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The king was in a mood that day.
With a clenched fist and a grave face, he ordered all his courtiers away, and banned anyone's entry into the throne room for the remainder of the day. None dared to object — out of reverence, yes, but not fear, and more importantly, because they all knew it would be in vain. For their lord listens to the word of his advisors in all matters but the very personal, such as his need for self-isolation. On that front everyone knew not to speak, and those who were new to his court hardly raised their voices around him anyway. Thus the grand hall of Khaj-Nisut's throne room was left in a quiet hush, bereft of any soul but the noble one belonging to the Sun God.
… And just one more person.
The High Priest is the sole exception to many rules, written and unwritten. This is but one more of them. No one else is allowed to witness the quiet meditation of the lord, to disturb his already disturbed mind. Some — a considerable number, in fact — deem it to be favouritism, to which Kasala would laugh if it weren't improper to do so. It all sounded too much like childish bitterness, though in this case it may be fitting to make that analogy: they were, after all, not the father's favourite.
Or so they thought. Indeed, it is partly due to privilege, but their lord never chooses title and prestige over merit. They are all welcome to prove their worth and undermine Kasala's position. He'd love to see them try.
Parsing through his vaguely petty thoughts, Kasala turned his gaze away from the looming statues to where the King was occupying his throne.
Deshret sat in complete silence, his posture relaxed and laid back against the fine cushions of his seat. With one foot crossed over the opposite knee, an elbow on the arm of the throne and the other resting over his thigh, he looked perfectly royal, untouchable even in his seemingly vulnerable state. The sight of his closed eyes and smoothed features gave an illusion of softness, such that one may mistake his meditation for sleep.
Kasala, of course, knows better. His lord’s sleep is never so peaceful, nor was he truly relaxed in that moment. The hand on his leg was clenched too tightly, giving him away.
“Stop pacing.”
Kasala almost started, narrowly avoiding knocking his knee against a pillar. His lord’s voice always has such an awesome quality to it, deep and forbidding even when he speaks quietly. He looked back towards Deshret.
His eyes were still closed.
“I am not pacing,” Kasala responded, casually and with no inflection, “I am circling. ”
“Kasala.” There was a warning in the King’s voice now.
Kasala smiled, idly fixing the skirt of his clothes, “It’s true. There is not much else for me to do.”
“There is. Outside. Where you should be.”
“How will I attend to my lord if I am outside these halls?”
“I will call if I need anything.”
“What if my Lord is suddenly very thirsty and needs water immediately?”
“I won’t be.”
“But what if ?”
Deshret’s eyes snapped open abruptly, “ Kasala. ”
Kasala licked his lips and pressed them together, trying to keep his smile contained and respectful. One of these days, Deshret might actually strike him for his impudence, but that day will not be today, seeing as the king did little more than exhale through his nose, exasperation coming in waves through that action alone.
“When I am not present, it is your duty to be governing state matters.” He said. The fingers of his clenched fist flexed slightly.
“But my lord is present,” Kasala replied, “Thus, my most immediate duties are to attend to you. By your holy word, the temples are in service of our King, not the people.”
“ Now you care about my word.” Deshret responded drily, eyes slanted with displeasure.
Kasala frowned back, lips pursing slightly, “I always care about your word. I beg you not to accuse me so casually of disregarding your command.”
“You’re disregarding my command as we speak.” Deshret raised a hand, rubbing at his temples irritably. Once he settled it down, his gaze continued to be colder than usual, bearing down on him in silence. When Kasala didn’t wither under his gaze, he seemed to hesitate, finally releasing another exasperated exhale.
“The temples are built in service of me, because mankind are far less inclined to help each other than they would be if such help was called worship.”
“Of course I understand that.”
“If you understand,” Deshret let out another long-suffering sigh, “Then don’t just stand there nodding. Go back to your temple, and leave me be.”
“My Lord didn’t let me finish.” Kasala cleared his throat, “I understand what my Lord is saying, but I don’t think he understands me .”
