Archive of Our Own

Coincidence is such a funny thing Cyno thinks it isn’t all that funny. Of all the places they could cross each other’s paths once more, it just has to be in the desert. Again. And while this time there aren’t any sort of suspicions and clashing weapons, the runaway scholar and the eremites are more than enough to make up for the lack of those past circumstances.

He has been chasing the Spantamad scholar down. The young man had been alchemizing illegal substances and selling it to the black market for extra funding, and the moment the matra sniffed his activity, he tucked tail then ran. Cyno knew where he would go, knew that he would hire mercenaries. Years of dealing with the same case gives that edge, the general guessing which saves him time and energy.

This one is no different.

Except there is Al-Haitham becoming involved.

Somehow, he is in the right place at the right time. Just completely there, minding his own business before he witnesses the skirmish, and now has his sword drawn. The blade hanging sternly from one hand.

“Fancy seeing you here, general,” he glances at him. “What a motley crew you are up against.”

“What are you doing here?” Cyno murmurs, staff poised to attack. “I thought the scribe is busy handling things at the Akademiya to even leave it nowadays.” He widens his stance, eyes narrowing forward.

“I’m on a break,” comes the answer with a sigh. “Well, I was until this.”

Here? In the desert?

Cyno wants to ask, but an arrow is shot at them, and it cuts the question completely. He jumps away, then lowers his body. Feints himself to the left, to the right, then swipes sand at the archer. The squawk and eyes closing on reflex gives him ample time in hitting the man with the blunt end of his staff. Before he falls, Cyno is already on the other archer, giving the woman the same treatment, and rolling out of the way when another eremite swings his katar. It jabs empty space instead, and Cyno lands his own swing.

Three down.

Three more to go.

He scans the remaining eremites, catching one of them charging towards Al-Haitham. The man evades, sidestepping him, and slams an elbow to his back. He falls quickly, thumping to the ground. The second one is stronger, more experienced. The curved blade zings through the air as he makes his moves, snake-like and brutal. Al-Haitham ducks a blow, knee skidding on rough sands while pushing himself up as soon as the eremite misses. Blades clang when he goes for a hit, the eremite blocks it, but the sweep of his cape hides another weapon. A kukri, color of gold and pure dendro green. Al-Haitham whirls it true, knocking the eremite’s blade. With one swift leap, he kicks him to the side.

Five down.

One more to go. Last one.

The scholar grits his teeth. Pale face dawning on him. He grips his satchel tighter, feet stepping away. His eyes flick between Cyno and Al-Haitham, trembling. The last eremite holds an arm in front of him. Cyno knows the look he gives the scholar. A mercenary’s honor. Service as it has been paid. It is one thing that sets the eremites apart from your-run-of-the-mill sellswords.

The bulky and tall man pushes the scholar by walking backwards. Bit by bit, he drives him to a cave. A long and vast cave. Cyno frowns, stalking closer. Al-Haitham is in his peripheral, walking slower, but he draws Cyno’s attention to his hand that holds his sword, almost covered by the single sleeve of his cape. Three taps on the handle, a half circle, and two crooked fingers. Al-Haitham doesn’t turn to him, only blinking. He returns it only once.

At that, Al-Haitham attacks in the next moment. Kukri first, then sword. The eremite deflects the former and answers the latter. Cyno comes next, using the momentum he makes on his staff, meeting it with the eremite’s second blade. The man grunts and pushes them both off. They push back right after, except Cyno bluffs his movement. He doesn’t press on the same side, but switches to Al-Haitham’s, leaving the man to focus raw strength on both arms equally, spreading it until he belatedly realizes his error. His right hand is easily disarmed, the heavy sword thudding down. Al-Haitham is fast to lock blades with the other sword, forcing the man to focus his all on him, while Cyno jumps, using the stone wall as leverage over his head.

He runs when he lands back. Ears picking up the scraping leathers of old sandals. The scholar isn’t far. He can get to him still. Speed carries him through the cave, a hunter on a hunt. An adjudicator. A law on two feet. The paths are narrow and wide in confusing intervals, eroded by wind and water, formed naturally by the elements. Cyno smells old dust that is rarely disturbed, if ever, and this gives him more clue to where the scholar is. He follows the trail, the footprints.

They lead to an open space with the upper ceiling also yawning wide. It is quiet, the kind that stays for a stretch of years and some more. Heaving breaths that echo through, the scholar looks up from his hunching on his knees. There is the widening of his eyes, a franticness on trying to find a way out which only exists from where both of them came from.

“You’re under arrest,” Cyno says. “Surrender.”

The scholar, as expected, does not. He shakes his head, riffling through his satchel hurriedly. Cyno approaches, electro glinting in the obsidian of his staff. Forward and forward. Then… a click, a hiss, and he jerks sharply back avoiding the blast. The shockwave travels through the rocks, rattling frames, and deafening ears. Blowing sand creates a faint screen.

