaitham considers this. the page of his book turns. the sound rasps in the hush that follows.
finally, he speaks. ] Try it tomorrow, then. If you are so certain that I am deluding you, then it should be easy for you to find proof, no? Or are you so afraid of wasting your precious breath that you would not even deign to speak the words aloud to prove me wrong?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-27 09:23 pm (UTC)kaveh watches, because it is all he can do. he watches, as though trying to unravel alhaitham's secrets, as though he could peel off his skin and see his heart as it is. he will continue watching, the flame of his stubbornness enough to keep him warm come winter, until he finds truth in his words. ]
Your guesses about me aren't as sharp. Don't project yourself on me. [ because kaveh would never be afraid of wasting his breath on anyone, no. he would not see it as a waste. he would, instead, willingly give it to anyone who would be happy to listen.
he sets his feet on his divan, as is routine. legs to chest, head to knees, eyes to the outside. at the very least, his body has gotten used to the position. ] If I speak to any of them, it is simply because I want to.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-28 03:44 am (UTC)with anyone else, the answer is easy to say: alhaitham does not, in fact, care if one wishes or does not wishes to speak. but this is kaveh. it was kaveh, it has not yet been kaveh, and it will be kaveh. there were two children up in the tower, once. the tower is still there. both children are still here. two people died that day.
alhaitham breathes out from behind his book. the faint amusement in his tone says thus: ]
Of course. How could I forget. I was attempting to bar you from speaking this entire time, Prince of the Lokapala.
[ the pages flip closed. alhaitham rises. ]
I am dousing the torches. Sleep, or don't, it matters not to me. But remember - you will be meeting two more of your kin in two days' time. Consider what you will say to them; it should be easy for you, since you will want to.
no subject
Date: 2023-06-01 11:02 am (UTC)in a world he does not remember just yet, the chance was there, once. two children, so different yet so similar, with the unique innocence only children their age have. kaveh smiled there, extended a hand. kaveh might have made his first friend there, another princeling like him. he does not remember it, a page in the book of his life stuck between two others.
it will be seen. ]
I don't need your reminder. [ no, he does not. it will weight in his mind for the next few days, after all. it will be all day kaveh will think about, and there will not be room for forgotten memories.
night falls. it will be dark. and kaveh will have trouble sleeping, that night. ]
no subject
Date: 2023-06-02 01:16 am (UTC)it is the last that the girl with the swaying dress returns with in a small, black box. a pair of silver rings, from the raid on the palaces of the lokapala. the vow-rings of kaveh's mother and father. she delivers them with a cant of her head; her skirts sway as she retreats into the light and life of the palace proper, leaving behind the marbled quiet of alhaitham's room and the singular, solitary guest within.
the issue arises on day two's lunch. the spread of freshly picked greens and tomatoes tossed with a spiced dressing, along with great, big steaming bowls of lentil soup and the small, stuffed roasts of tiny quail-like birds. the dessert of lunchtime's repast is a fragrant jasmine-and-coconut cake decorated in green and white layers so translucent that one can see through to the other side of the room warped only by the tint of the dessert itself. the issue builds in the cooling breeze of the afternoon. the northern wind blows gentle respite for the usually unbearable mid-day heat. but even that does nothing for what builds. by evening, the heat is like a boiling furnace, enough that when alhaitham finally returns to the room proper, his hand pauses upon the door itself.
the scent is unmistakable. the conclusion, however, impossible. therefore, the impossible is discarded. the alacrity of alhaitham's mind bolts through several options before landing on the one that has mild annoyance crossing his face for the first time since the invasion proper.
artificially induced heat.
alhaitham opens the door. he closes it behind him. he closes his eyes, and opens them, slowly, with painful reluctance. ]
Kaveh.
"welcome back to rp", you say, forcing me to write this. sick in the HEAD!!!!!!!!!