It was too bold, and should any other courtier been present they may have fainted from pure shock at an act so impertinent, insinuating that there were things he knew but their High Lord of light and wisdom did not. Kasala, however, remained as he was, his back straight, but he bowed his head as he approached the stairs leading up to the throne, simpering quietly. He glanced up momentarily in time to see his king gesture at him with his hand, though his expression remained impassive. Keeping his head low, Kasala took the permission and ascended the steps, stopping at the last time to sit down on his knees. He reached slowly, not meeting his lord’s eyes as he cradled his hand in his palms. The King ran warm, warm enough to permanently feel scorching to the touch, every bit the sun that he symbolised.
Kasala adored this warmth, though he knew it would burn his skin if he held onto it for too long. Even now his palms were beginning to redden, and still he treasured the weight of that hand in his, felt a sweet sensation well up in his own chest as he looked at it. Knowing that he was allowed this touch without needing to offer so much as a verbal plea, his head lowered further, until his temple was resting on his lord’s knee, tipping his headdress back a little.
(For Kasala may speak boldly and with impudence, but he knows more than any other where his place is.)
Like this, Deshret would not be able to see his merry smile. Kasala made sure he could hear it in his voice instead.
“My lord, did you know? Creatures of the other side are repulsed by the light, as much as those who live within it despise the dark. Those who are touched by that black beyond are the same.”
“... And yet, here you are.” The hand between Kasala’s palms curled tighter. The skin of the palm ought to be torn by now, “Is this how you tell me that my light has long dimmed, such that it is no different from the dark?”
Kasala’s lips twitched around the corners, yet valiantly kept the smile in place.
“No, my lord.”
He tipped his head back, and dared to look up.
“It’s because yours is the only true light. It is the one that embraces all, as the real sun does, shining on all the world and all that hides in its shadows, not merely the select few the heavens favour.”
His lord’s eyes widened a touch, and Kasala allowed himself a moment to drown in them. They were a miniature image of the sky, a gold-and-brown core surrounded by an endless blue expanse. Only the sun in their sky is circular. It left Kasala to wonder if that sky above the one they see, from which his lord descended, has diamond-shaped stars.
Soon as his thoughts started to wander, he gathered them back and tucked them away, lest he loses himself to those endless questions. His king’s face had by then returned to its veil of hollow regality, and he turned it away, not saying anything in response. Yet Kasala was not disappointed, because the hand he held between his own finally unfurled its fine fingers. Gingerly, the priest rubbed a finger along the crescent-shaped cuts on that too-warm palm, as though to sooth them, though his own fingers were burning-hot now.
Without any forethought, he leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to those firm, dark knuckles.
“Alas,” he continued, cutting short the silence before it had a chance to grow heavy, “Only I have been so fortunate as to be favoured, so no one else knows this light as I do. Everyone else may need to be closer… to see closer.”
“...” Deshret’s eyes fell shut, “Is that the sort of reckless advice you give in court when I’m not present? To step ever closer to the sun?”
“Oh, but you must forgive me for that. I only have the happiness of your people in mind when I give advice.”
Carefully avoiding stepping on his robes, Kasala drew himself to his feet on the lower steps. He folded his hands in front of himself, and bowed again.
“But though it may displease my lord to hear unwise optimism, I must tell you anyway: the children of the desert need not learn how to live with the sun. It is part of them from the day of their birth, and it is with them until the end of their time. They are a lot wiser in their ways than we suspect.”
There was a faint scoffing noise, nothing more than a huff of breath that could mean nothing at all. His lord did not face him again, but his hands remained loose, and his tone less regal when he said, “You seem to have a clever comeback for everything. There is no point in talking to you.”
If he had looked up, he may have seen his priest’s eyes sparkle with glee.
“But I think clever comebacks are wonderful. They make conversation so much more interesting.”
“ Conversation. You mean talking down to your king?”
“No, no, conversation. I just adore conversation. Did my lord not enjoy it? Allow this humble servant to tell you — ”
“Leave. Tell my advisors their presence is expected.”
His earpiece isn’t working. Alhaitham wishes he could go away somewhere.
He wishes they would, at least. All of them.