Spantamad. Alchemy. Dangerous substances. Of course, he made bombs. Of course.

“There’s no escape,” Cyno warns and hides his sigh. “Bring yourself in. It will be better for you in the long run,” he presses.

But what are words, really, for someone so scared, so desperate. The scholar sprints as he throws another bomb, then another, and another. Blast after blast where Cyno has to move, clicking his tongue with the distance he is creating. Position made far from the entrance while the scholar is inching closer there. He can still sense it though, the fear that permeates in every twitch. Clouding judgement, clouding awareness.

Al-Haitham appears behind the scholar and he doesn’t even notice. They share a look, Cyno and him, focusing on the flask in trembling hand. A gesture from three fingers, one short and one crooked, then they blink in the same instance. An affirmation. Al-Haitham throws the kukri, nicking the scholar to drop and spill the volatile thing to die on the sand. The scholar squawks, whipping his bloody hand, and he turns around. Leaving his back open.

A realization and then a shout. In a blur, the scholar pulls a vial, small and strangely colored. He throws its content at Al-Haitham who backpedals in the last second. Belatedly.  The liquid splashes him in a crescent angle, straight to his face. The grunt is short, cut off by the subsequent cracking of glasses. Cyno sees the scholar emptying his satchel, smashing everything everywhere, and he quickly darts off towards Al-Haitham.

In the seconds he is about to reach him, the remaining bombs explode. The ground shakes, a rumble that sounds too familiar, before it gives away. Gravity pulls it down and Cyno’s feet are swept by the sand emptying into the vacuum under.

The last thing he catches is the scurrying figure of the scholar.

The last thing he hears is the crumbling of the cave.

---

Dusts.

He coughs when he opens his eyes. The entirety of the cave floor is gone, a hole in its place. It gave way for the light from the open ceiling that is far high up now. Debris scatter about, some of the broken rubble digging into his back, and some of the gravels covering him. Cyno pushes himself up, cringing when he sits with his head pounding. His surroundings are foreign, an underground pocket never known by him.

“Al-Haitham,” Cyno groans with the heaviness from the fall. “Al-Haitham,” he calls to the figure lying a few meters away.

The man seems to drop on to a better ground, on to thicker sand piles. Cyno checks him after he can stand without swaying and his ears stop ringing. He kneels down, frowning at how Al-Haitham keeps holding his face.

“Let me see,” Cyno says, and it doesn’t take much for Al-Haitham for that. “We need to wash it off.”

Whatever that potion or compound was, it dripped thinly and slowly. He procures a waterskin, Al-Haitham immediately grasps it as soon as Cyno placed the thing on his hold. The water, at least, washes it all off easily enough, but Al-Haitham still doesn’t open his eyes fully. Only cracking one, then the other.

“Give it time. Don’t force it,” Cyno comments as he scans the rest of their states.

“I’m not,” Al-Haitham replies.

He doesn’t have any wounds on him except scratches. Superficial ones that come along with slight tears on his clothes. He looks fine despite the blast and the hard way down. Cyno is about to focus on his own scrapes from the hard surface grinding against skin and flesh that he can feel some bleeding when Al-Haitham winces when his right arm finally moves.

“I think I sprained it,” Al-Haitham peeks at the limb.

“Or crack it,” Cyno pulls out the little medicine pouch he always carries.

“Well, aren’t you contributing to the situation?” Al-Haitham drawls.

The bone feels intact, but a bruise is already forming and Cyno has known injuries well that it most likely a minor fracture. He takes what few bandage roles he has, re-sleeving the arm with the glove to make up for them and wrapping them tightly to immobilize. A splint would be better, but this will have to do. Al-Haitham stifles a hiss from the treatment.

“It should be fine for now,” Cyno nods and stands back on his heels.

“Wonderful,” Al-Haitham hums, managing a sigh without releasing any. “How’s your end?” He asks. “Did the hardy General Mahamatra come out unscathed?”

“I’ll manage,” Cyno replies, ignoring the sarcasm.

His back, elbows, and legs are stinging, but a few pours of water clean the dirt as best as possible so that he can smear ointment. The medicine works wonders, Tighnari has outdone his own work once more. The wounds are calming down, no longer thudding and distracting. Still, he’d like to get them treated soon. Infections are a hell of a problem.

He looks to Al-Haitham, then corrects the thought. Infections, injured bones and injured eyes.

“Now where are we?” Cyno scans the place.

Impossible to climb up with the slippery walls and the risk of another fall. It is too high, too dangerous. Especially with their current conditions. Cyno stands again, head moving left and right. He spots a crevice in the corners, though as he comes nearer realizes that it is not just that. It is, actually, a door. The etchings on it tell him that it is yet another desert ruins. Another Scarlet King’s civilization.