Date: 2023-06-02 03:40 am (UTC)kaveh leaves the tiny, neat box next to his sketchpad.
night falls. night passes. the second day, kaveh misses breakfast. he wakes up two hours past noon, and does not address it, either. the day continues on as intended; with lunch, with anxiety, with a gift. his corner of the room is no longer lokapalan. it bears gloom whites, mossy greens, colors he has come to despise. it ties him back to reality. the gift is not well-welcomed.
it starts slowly. summer, he thinks, is on its way. sumeru is always hit with it first, a tropical nation as it is. the heat always makes him sleepy, but it is not the reason he sleeps in. he should not be so hot. the cooling afternoon breeze would promise him so. then comes the inadequacy, the sweating, the lack of breath. kaveh knows what this is. he knows, too, that it's a fortnight too early. therefore—
of course. it makes sense, when he forces himself to think about it. how long has it been since the fall of lokapala? a man can only be so patient. an alpha, even less so. i wonder why prince alhaitham is so nice to you — he is not.
the door opens, and that familiar voice reaches his ears. ]
Get out!
[ it takes strength and will to voice words his body wishes not to speak. kaveh does no mind the tone of his voice, cares not for who might hear it. it is a ploy. it is a scheme. it is something that has been bound to happen the moment he was delivered to alhaitham's chambers, clad in golden manacles. a gift from war. kaveh sits there, in a corner of the room, behind the divan. curled up, with thoughts that are not his, and desires he does not claim. he forces himself to think of kurash and akram. they would be waiting for him. they are. there's so much he wants to tell them. like... like what?
he doesn't remember anymore. ]
Get out, [ less of a demand, and more of a plea. it is weaker, it is softer. it is words his body wishes not to speak, still. ]
HAHAH you know u love it ✨✨✨
Date: 2023-06-02 05:32 pm (UTC)kaveh, curled behind his divan. even from here, he reeks of scent and sweat and fear. it's the latter that alhaitham knows is the downfall of rationality. the heat strips an omega of self-control, replaces want with autonomy-denying need. it's an antiquated biological function that should not have persisted for so long in the gene pool, if it weren't for the societal functions it fulfills and the stigma that comes with it. the lokapalas, alhaitham recalls, as he moves step by step into the room, were the ones who invented birth controls beyond what nature and nurture would have provided. equality comes in more than one form. malice comes in another. alhaitham does not need to think far to conclude that this is azar's doing. the issue is what comes next.
kaveh's scent curls. alhaitham looks down, and notes that his hand has curled unconsciously into a fist. potent, he thinks, and takes his own measure. ]
This is my room. [ is what he says. ] I have no reason to leave.
[ and, obfuscated: no reason to leave kaveh alone, because the complications of that has the potential to send a message to azar in ways that alhaitham is not interested in handling. alhaitham's brisk steps take him to his desk where a small stack of his plumes sit. he takes one and engages the pneumatic tube.
deed done, he looks across the room. it is the crucible of his self control that keeps him from feeling ill. ]
Are you lucid?
.......... i shall neither confirm nor deny it thank you,
Date: 2023-06-02 10:59 pm (UTC)kaveh has always romanticized it. a partner for whom they bore the most genuine feelings of love. a planned time, so it is remembered, so it is made special. he would lay himself bare — emotionally, mentally, physically — to the one he wishes to spend a lifetime with and more. kaveh has wished for it for as long as he could remember. an idealistic world born from rose-tinted glass, encouraged by blood of his blood. such has been lokapala's wish for her omegas: to be in control of their body's wants, and allow only those they deem special to experience them at their most sensitive.
it is of no surprise that this dream has been since crushed. with no kingdom, no people, no dreams, and no control of his own body, what does kaveh have left? ]
Yes, [ he lies. barely, is the truth. kaveh dares not move. if he does, he will lose control of himself. he will enjoy the dark, instead. it would be calming. it could be comforting.
it is, too, volatile. darkness is a canvas, and without full control of his mind, it paints itself any picture it longs for. kaveh has been in this same room for too many days. he knows its layout. he can picture alhaitham's bed, which he knows the size, how soft it is, how it feels under him. he recalls a memory. he recalls the first day he spent in this same room, the hours spent on that same bed, the way he had laid on it.
he distorts, then, the memories that follow. ever so vulnerable. ever so needy. so easy to please, so eager for want. he would have readily allowed alhaitham to have his way with him, back then. (he would not.) he would have invited it, even. (he would not.) begged for it. (he would not.) he would crawl onto it now, even, lay himself bare, turn himself into temptation.
