Chapter Text
The desert is unforgiving.
The sands follow the wind to obscure their vision. The wind whistles in their ears; a guide or a torment, unknowable. The footprints fade into the storm. The General Mahamatra scouted ahead, disappearing into the howling winds behind the sandstorm. They are not finding Kaveh tonight. The entirety of the storm will be upon them in a matter of minutes. The General Mahamatra and the Scribe huddle in shelter.
Every sensation amplified from the trickle of water down his throat to the scents carried by the wind, the kidnapper’s footprints burn behind his retinas anytime Alhaitham closes his eyes. Judging by the sandstorm, their camp can’t be far from where Alhaitham and Cyno currently are. A perfect rest stop before an ambush.
In the days before, Kaveh announced a project in the desert. Kaveh often ventured into the desert for projects or inspiration, therefore this announcement was nothing notable. In the days that followed, Kaveh never reappeared after his time ran through. Again, nothing notable. Projects ran long, and it would be folly to consider Kaveh punctual.
Eventually, Kaveh’s absence permeated the air around Alhaitham until it was no longer ignorable. Worried is not a state Alhaitham considered himself to be in. Why worry when action can be taken to prevent such an affective state? All that needed to be done was filing a missing persons report with the matra who would investigate the desert.
The General Mahamatra took the case upon himself. Alhaitham insisted upon following as backup. Cyno’s track record was trustworthy, but Alhaitham knew little about the rest of the matra, and his priority did not lie in conducting thorough background checks of each one.
The General Mahamatra gave no objection.
Worrying is an affective state. Affective states cloud one’s judgement, cognitive capabilities, and thought process. There is little benefit in succumbing to an affective state in times of peril. It is better to analyse, assess, and plan. They would track Kaveh’s movements through the desert, assess where he could have gone, and where he would go next.
The detail enlightening both the Scribe and the General Mahamatra to the possibility of Kaveh’s kidnapping was a single feather, stuck into the sand with brutality and fervour; an assuredness it would not be carried away by the sands of time. Eternal in its watch, waiting for the right receiver. Alhaitham plucked the feather from its post.
Alhaitham’s fingers marvel around the feather, the bristles softly gliding across skin in distant comfort with every touch. Kaveh rarely parted with this accessory. Sometimes, he still donned the feather in sleep. Often, Alhaitham plucked the accessory from the blond’s hair for him, careful not to crush the impractical piece. Before, Alhaitham argued how inadvisable the headpiece was. Now, his gratitude for it seeped through his skin into its shape.
The feather’s detachment from its wearer was not the result of an ordinary scuffle; this was a message. A message only for him.
I know you’re watching closely.
“What did you find?” Cyno queried, hand outstretched in gesture.
“His feather,” Alhaitham replied. Follow my trail. “We’re close.”
Alhaitham followed the whispers Kaveh left behind.
Presently, the cave was their ally. The sandstorm whistled a warning; wailed for a sacrifice. The two occupants of the cave sat in silent contemplation on the impending conflict. Cyno chose vigilance as the root of his considerations, unwilling to avert his gaze to rest. Alhaitham chose scrutiny, examining all the possibilities. There was a chance they would not come to blows if Kaveh’s release could be negotiated.
“If Kaveh managed to leave his feather for us to find, if it comes to it, it should be an easy fight,” Cyno remarked, “if we find him.”
“When,” Alhaitham corrected, twirling the feather between dexterous fingers, concentration impenetrable.
Cyno tore his gaze from the swirling sands to momentarily stare at Alhaitham’s drawn expression. Countenance similarly unreadable, Cyno agreed, “When.”
The world faded to darkness long ago. When, Kaveh did not remember. His vision was hazy from the heat and his own tears, water only offered when they needed to keep him alive. How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Had Alhaitham had enough of unfamiliar silence yet to come searching? Did he find the message in the sand?
Hope never abated, Kaveh held a vigil by the entrance of that cave every day and night as the bonds on his wrists burned through his skin, biting into the marks before. He was assured of many things; listed, not in any particular order. One, he was a talented architect as well as a talented artist. Two, he was a good friend, empathetic and loyal. Three, Alhaitham would come for him.