“I found something,” Cyno says. “Could be a way out. It’s through a ruin, I guess.”

At that, Al-Haitham raises his head. “Might be the temple I was looking for,” he gets up, balancing on a stone slab with his good arm.

“That was what you were doing?” Cyno crosses his arms. “I thought you said you were on a break.”

“Apologies if my choice of leisure isn’t in line with common interests. I was curious about the number of ruins that is likely yet to be discovered despite many archeological efforts. Our last… venture into the priest’s tomb has been quite interesting,” Al-Haitham shrugs, then adds, “An archeological report told of a new ruin. It’s not quite far that I needed to travel long. I found it according to the coordinates, but it was sealed which made me look for a different way in. And as for how that search went, well, it’s obvious,” he points between them.

It is a strange choice, but Al-Haitham is insane and runs with it, so maybe it isn’t that weird, after all. A nosy little Scribe who does what he wants. Cyno huffs, hand on hip, and waits for the man to come, only to realize Al-Haitham intermittently peeks, not once opening his eyes fully. His fingers hover over, tapping them, and tries hard not to rub.

“How’re the eyes?” Cyno returns to his side.

Al-Haitham grimaces. “A tad itchy. I can’t keep them wide and… damn it,” he cringes when he tilts up towards the light. He shuts his eyes quickly, head dropping down. Angling away from the soft rays filling the cavern.

Damn indeed. Shit even.

Spantamad scholar. Of course.

And it just has to be him who gets the short end of the encounter.

“Is there anyone who will know if you are gone for too long?”

“I passed Aaru Village and told Candace about my itinerary. She should notice when it’s getting late. I assume you have told one of your fellow matras also?”

“I did, but still, we have to go,” Cyno says. Lips pursed. “If this is really a path into the temple you were looking for, then it is our best bet of a way out. We might be able to open the other side from inside. Your eyes need to be looked at soon, we don’t know what splattered them.”

“An agreeable suggestion,” Al-Haitham raises his one arm. Even like this, the mundane gesture is still a tad vexing. Calm and gratingly aloof. “Lead the way,” he says with closed eyes.

Cyno grabs the wrist, placing it firmly on his shoulder. Light and firm. Polite.

“Follow. I’ll adjust my pace.”

“Don’t worry about it, general,” Al-Haitham scoffs. “I’m sure I can manage.”

That has to be a dig. Cyno knows their difference in height and length.

“Then, we can be a little faster,” he peers back. “Try not to stumble.”

---

The ruin is, indeed, the temple Al-Haitham mentioned. It is glaringly different from the usual ones, not spanning wide and instead going in a straight hallway. Smaller, humbler in the scale. Pylons border the room and the next, perhaps signifying gateways. Inscriptions are carved on them, faded with times and too obscured. Old sconces line the smooth stoned walls, no longer holding any oil lamps or torches, but the clear ceiling gives way to the sun, bathing the whole temple in its radiance. He would have tried it for an out if not for the shimmers it occasionally. A translucent ceiling, Cyno immediately understands after he throws a pebble, and it hits solid.

Good that they don’t need to walk in dimness, but little shadows are cast. Something that Al-Haitham needs. He cringes at the brightness even with his eyelids shut. Cyno studies him for a moment, contemplating, before he rips a line from his cloak. Wordlessly, he gives it to Al-Haitham, who feels the fabric.

“Use it. Might help to block the sun more.”

“Better than nothing,” Al-Haitham sighs.

They really need to get medical attention soon. Cyno isn’t expecting it will turn worse, but the possibility is there. He doesn’t voice it, Al-Haitham must have known that earlier than him. At the moment the scholar threw the vial. Eyes are a lifeline for people like him. It isn’t hyperbolic to say he might rather live without hearing or speech if he had to choose.

So, they keep walking, keep moving. They follow the path, footsteps trailing after the other.

A rhythm in the din of the silence.

---

Eventually, they arrive in a bigger room, more spacious, but still only with the same hall continuing afterwards. Cyno stops, wiping sweat off his forehead, and takes a swig out of his waterskin. Water is incredibly refreshing and precious, ironic since it is also usually the hardest to obtain despite its vital importance in the desert. He wipes the drops off his chin the same instance Al-Haitham coughs, and notices how awfully dry it sounds. His lips too are the same, almost cracking even. His ruffled appearance doesn’t help. They look like an old leaf. A particularly weathered, cut up one.

Cyno takes a couple more mouthfuls and nudges the waterskin to him.

“Here, drink.”

Al-Haitham takes it with closed glances which last a few seconds too long. Cyno almost rolls his eyes. His immediate drinking of the given water reveals his thirst and stark unfamiliarity with lingering in the great sea of sands despite the knowledge he surely would have known about it. Unsuited. Green like the rainforest he was born in.