The scholars with their fiscal reports and new projects. The merchants from far away with their trade agreements and business. The matra and their reports on the recent arrests. Alhaitham wished them all away, and as gods and the heavens were wont to do, none of them left after all, leaving him with wasted hopes he shouldn’t have had in the first place. Today is a very busy day. It is approaching the date of a new art exhibition in the city, an attempt to revive Sumeru’s long, long history of art and literature in the eyes of their own people as well as the rest of Teyvat. Hopes had been high with the beginning of the project too, then quickly dampened again when Alhaitham made it clear they simply don’t have the manpower and resources just yet to allow free tourist visits to the temples of the desert.
There is still much to be done on the other side of the wall. The desertfolk will not receive foreigners poking around their sacred sites too well, rightfully so. Not when they were still trying to recover their own livelihoods. Candace had made their stance clear and Alhaitham had no reason to pick anyone’s decision above hers when it came to her people, certainly not those scholars who muttered about good-for-nothings desert mutts where they thought no one could hear them.
The enjoyable part about being the Acting Grand Sage is that now he can do something about it when someone annoys him too much. Something drastic and life-changing. Power does feel good sometimes, after all. It feels terrible most of the time though, especially for one who doesn’t care for it, because it comes with too many expectations from too many people.
Not worth it, especially when it doesn’t help him do anything about his bigger problems, like Kaveh. Kaveh, who has refused to shut his mouth about the art exhibition, sparing no snide remarks about how did the forbidden knowledge screw your brain back in the right spot and made you care about the arts ? Alhaitham responded to a maximum of three such comments before he tuned him out altogether. But ignoring Kaveh didn’t make the exhibition itself go away.
Alhaitham wished it would.
It was a wonderful idea the good Lesser Lord Kusanali came up with and everyone adored her for it, sparing no thoughts for the person who actually has to put in the work to make the idea come to life. Alhaitham didn’t put up much of a resistance — his reasoning was sensible, yes, but so was Nahida’s.
“I’m afraid the state, and especially the Akademiya, isn’t ready to host such a major event just yet.”
“It’s what the people need. They need to believe in the stability of the state.”
Believing hard enough in stability and success will not resolve logistical problems, Alhaitham had wanted to argue, before giving up and excusing himself from the meeting.
Fine, he will make it happen. He’d said he can. He knows that he can.
He just wasn’t in a good mood that day.
There was a knock on the door, and a gaudily dressed woman walked in with a little entourage. A businesswoman from Fontaine. Alhaitham glanced down at the slip of paper on the desk, showing a list of the guests he would be meeting today.
This is the last one.
The lady starts to speak in barely comprehensible Sumeran and with a lot of self-confidence.
Saving the worst for last, huh?
Fine. He can do it.
… By the time she left, though, he wondered how he did do it.
Halfway through the meeting, the interpreter stepped in to speak for her. That didn’t make much of a difference, because Alhaitham was barely hearing them from the sheer pain of his pounding headache anyway. Every sound was growing steadily louder and louder around him, as if the earpieces he was wearing — useless as they were today — were blasting the noise directly into his ears at maximum volume. He’d resisted the urge to knead his temples several times throughout the meeting. He concludes the meeting with more haste than he should’ve, and he cannot find it in himself to care, and when the little party from Fontaine leaves his office, it feels as if he was ready to burst.
He wants to get up and pace, and he also just wants to lay down and clutch at his head. There is silence in the office now, and that too feels too loud, but the mere prospect of hearing yet another person’s voice makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He feels as restless as he is tired, and at once like he is neither. He feels a little numb, but the sharp headache keeps him alert.
He feels wrong .
But that’s fine too. Alhaitham can get like this sometimes.
There is a poem that Kaveh likes a lot. It’s as beautiful and meaningless as most of his interests, and talks about how there is a child in everyone, even those who have forgotten they were once a child. Alhaitham thinks, at least, that many people probably have a lot of childlike desires left in them, or dreams made up of childish wonder. Some wish to sleep on a bed made of clouds, others to go on an adventure beyond the skies.