(he would not.) ]
... It's harder when you talk. [ kaveh does not lie, this time. he has no reason to trust alhaitham. not when he assumes all of this is his fault, his scheme, his plan. but when all of this has always just been a matter of time, what use is there to put up a fight? ]
no subject
Date: 2023-06-05 02:05 am (UTC)the first time alhaitham had known the presentation of a heat had been his mother. he had been cloistered then, scheduling made to send him away to somewhere appropriate while she agonised behind closed doors. the second time, a young soldier crumpled in the heat of the noonday sun, and alhaitham had carried her from the training ground to the medical bay. she had been warm. she had been tree nuts and silk candy spun fresh. the vissudhans posit that alhaitham, named after the bird that takes wing, lofty, above its people, is a man untouched by the rigours of every day hassles. he is stone; he is marble. but what is often forgotten is that alhaitham is but a man. a man that bruises when hurt. a man that bleeds when cut. a man that burns when put to the torch.
it follows: blankets and warm materials to create a safer environment. food and water to be left where kaveh needs them. bedding for alhaitham, to relegate himself to the bathroom. but before that, kaveh is still lucid. there are answers that alhaitham needs. he begins to move sifting through the room in gentle, quiet motions. ]
Then I will make this brief. [ is what he says, ] When did your heat begin? Who else has been in this room? [ alhaitham brings himself to the other end of the room, where bedding has been stowed into wooden cabinets. colourful blankets, woven covers and expensive fur stoles of creatures from the far north. alhaitham gathers all of them with indiscriminate motions. ] And who is it that weathers your heats with you?
no subject
Date: 2023-06-05 05:54 am (UTC)questions, questions, questions. they enter one ear, and leave the other. the words become soup in his mind when he tries to picture them. kaveh, still, forces himself to rationalize it. when did your heat begin? does he even know how to answer it?
his ears ring. his body defies biology. it is hotter beyond belief, it is hurting, it is wanting. kaveh moves at last — uncurls from his position, leans back into the wall and lays there, exhausted. it is fine if he does not look at alhaitham. the ceiling will be, suddenly, the most fascinating art piece he has ever laid his eyes on. think. ]
... After lunch, I think. [ the answer is not unfamiliar on his tongue. somewhere in his mind, he thinks, that conclusion had long been reached. he breathes in, then out.
the second question is much harder to rationalize. had he even paid them any attention? the servants. the slaves. that familiar maid. kaveh attempts to picture them all. but the mind is a tricky little thing that has been studied for years, yet never understood. a person's dreams, and what instigates them. intrusive thoughts, and what births them. its own independency, and whyever so hard to be controlled.
kaveh does not picture the servants, the slaves, the maid. he pictures, instead, alhaitham. alhaitham, who brings him food, then mouthfeeds him. alhaitham, who comes to retrieve lunch, but spares time to lose himself in kaveh. alhaitham, who brings gifts for kaveh, and makes kaveh into his own.
kaveh shakes his head. none of those things happened. ]
I can't... I can't remember anyone. Probably the same people as always?
[ probably is never enough. it is, however, what he can offer. and as for the last question—
the earliest memory he has on it is his mother explaining what he is. omegas, she had said, are special. they are, she continued, the greater lord's favorite children. those who are meant to bring life into the world, regardless of their gender. it comes with great responsibility, and it is not something to be abused. lokapala has since allowed her omegas to choose the right person, the one meant to see them at their most vulnerable. his mother had, then, told him the symptoms, so he is not afraid once it happens. kaveh has waited ever since. for the right moment, the right person.
he turns, and looks at alhaitham. he should not. ]
... No one. [ honey. that is what his voices tastes like. honey harvested from avidya, delivered across sumeru. it is temptation taken form. it is the most primal form of nature. it is want, and kaveh weaponizes it unconsciously. ] This is... my first time.