He sighs after a long gulp. A small, reflexive smile accompanies it. Cyno stared at the tilt of his lips. They are prim and damp once more, a coral shade. He blinks, quickly averting his gaze to a nonsensical point over the wayside.

“You should wash your eyes again. Just in case.”

“I was about to ask you for the water for that,” Al-Haitham says and loosens the blindfold.

Tears have dampened his eyelids, trailing darker than what you would expect normal tears do. A reaction from the body that wants to protect its organs. Cyno hopes it is a good thing, meaning that it is trying to cleanse itself. He takes the waterskin back and tilts it for Al-Haitham’s awaiting palm.

Leaning to the front, Al-Haitham methodically splashes each eye. Careful and gentle, face pursing while he does that. Some hair strands stick to his cheeks, but he whips them as he picks out the dried dirt collected by the tears in the corners of his eyes. He opens his palm again, a signal, and Cyno pours water for two more times before it is all done. Cleaned as best as it can be under the circumstances.

Al-Haitham’s face is wet now though, and Cyno doesn’t think twice ripping a new strip, then giving his cloak to him.

“Are you sure?” Al-Haitham asks. Brows raised and half-peeking.

“Take it,” he says. “I can procure another one when we’re done here.”

It is just a cloak. A piece of fabric at the end of the day. Different with the cape Al-Haitham wears. Cyno doesn’t know enough about its importance, but he discerns the fine craftmanship. It is a similar sense he reserves for his headdress. A part of the garb that doesn’t deserve to be soiled no matter what if there is an alternative. Sentimental at best, a slight hindrance at worse, but all the same that it is an important piece. The cape seems durable, dirty yet retains the vibrant green and gold. It follows his movements, flowing the outline of Al-Haitham’s form.

“How much can you see currently?” Cyno waves. “Can you make out how many fingers I show you?”

Al-Haitham squints. The jade and molten yellow of his irises are partially visible, but they are unfocused. Blurry. His sclera is a bit red, a bit bloodshot from the reaction. “I can’t,” he answers. “Five? I only know there are fingers.”

“It’s two,” Cyno puts down his digits.

“Huh,” Al-Haitham leans against the base of one of the jackal statues. He rubs the bandages around his arm, sighing as he ties a fresh blindfold from Cyno. “What a shame,” he says severely.

“What is?”

“I’ve reached the ruin and even entered it, but I can’t see it.”

“You can go back here later.”

“Unlikely. Considering I have used my long break, I won’t be able to do this for quite some time.”

Right. He is busy these days. They all are, but the Scribe has been assuming a caretaker role ever since them toppling the old government. At least, for Cyno, it is not everyday he chases after rule breaking scholars. Contrary to popular assumptions. The matra would have had their hands too full, too stretched out otherwise if that were the case. Al-Haitham and the remaining two sages are handling the workload for six people, and that Cyno can sympathize.

He picks up the disappointment in Al-Haitham’s thin frown. A little obvious, a little too apparent for someone who has complete control down to the minutiae of his expressions. It doesn’t suit him in the rarity that it shows.

“Well,” Cyno looks around, “It’s quite barren for a temple. That much I can safely say,” he puts both hands on his hips and starts to walk. “Several statues, some murals, and inscriptions. A couple of clay containers with,” he peers inside, “perhaps salt. I see two wooden tables, some rusted tools… and jars.”

Oh. He thinks he figures out what this place was. Not a temple, but not quite a common ruin either. The salt, the hooked instruments, the brittle scalpel, the canopic jars… These are embalmer’s items, a special priest for funeral and burial. They are old, but now with the newfound discovery, Cyno remembers seeing them in use out here by several desert priests who practice the ancient tradition.

“Interesting,” Al-Haitham taps his chin. “Maybe there is a tomb somewhere around the area, then.”

“You’re not going to break into it.”

“Of course not. Who do you think I am?” Comes the quick deadpan reply. “I may be on the side for autonomy, but even I know how sacred a resting place can be. I’m a scholar, not a grave robber.”

“It’s interchangeable for some,” Cyno sighs. He is touching a slate that glows when opened. It is tethered to its stand, and hums with residual energy.

“An unfortunate type,” Al-Haitham says.

They go quiet. Cyno traces the glyphs on the slate. A Haravatat scholar would be more than ecstatic to study them, but alas, one he is not. He steps back, leaving the slate be, knowing Al-Haitham can’t quite currently admire it even if Cyno could read them clearly. Al-Haitham stays in his spot with an air that tells him of the gears and cogs that keep spinning in his head. He is always thinking. Crossing his legs, resting his chin on his hand, the world seems to tunnel into his mind and mind alone.