Alhaitham wishes for a gold-covered palace somewhere away from home, where he can hide away from the world, where he wants for nothing and doesn’t have to see anyone unless it’s his own choice. It’s nothing more than a sweet pipe dream that leaves him feeling more bitter than wistful, because even in the cradle of that fantasy he doesn’t find himself happy. The history of Teyvat stands as witness, those who lived so fortunately, tucked away in castles made of jewels and ivory, never led a peaceful life in the end. So Alhaitham wishes instead for his castle to be beyond the skies before mankind’s eyes, a place where only the most noble and ancient gods descended from.
If anyone ever heard him say any of this, they would probably laugh at him. It’s fine, though, that sometimes his thoughts go in ridiculous directions, because no one will ever know. The times when he feels wrong, when the world around him feels too loud, when he wishes he was somewhere so far away no one could find him… these are between Alhaitham and the ghosts in his dreams, whose faces he never sees, whose voices he never remembers. They walk the halls of his castle and stop by him, find him wherever he is, and when he looks at them the light of the sun is always blocking out their visages.
Welcome company. Feather-light touches. They speak so quietly, and their voices blend and echo around him, so soft Alhaitham strangely feels like crying. He swallows the tears back. He speaks to them though, tells them about all the things he never says when he’s awake, because he has no one with whom he could talk. And when his words have dried out and his grievances were spoken, everything feels so, so warm, like he is standing right next to the sun, but it doesn’t burn him, it doesn’t hurt or make him uncomfortable.
When he wakes up from the dream, he feels cold and so, so alone. He always is, because he is Alhaitham and all the solitude and loneliness come with him.
This time should not have been different. Sitting in the Grand Sage’s seat, Alhaitham should have woken up alone with an ache in his neck to accompany his migraine, but there is a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing to wake him. Someone is standing next to him, and for a moment, Alhaitham feels an almost primal rage well up inside him, feels almost violated because why, why can’t they just leave him be?
The rage simmered down as soon as it rose, once a glance at the hand on his shoulder made him realise exactly who’d disturbed him.
“Alhaitham?”
Of course it is him. General Mahamatra is the only one who doesn’t need permission to see the Grand Sage.
Alhaitham slowly tilts his head to look at him. Cyno appears concerned, wearing a pensive expression. His hand is still on Alhaitham’s shoulder, a touch that feels a little too hot, which shouldn’t be true because Cyno’s body runs on a lower temperature than his normally. Alhaitham stops himself before he can overthink this.
“Cyno.” He says, pausing to clear his throat when his voice comes out a little strangled, “What is it? Sorry, looks like I fell asleep.”
Cyno’s voice is calm and tempered when he responds, “Looks like it.”
His hand leaves its place upon Alhaitham’s shoulder, who swallows back whatever disappointment he feels at the loss. Instead, he focuses on the new stack of documents on his desk. He straightens in his seat, reaching out to pick them up, only to be stopped by that same hand, this time gripping his wrist.
“Leave it. Just go home for the day, it can wait until tomorrow.”
Alhaitham almost bristled at the words, “I’m fine.”
“You just fell asleep in your chair.”
“And now I’m full of energy again, can’t you see?”
“Alhaitham.” Cyno sighs, exasperated, and tightens his hold when he tries to shake his arm free, “I said this can wait. If it couldn’t, I wouldn’t be telling you to go home.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“You’re far too kind, General.”
Cyno grows quiet, and Alhaitham feels hot again.
He’s out of his depth more than he’d originally assumed he would be, he realises now. It can’t be helped. Cyno is here, in a place and at a time where Alhaitham doesn’t want to see or hear anyone, but his presence… is not unwelcome. All the same, Alhaitham doesn’t feel ready for it. He almost wants to squirm in his seat. Cyno is still holding his arm, and it feels too much, too little. Alhaitham’s chest feels full with more emotions than he’s used to handling, and he tries to breathe through them. Tries to think.
“If you’re concerned about my health,” he says at length, “I will go and sleep more in the other room. Then I will be rested, and I can also finish up my work.”
It’s a fair compromise, and Cyno frowns, clearly considering it. Finally, he sighs, and releases him, “You’re usually trying to look for ways to leave work early.”
Alhaitham reaches for his cape, “I’d rather not stay up for three nights before the exhibition trying to wrap up preparations, that’s all.”