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Date: 2023-06-06 03:47 am (UTC)the biological rationale is this: that fertility is vital to the survival of the human race. that protection and provision is needed for procreation. that need and infatuation is impetus for behaviours that promote survival. you will protect that which you, if not love, then at least desire. in theory, the amurta biologists posit, the strata of secondary sexual characteristics creates a society where each know their own roles. alhaitham knows the arguments well, because they form the foundation of the basic caste system. vissudha had her roots in a nation state that worshipped fecundity. vissudha stratified her society in order to create a population dedicated to formalise the most savage qualities of desire.
kaveh is devastation-made-form. my first time, he says, in a voice like spun honey. desire carves through alhaitham like a quake. he is blind with it. the world is white-hot and bright, the light refracted from marble and glass like lancelets. nothing is meant to withstand the siren of that tone. nothing dares.
alhaitham crosses the room. the air is thick with scent. his body burns through it like the careening of a comet. each footfall drags alhaitham through time and space to a kaveh who is simultaneously too near and too far. there is nothing inviting about the curl of kaveh's body. he hides, like a creature burned, a golden curl against the corner of a wall that could not possibly contain him. he is light, and sweetness, and a galaxy of yearning. he belongs in a case for display; he belongs in the folds of a bed. alhaitham looks down with the hard, hewn lines of the divan between them, and thinks -
alhaitham is not yet unmade.
with uncertain precision, alhaitham drops what he is holding. the smattering of blankets and comforters deposit themselves over kaveh's upturned face. ]
You should have said, Prince of the Lokapala, that you were on suppressants.
[ the gravel of his voice is unfamiliar to even alhaitham, who tastes iron on his tongue. he has, he realises, bitten through his lip.
it is not worth considering. ] How long on average? Think, Kaveh.
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Date: 2023-06-07 12:08 am (UTC)kaveh is unmade.
alhaitham approaches, and he finds his body expecting. wanting. he is eager, and thoughts leave his mind. in the shelves of his mind, his mother had spoken of this. in memories now forgotten, there is an instance of time when the sun shone high, at the height of summer. a younger kaveh sat on his mother's lap in their gardens, served tea, shared secrets between each other. she spoke of love, of desire. she spoke of a time where kaveh will be rid of rationality, and will want ever so egoistically. she had said then that selfishness is part of human nature, that there is no shame in it. kaveh, in spite of the love he held for his mother, grew selfless.
kaveh, rid of rationality, wants the way his mother had told him about.
the blankets and comforters, he finds, are not enough. they are clean, smell of soap and flora. it is not what he wants. it is not enough.
kaveh sets them aside. want ever so egoistically. he reaches across the divan that separates them, and holds onto the fabric of alhaitham's clothes. want.
the question has never reached his ears. ]
Your bed, [ there are fantasy books on fontainian mythology. they lure with honey-coated words. they bite. ] Take me to it?
[ kaveh wants. he wants, ultimately, to lose himself in the smell of alhaitham's covers. ]
no subject
Date: 2023-06-09 05:34 am (UTC)the thing reaching across the divan is not kaveh. kaveh, who detests the prince of the vissudha. kaveh, who still mourns the loss of his people. kaveh, who refuses to let go of a pride so fundamental to him that to strip him of it is to shame the world that allowed it. you could remove kaveh from lokapala, but you could not remove lokapala from kaveh. not kaveh, not like this. something in alhaitham whispers from the unknowable: is this the kaveh you love, or is this the kaveh you could love?
there had been two children, once. alhaitham had seen sunlight all his life, but it had never been so golden as the day it fell upon the flaxen strands of kaveh's beneath the mottled shade of the palm trees. kaveh is liquid sunshine across the divan, and a part of alhaitham, the part of him that had been born for this, this, thinks this: that alhaitham has failed to tell kaveh all this time, that he has been hungry, to tell him that he had been searching for him like meat, like water -
like blood. alhaitham tastes it where he had bitten through his lip. the taste of iron carries forward the steel-clad crucible of his self-control, it feeds it as it writhes. fishermen, alhaitham remembers, used to bind themselves to the masts of their ships so that the fontainian sea would not have them. not once - never. alhaitham pulls kaveh into his arms.