For other people, it could be quite an intimidating sight. The lack of presence, absolute concentration, and contemplativeness radiating off him could be uncanny. But for Cyno, it makes him stare. It is interestingly odd how hushed Alhaitham is, how unfazed he is despite his eyes and the desert heat. He reminds Cyno of mechanisms underneath their outward exterior, working and working yet their process is rarely exposed from their metal shells.

And it is because of his peering at the man that Cyno catches the second the scorpion sprung out of its burrows. It is fast, but Cyno is faster. He reflexively pulls Al-Haitham to him and where the hard sting should have hit true, it misses. He grunts at the man’s weight colliding lightly, but enough for him to have to adjust his balance, hissing as his back scrapes against the base of a statue. The scorpion crawls after, Cyno immediately crushes it with his staff.

“Scorpion,” He tells him. “It’s dead now. Did it get you?” He looks him over, hands on either side of his arms.

“No,” Al-Haitham quickly replies. “No, it didn’t. I’m fine,” he steps back, the sudden closeness leaving warmth. “What about you? I heard you cursed. Did you hit something?”

He can feel the forming scabs peeling. He hates small wounds; they often give more hindrances. “The stone here,” he answers. “Got the healing skin reopened. I’ll just reapply the ointment before we go. Wait…” He grabs the tin from the pouch and the waterskin. “Wait a moment.”

A beat passes, Cyno rinsing his back again and scooping the paste-like mixture, while Al-Haitham then asks through his motion. “Can you reach the whole way back?”

“I’ll manage,” he smears it. “I can manage.”

Al-Haitham sighs. “I can offer a hand. Here, just,” he mimes what he thinks Cyno is doing, “show me where you need to apply it.”

His tone is determined. Pragmatic. Somehow Cyno suspects he will continue to insist. He exhales, rationale telling him not to brush off the help. With a hand grasping the other’s wrist, he guides it to the out of reach place in the middle of his back, below his nape, right over the spine. Al-Haitham rubs the ointment between his fingers first before he rubs it on.

The touch is assured and light. He moves within the perimeter Cyno showed. His fingers are gentle, like those elegant brushes for calligraphy. They feel firm and though there are callouses from handling his weapons, they are soft. Deceptively prim. Tension under his muscles loosened because of Al-Haitham’s ministration.

“There,” Al-Haitham removes his hand.

Cyno opens his eyes. Never realizing he had closed them. “Alright,” he says and clears his abruptly clogged throat. The heat Al-Haitham left lingers on skin. “Thanks.”

“Hm,” Al-Haitham grunts, wiping the remaining ointment on the cloak.  

He fixes his blindfold. The fabric settling around his head, lashes peeking under. It is odd not being able to look Al-Haitham in the eyes, makes Cyno concentrate on his other features. The high nose, the healthiness of his cheeks, the slightly chapped yet plump lips. He stops himself.

“We should move on,” he turns. “The sun is going to set in an hour or two.”

Al-Haitham merely nods and without prompting, he places his hand once more on Cyno’s shoulder. It is still polite, but more familiar, more confident in the pressure. Cyno tries not to think how warmer the hand is and how aware he is of that.

---

The sky is beginning to turn darker from the ceiling when they finally reach what is supposedly the sealed entrance Al-Haitham mentioned. It is good news to have it so close now, but bad news always follows any shred of happiness that exists, doesn’t it? In front of them, it poses as something alive yet dead at the same time. Powered by an inexhaustible core. An ancient machine imitating life.

“Ruin Drake.”

“Oh,” Al-Haitham replies.

Indeed.

“How did it fall down here?”

Cyno glares up. “It crashed through the ceiling,” he can make out a hole.

“And unfortunately, didn’t get broken.”

“I’m shutting it down,” Cyno says, but quickly realizes that is a wrong statement to utter. Not with the other man already summoned his sword, the white and green edge glinting sharp.

“I may be partially incapacitated,” Al-Haitham lowers his voice. “But I can still offer assistance. It’s a Ruin Machine, we should be able to destroy it. I’ll lay down traps with my Vision and you can bait it to them,” he kneels behind thick stone. “Applying dendro and electro together could expedite our effort, no? I’m not waiting for that machine to move. I refuse to let whatever it is in my eyes fester.”

Cyno grips his shoulder. “I won’t let that happen,” he frowns. “We’ll get out here soon.”

“Good,” Al-Haitham says and there is a smile ghosting over.

He splays his hand on the ground, the one with the good arm, and the bandaged one facilely holds the blade. Slowly, unerringly, dendro glows under it, lines of greens spreading and spreading from Al-Haitham. They branch into more lines, more webs. Silent and creeping until they form several hexagons with glassy and geometrical lotuses at their centers. Symmetrical constructs that hold strength.