He stands up, and immediately sways on his feet. It appears that Cyno’s right arm is gravitating to him today; as soon as his head swims it’s wrapped tightly around his waist, steadying him. Alhaitham blinks away the spots in his vision and looks down at him, Cyno looking back judgmentally. He doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t let go of him either, helping him walk. Alhaitham doesn’t need it, really, but he doesn’t say anything, out of secret selfish desires and also because he doesn’t want to tempt Cyno into calling off the compromise. He might just decide to carry Alhaitham all the way back home himself, and Alhaitham isn’t emotionally prepared for that. Not right now.
There is a small room adjacent to the Grand Sage’s office, where a comfortable couch and some personal items are kept for the sage’s comfort. Alhaitham tosses his cape on the chair and sits on the couch, sighing a little when Cyno releases his waist, letting him lean against the soft cushion.
When he reaches to remove his earpieces, he catches Cyno’s look of mild surprise, and shrugs, “They’re not working. I need to repair them when I get home.”
Cyno’s eyes widened a little. When he speaks again, his voice is even more quiet, “I can take them to be fixed… if you need.”
He really is too kind.
Alhaitham’s lips twitched at the corners. It’s his first smile all day.
“You don’t have to whisper. My eardrums won’t just burst.”
Cyno hesitated, “But you find it difficult, don’t you? When it’s too loud. Is that… why you’re so tired today?”
“...” Alhaitham lowered his eyes, leaning down to remove his boots, too slow and methodical about a simple action, “... Am I? I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?”
Alhaitham doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s not sure what to say. It all sounds too trivial when he strings the words together in his head. At the very least, it sounds too silly to tell Cyno about, who looks so genuinely worried when he shouldn’t be. Alhaitham appreciates the worry. Basks in it a little, in how much Cyno cares. It makes him less willing to explain why he is the way he is today.
He lies down when the boots are off, turning to give his back to Cyno. It’s a dismissive action, too rude when Cyno is trying to be considerate of him. But the longer he looks into those eyes, warmed over with genuine concern, the more undeserving he feels of them. It’s better to act like his normal self, if a little impatient, than to let Cyno worry like that.
“Well then,” he says, and feels his throat tighten a bit, “I will see you in a bit, General. In case you’re still here, of course.”
(He hopes Cyno will be.)
“... Right.”
Cyno turns to leave. Alhaitham’s too sensitive hearing picks up on the subtle sound of his movements. One step, two, three… Alhaitham counts them, and it feels like with each one his own heart sinks a little further down. But then the steps halt. Cyno is by the door now, but he wasn’t leaving. Not yet.
“Alhaitham.” He hesitates again, then sighs his next words, “I’m sorry.”
The words take Alhaitham by surprise, “Whatever for?”
He hears Cyno shuffle slightly on his feet, “The exhibition. You were right, there are more important things we ought to have taken care of first before planning this event. And now you’re taking the brunt of it all.”
The stuffy feeling in his chest seems to clear out a little. Alhaitham feels himself smiling again, and finally gives up, rolling onto his back so he could look at Cyno. It was dark inside the room, enough to make Cyno’s features appear indistinct, but Cyno can see him clearly, which is enough.
“There is no need to apologise over something you had no control over. And it’s not that serious,” he paused, the smile on his face turning a little lop-sided, “I’m just not feeling well today. It doesn’t have anything to do with my workload.”
“... You’re sure?”
“Yes. Thank you… for being so thoughtful.”
Somehow, Cyno’s voice sounded even softer when he answered, “You don’t have to thank me. I even disturbed you while you were asleep.”
“You don’t disturb me, Cyno.”
It nearly surprised him just how much he meant those words.
He already knew them to be true. Already accepted the fact that Cyno is different to him, somehow, in some ways he can make sense of while others remain a mystery. It’s knowledge he can digest easily on a normal day, but today is different. Today, Alhaitham thought he could stand absolutely no one… except, apparently, he can. Just that one person of great importance.