he tosses him into his bed.
the motion is not a kind or playful one. what follows is a pillow and the put-aside comforter, distance created through layers. alhaitham bares his teeth, and, because it is necessary, bites down onto the back of his arm. his teeth sink in. blood slinks. pain blooms. clarity of mind returns. alhaitham bites himself a second time, incisors sinking in until the protest of his arm gains flame - and then looks back to the bed with a haggard breath. ]
Kaveh. [ even kaveh's name is liquid sunshine given form - but alhaitham's eyes remain clear. they must. ] Do not leave that bed. I will tie you there if I must. [ and before the protests - ]
Kaveh.
[ like the syllables of a serrated knife. alhaitham's lips drip red. ] Understand.
no subject
Date: 2023-06-09 09:21 pm (UTC)there had been admirers. letters sent anonymously. there had been flowers, there had been dates, there had been confessions. the crown prince of lokapala has always been popular. the golden of his hair is purer than the gold mined from the chasm. the red of his eyes leaves the trishiraite harvested from sumeran desert jealous. his smile becomes the sun itself. he is a child blessed by the gods, many have said. it is a rumor that has seen all that teyvat has to offer, a rumor even those across the seas have heard.
there were those who came to lokapala for the padisarahs that bloom come spring. there were those who came to lokapala for the crown prince, unmated, untouched, pristine and pure. given the opportunity, it is known, there would be none who would deny a chance to have a taste of him.
alhaitham does.
alhaitham, crown prince of vissudha, who kaveh has personally picked to blame for tainting him, bleeds to retain reason. red is a jewel oftentimes associated with the prince of lokapala. red is an anchor. red grounds alhaitham, and questions kaveh.
kaveh, who feels his body melt under the smell of sheets and cushion touched by alhaitham. kaveh, whose own reason has long left him, whose fingers clutch around the blankets, whose body burns for attention, whose body hurts if left untouched. kaveh, whose red meets alhaitham's red, and wonders, as he is wont to do, why?
red is an anchor. it grounds alhaitham, and wakes kaveh. ]
... Three pills, every six months. [ the question has long been forgotten. he recalls, however, the weight of alhaitham's tone on a specific word. ] They are due in a fortnight.
[ not now. not this early. the signs were there, but kaveh knows this has been induced by something. someone. not alhaitham, he thinks. elham might have been right. alhaitham knows how to speak. he is well-versed in the intonation of words and its hidden meanings as haravatats are wont to be. he says understand, and kaveh, who is, instead, well-versed in people, sees it as a quiet plea.
understand, he pleads, and kaveh wonders, understand what? kaveh wonders — ]
Why won't you touch me?
no subject
Date: 2023-06-10 06:00 pm (UTC)why won't you touch me, kaveh asks. the wrong question again. alhaitham thinks, perhaps the right question can never be voiced: who is alhaitham, and what is kaveh to him? one's fate is tied to the way an individual chooses to interact with the world; one's fate is tied to the way an individual chooses to allow the world in. alhaitham has not allowed the world in, not once. not ever. there is no room within him for anything save for the sole purpose that he strives towards. he had once looked into the abyss of probabilities, and identified a door in a far-off, far-flung galaxy. he had looked at it, and put down the first flagstone of a path built towards this impossible destination. he had been ten, and he had been angry, and the world had seemed terribly small for it.
the question cannot be why. but it is in kaveh's nature to ask. three pills, every six months, and due in a fortnight - but not tonight. alhaitham only needed this in order to confirm the game afoot. his mouth is stained red as he looks at kaveh, really looks. kaveh's limbs tangle within the rope of sheets. he is agonised. he is unmade. and alhaitham - cannot be unmade. ]
Because [ alhaitham says, in a voice like tainted iron, with a rasp like rusted steel, ] it would please Azar too much, and please me too little.
[ the crucible of his self-control holds. alhaitham breathes in. the air is musk and honey-sweet. ] You do not want me, Kaveh. You merely need me. Is this how you wish to be?
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