“Stay here,” Cyno can’t help reminding. “Be careful.”

“That is better applied to you, general,” Al-Haitham replies, but accepts it, nonetheless. “I assure you; I’ll just be here.”

The stone is sturdy, a podium of some sort with cracked pillar the tope had toppled somewhere. It should do for a cover; it is strategically placed for Al-Haitham to use. Cyno manifests his staff, the cool obsidian a loyal presence in his grasp. He moves, tapping it loudly in the din of the hall. The machine, the strange, strange machine hears him.

He rolls out of its line of sight when it charges like a bull. It misses him by a meter and Cyno uses his momentum to jump behind it, jabbing that junction connecting body and head with his staff. Crackling electro pulses into its inside, stunning it enough for him to leap back safely. The automaton stutters in its movement, but it is stubborn. Not a second after Cyno touches the ground, it swings its tail. He evades it in time, and immediately gathers electro again. Sharper this time. Bigger and deadlier.

Its eye. He needed to destroy its eye.

Cyno takes off once more, evading the bombs it drops. They blow dust up into the air, and he covers himself from them. The machine is moving, ready to pummel its enemies under a bygone command, and it homes in on him.

“Now, Al-Haitham!” He shouts.

Light bursts upward, the immense dendro ricocheting off the raised trap. It forces the Ruin Drake to stumble, hunkering down as green projectiles hold it in place. Vicious and unrelenting, cutting and denting metal. Cyno uses the chance. With a high leap and the spirit in him lending an added boost, he stabs the Ruin Drake’s eye hard. It cracks, paralyzing it enough before Cyno deals more blows to finish the job. Damaging an immobile target was always far easier and quicker, and he doesn’t stop until the core fizzles out in smoke.

“It’s dead,” he pants. “It’s done.”

The machine moans, a dying sound too artificial to be the same as a true beast. He drops down then, staff hanging by his side, still a bit heated by the electro he infused it with. The ruin machine will be but one more heap of scrap metal in the desert. Better that though than the alternative. Gods know how many adventurers, eremites, and scholars have fallen victim to these ruin machines. Cyno throws a momentary glance at the ruin drake when a dull whir catches his hearing.

Eyes widening, he immediately sprints away. Feet taking him to Al-Haitham who is standing up.

 “Duck!”

It doesn’t take half a millisecond for Al-Haitham to do so. The ruin drake groans and in the next blink, it explodes. Like a coiled spring that had enough. The blast is strong, shockwave whipping to slam against them. Cyno ducks in time, covering the back of his head. It obstructs his senses and stifles his space. When he does manage to gradually open his eyes, it is to the sight of singed sands, scattered ruin parts and broken stones. Cyno coughs, hard enough to make himself cough a couple more, as he rises. The smoke is receding, but the burning fire smile is not going to leave anytime soon.

Then, when he’s done reorienting himself, he shoots up straighter. Eyes flashing and landing on the man beside him. But at the sight of him sneezing the debris and shaking his head, Cyno’s shoulders sag. He touches the bare part of his arm, just lightly to signify his presence, though Al-Haitham doesn’t startle, and instead, leans on it. He is alright, Cyno inhales, he is alright.

“I believe I am done with explosions,” Al-Haitham sniffles, brows furrowing behind the blindfold. “Today is enough to last me a long while.”

Cyno huffs. Snorts. “I’m worried I would go deaf if there’s more,” he says and turns to look over his shoulder. “Well, at least, it did something,” he shrugs, “The entrance is opened now.”

The stone that is nothing except a wide door has parts of it blown. Arid air flows in, bringing the gradual coolness as the day wanes into afternoon. He takes Al-Haitham still by the arm, the tug getting the man to also stand. His bandaged arm brushes against Cyno, the rough cotton slightly scratching his own. From here, Cyno can already make out the faraway dunes and the horizon lining them.

It teases of a freedom to finally go out there.

---

The familiar sight of the desert is a balm. Cyno takes in the wind, its soft roils over the sands, and by the way it gusts, he knows where they should go, along with the stars above. He remembers their last known coordinate before the fall, sighing when they merely need to head west from here on to reach a landmark of Sobek Oasis.

Walking on the sands, Cyno had long trained himself to move along their rhythm, to move almost soundlessly, trailing prints that are concise and surefooted. It is a tuning he often does, a soothing moment to just be there in the vast plains where he comes from.

Al-Haitham’s steps are different. There is a particular drag and hitch he does with the unevenness the sands have. His boots sometimes streak rather than leaving complete footprints, and he has a note of noise that Cyno easily picks up. Nevertheless, his gait is one of the steadier ones compared to most scholars who visit the desert. Much more compact, much smoother.