It isn’t something he is used to. Alhaitham had not been a child in the way others had been. He’d been an adult making adult decisions for himself since the age of twelve. It comes with being an orphan whose only connection to the world left him too early, too quickly. When one grows up with only themselves to depend on, it’s their own hearts that they trust in the most. Alhaitham used to do so until now. Now his heart beats too quickly in inappropriate moments, now it aches and breaks and rejoices in ways it never had before. Sometimes, Alhaitham would feel like he knows no one but himself. Now, he is a stranger even to himself.
It should be terrifying. It is. But it’s also beautiful. A novelty he won’t grow weary of, not for as long as Cyno is there, glowing bright like a star in all his selflessness and kindness and awkward humour, his little quirks that Alhaitham never stops wanting to see more of.
Cyno turns to leave. Alhaitham wants to stop him.
He does.
“Sometimes, I hate everyone.”
It works. Cyno stops with his hand on the doorknob, turning to him again. Even in the darkness of the room, and his silence, Alhaitham can tell he is perplexed.
So he continues. It feels a little hard to breathe, but he does, “I hate every last person in this world. I hate everything about this place. Everything sounds too loud, all of them seem so detestable. And I think about how much I wish to never see anyone again, to never hear another voice. I want to shut myself away where no one can find me except my ghosts.”
He’s no longer looking at Cyno, eyes turned to the plain ceiling above him.
“... But not you. I never hate you.”
Silence hangs between them, heavy with words yet to be spoken but there. It is not unfamiliar, not as of late, and he is grateful for once that he hears a little too much. Hears the deep breath Cyno takes, feels his own hitch when he approaches him again. The couch sinks a little next to him as Cyno sits by his side, the narrow space forcing him close, close enough for the length of his thigh to press against Alhaitham’s side. There is an urge, sudden and overwhelming, to touch him. Somehow, if only a little, but he doesn’t, and waits for him to speak first.
“So even you have your moods, huh?”
Cyno sounds sincere, as much as he always is, be it with his anger, happiness, frustration, and all his other emotions. They are subtle, but never a pretension. Right now, Alhaitham can’t pinpoint exactly what he’s feeling, but it’s enough that he sounds so calm.
“Is it odd?”
“Not really.” Cyno’s hand brushes his arm, light enough it almost seems accidental, “What will you do if you lock yourself up, though? Wouldn’t it get suffocating to be all alone in that house?”
“No. I’ll be in my castle.”
“What if it’s raided?”
“It will be above the skies.”
“Wouldn’t that be too close to the sun?”
“The sun won’t hurt me.”
“Okay.” Cyno pauses, humming in thought, “... Will you give me a room in your castle then?”
Alhaitham finally turns to look back at him. This close, he can see Cyno clearly. His contemplative expression, his earnest gaze. He looks so serious about such an unserious discussion. Alhaitham has never adored conversation more.
“Do you want to be alone too, Cyno?” He asks the question in a hushed voice, as if inviting him to share a secret.
Cyno blinks slowly, and thinks to himself silently for a few more moments. Finally, he answers, “I used to. I didn’t mind noise, what I needed was darkness. I used to cry sometimes, too.”
It was a secret, after all. Alhaitham feels so eager for more.
“But not anymore?”
“Not anymore.” Cyno nods, “Because I realised eventually...”
“What did you realise?”
“That I wanted to be found, every time I would hide somewhere too dark.”
Alhaitham pauses, and asks more gently, “Were you?”
Cyno shakes his head this time. He doesn’t look disappointed or aggrieved.
“No. But I think I did find something.”
“What did you find?”
Cyno smiles then.
“I’ll tell you later. Right now, you have a promise to keep.”
Alhaitham already feels like he is dreaming.
His head swims, not unpleasantly, and he realises that he is tired after all. There is a numbness in his head instead of an ache now. He feels ready to sleep, but it's a strange kind of lethargy he has not felt before. He wonders if Cyno has cast a spell on him, and almost asks, but finds that he doesn’t have the energy to. He has something more important to inquire about.
“So then, why do you want to be in my castle?”
He thinks he hears Cyno laugh. He isn’t sure, eyes already fallen shut. The world is so quiet around him.
“Someone has to find you eventually. You think the paperwork will finish itself?”
In his dream, the sun rests above him, and embraces the shadows at his feet.