He keeps his blindfold on. The moon may be a bit kinder for his eyes, but the sand brought by the breeze can irritate them. No need to take that risk for momentary relief or curiosity. Al-Haitham returns to have a hold on Cyno’s shoulder, but the ground makes it a tad unsteady to maintain. For someone incredibly sturdy on his feet, he treks slower here.

Carefully, on a spur of decision, Cyno lets the hand slide down for him to wrap his fingers around the wrist for a change. There is a twitch, a reflexive stiltedness Al-Haitham makes, but it is gone the next. He feels him by tapping and grasping back, the faint brush his fingertips give to Cyno’s own hand indescribable.

They progress more swiftly, moving side by side in better tandem. And soon, the telltale silhouettes of athel trees appear and with them, the body of water that glistens. The oasis is void of any creature, any monsters, and Cyno lowers his staff at that.

“We’re here,” he says, clenching Al-Haitham’s wrist for a split second.

“Can you show me the lake?” Al-Haitham asks.

He guides him there, dispersing the weapon in his other hand to steady him as he kneels at the edge. The calm surface ripples, distorting the reflected moonlight when Al-Haitham scoops the water. The drying tears are clearer before being washed off, and his eyes are less red, irises less foggy. Dampness trickles down his chin, trailing to his neck, but Al-Haitham doesn’t wipe it, making stray wet hair curling on skin.

Cyno watches a second too long.

“How many fingers I have?” He asks suddenly, stifling the sudden urge to gulp. “Can you see more?”

Can you see me?

“A little,” Al-Haitham tries. “Three? I can vaguely see the fingers now, know you’re holding them out,” his own hand hovers over to him. “I can make you out a little more,” he hums.

Their shoulders are almost touching, mere centimeters apart. Cyno wonders if Al-Haitham can feel the heat radiating off him, the thudding of his vein. Moonlight shines above them, its effulgence draping Al-Haitham mellowly. Cyno leans closer and closer, being pulled in more and more.

“There you are!” Chirps a voice.

Whipping around, he finds the source. “Lumine,” he says, putting down his hand.

The blonde traveler smiles, sword hanging over one shoulder, with her companion flying close. “We’ve been searching for you,” she jumps down from a small rock jutting, “Candace was worried since Al-Haitham hasn’t come back and I volunteered to look. Thank goodness I found you faster than expected, but, huh,” she realizes the shape they are in, “something happened, did it?”

Al-Haitham may have closed his eyes once again, but they share the exact look. Cyno coughs and scratches his head. “You are correct,” he answers. “We need to reach the village as soon as we can.”

“Alright,” Lumine says, ever the quick one to pick up the situation. “Come on, I’ll help. Are you going to tell me what exactly you both got into or not?”

“It’s a long story, we’ll tell you on the way.”

On a habit that he belatedly realizes is forming, Cyno finds himself taking Al-Haitham’s hand and holds it firmly with his own, rather than placing it on his shoulder. Lumine glimpses down to it, but she doesn’t comment or perhaps not even regarding the sight as she is fast to lead the way when she understands the situation.

---

The village doctor doesn’t find anything more grievous than several days of not being to see clearly and always having to keep the eyes covered while they heal. He’s not quite sure just what concoction the Spantamad used, but he is confident that it wasn’t lethal nor irreversible. A type of irritant which will disappear in time. Washing the eyes constantly had been a good call and protecting them from the glare of the sun had also helped.

“I’ll find Tighnari,” Lumine says when the doctor leaves, “He should be able to find out more if he comes here. He’s in Pardis Dhyai last time I heard, I’ll go check now,” she heads for the door. “But I think you will need to go there after he’s done examining you, Al-Haitham. Well, there or maybe Gandharva Ville.”

“Tighnari will do,” Cyno agrees, sitting on a stool and rubs the patches of bandages over the back of his legs. “I’m going to wait here with Al-Haitham while you fetch him.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be fast,” Lumine puts a thumbs up before leaving.

She can teleport with the waypoints. The first person to ever be able to do it. Sometimes that ability of hers makes him wistful, wishing he also could himself. The swish of her teleport is heard through the window and Cyno sees the dispersing sparks like stars on the spot where she once was. He huffs, stretching his limbs, before he fixes his headdress and peers at Al-Haitham.

The man is in different clothing, a borrowed cotton garment that is colored a simple cream with a low neckline with a shawl over his shoulders. He has splint around an arm, the doctor not taking any chances, and fresh strip of dark fabric covering his eyes. His earpieces are laid on a table while his old grabs are folded neatly right beside it, Vision glimmering on top.

He looks bare like this.

“Are you going to go after the scholar still?”

Cyno coughs. “I am,” because that is his duty. “Soon after Tighnari arrives.”

“I see,” Al-Haitham says, crossing and uncrossing his legs on the divan. Now that they aren’t moving constantly, he busies with unspooling and spooling the bare threads of the blanket thrown over his legs. “I prefer to be at Pardis Dhyai or Gandharva to recuperate,” he continues, “makes this whole thing less boring.”

“You can’t even read,” Cyno raises a brow. “What difference does it make? You can’t have your usual dose of books,” he raises a brow.

“They’ll be closer to the city and I will be in a more scholarly environment,” Al-Haitham replies. “And besides, I do know how to read another alphabet system suited for this.”

“Of course, I should have expected that from the Scribe.”

“Hopefully the few books I have with such system will ward off the monotony of recuperation enough,” Al-Haitham sighs. He frowns and it is small one that protrudes his full lips a tiny bit, giving his whole visage a quality of pensiveness. Of distant forlornness.

The words blurt out before Cyno can stop them.

“I’ll pay a visit when I’m done.”

Al-Haitham turns his head towards where he believes Cyno is. “Is that a promise, I hear?”

“If you want it to be,” he says and likes the truth of it.

“Well, your company is far better than some people give you credit for,” Al-Haitham shrugs. “It’s bearable and can last long.”

“Is that a compliment?” Cyno stares interestedly.

“I leave that to you.”

For a moment or two, they fall quiet. The din of it light and loose. Cyno finishes picking out dirt off his headdress and makes to do some maintenance for his weapon when Al-Haitham speaks. Halting him from stepping away.

“Cyno,” Al-Haitham calls and tries reaching out to the space he senses him. He finds an elbow, then deliberately pulls at it, getting Cyno to situate his stool until it hits the other wood. “Cyno,” he repeats and his name never sounds quite caressed by the man’s voice.

“Yes?” He leans closer, crossing the personal border between them.

“Nothing, I just want to say, I know I wouldn’t have found my way back if you were not there, so” Al-Haitham also meets him halfway, “Thank you.”

And it must be the long day, because Cyno takes a long while to process as Al-Haitham gives him a peck on his cheek. A short, sweet peck that tingles. He blinks and blinks some more, and only can open his mouth to say, “I will visit after I’m done. It’s...” He clears his throat, “It’s a promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Al-Haitham smiles. “But you should reel in your target first and foremost or I’m afraid it won’t have the same verve as now,” he traces nonsensical circles on Cyno’s elbow.

“I will,” Cyno says. Determined. “And while we are making promises, I think I can make another one then,” he pushes stray bangs from Al-Haitham’s face. This time, he touches him and stays that way.

“What is it?” Al-Haitham asks. Amused.

“When you are healed, I can take you to that temple again. I remember where it is and marking it on the map should do the trick,” Cyno strokes smooth area under the blindfold. “I shall be your guide there.”

“Ah,” Al-Haitham muses, “It will take a while before we can do that. I hope you’ll be patient.”

“I will be,” Cyno replies. “What you need to do now is recover your sight and I need to catch a wanted someone.” He takes Al-Haitham by the chin, taking it gently up. A certain torridness is here between them, and Cyno is beginning to feel a tad bolder for this. Al-Haitham has always elicited such from him, even before he knew it. Admitted it. “May I?” He asks in a low murmur. “A good luck charm before I must go?”

“I never pegged you to be sentimental,” Al-Haitham huffs, but it is amused, and he shows it further by tilting back for Cyno. Lips opening and inviting.

There is a serous fever in the kiss. Cyno tastes and nips tongue, stoking embers in the pit of stomach. Al-Haitham sighs into it, hand splays on his chest. It is a plain thing in its way, but the astucious craving hides just beneath the simplicity. Cyno is willing to be addicted to this. He only wishes for this first time he could have peaked at Al-Haitham, see the way his eyelids fluttering and his whole face visible. But that is just the tiny greediness he can go without.

They end the pleasantness coincidentally with the returning steps of Lumine and another set which belongs to Tighnari. Cyno chuckles at how refreshing a kiss can grant him.

“They’re here,” he says, still ghosting over Al-Haitham’s lips. “I’m going soon.”

“I know,” Al-Haitham whispers back, but doesn’t release him yet. He surges forward, giving him one more, one final chaste kiss. It lands on the corner of his mouth, leaving butterflies. “An extra luck for the General Mahamatra,” he explains.

Cyno almost rolls his eyes. He gets up and as he heads to the door, their hold on each other slides little by little until there is nothing. Touching his lips, Cyno throws one last glance over his shoulder to Al-Haitham. This is new, an unknown venture they are both heading towards. It should elicit something else, something serious or stern, yet all that exists is the excitement of it all.

It has been a long, long while for him to experience.

“I shall see you later,” he says as a goodbye.

“Of course,” Al-Haitham replies, “I will wait for your safe return.”

 A smile graces his reddened lips and Cyno burns the indulgent view onto his mind.