The sand brushed roughly over his cheek. The Treasure Hoarders playing at kidnappers paid him little attention. A jeer here, a jab there; it didn’t matter. Kaveh already lost his vibrancy to exhaustion, dehydration, and bloodlessness. Instead, he focused on the entrance to that cave. Any moment. Any moment now.
Follow, find, free.
The entrance of the cave remains uninhabited. Yet, Kaveh hears a strangled noise come from one of the kidnappers. Swords drawn from their sheaths; bows drawn from holsters. An arrow lands in the wall adjacent, a sword is knocked to his feet. It is cruel mockery to know, if he could move, he could cut his bonds.
“Lower your weapons!” someone commanded. “It’s the Acting Grand Sage himself. Finally come for your little pet?”
“Your information is outdated,” Alhaitham informed, “I no longer hold the position of Acting Grand Sage, therefore there is no reason to harbour your prisoner.”
Kaveh smirked into the sand. Only Alhaitham would take the opportunity to correct someone’s misinformation in a situation like this. A whimper reverberated through the walls of the cave. Kaveh strained his neck to see Cyno, a hostage in his hands. A bargaining chip; a hostage for a hostage. A big assumption in how much value they place on each other.
“So, what? You’re still a bigshot in the Akademiya, aren’t you?” Their leader spat. “Listen to our demands. Once they’ve been met, then we’ll consider letting the kid go.”
“And why should I do that? We found you. It seems to me your plan has already fallen through. You didn’t think about this at all.”
Did he work on being that annoying or does it come naturally? Kaveh pondered, wondering where this was going.
“Is that a threat?”
“You’re free to take it however you wish.”
“Alhaitham,” Cyno warned.
Their leader drew his sword, palpably angered by Alhaitham’s words. His compatriots followed, weapons drawn. Alhaitham’s eyes landed on Kaveh.
“Very well,” Alhaitham sighed, his own sword materialising in his grip. “We’ll settle this your way.”
Everything happened in a haze of colour and sand. Cyno tossed the Hoarder in his arms into the forming ring. He stumbled awkwardly, seizing on to the others in his attempt to right himself, unthinking. Not a bargaining chip; a home advantage. A flurry of green, purple, red ─ elements; visions and bottled energy. Steel crashing against steel, parrying blows. Arrows directed off-course, landing haphazardly in the sand.
Kaveh, in present danger, absently wondered if he should find some time for painting again, and commit this scene to memory. What would he call that piece?
Follow, find, free . Took your sweet time, didn’t you?
Amidst the chaos, a pair of arms grabbed Kaveh roughly. Kaveh struggled weakly against his captor. A blade kissed his throat. Alhaitham came into view. Carnelian eyes met teal-orange in either a silent plea or a silent goodbye. Alhaitham would know which soon. The blade nicked his throat before his body slumped forward, releasing Kaveh from his grip. They fell to the ground together. Kaveh shifted to see a small blade protruding from his assailant’s shoulder and Cyno’s hand outstretched in culpability.
The conflict over, Alhaitham kneeled next to Kaveh’s body, not before shoving the offender from his path with his foot. Alhaitham propped Kaveh up gently against the wall. The gag in his mouth was removed, replaced by a small flask of water, soothing his raw and dry throat. The ropes at his wrists slumped to the ground, freeing his wrists. Kaveh mirrored their movement, head coming to rest on Alhaitham’s shoulder. Alhaitham peeled him away gently, like he was afraid Kaveh would shatter beneath his fingertips from a light touch alone.
“You’re late,” Kaveh stated. The air stung his bruised and bloodied wrists.
“My apologies,” Alhaitham uttered, inspecting the blond’s wrists, gently resting in Alhaitham’s hands. The everpresent crease of his brow deepened at the sight. Kaveh rested his cheek against Alhaitham’s shoulder again.
Relief and reality washed over him like a tidal wave. This was not one of his dreams of anxious expectation. Alhaitham’s hands, his skin, his touch… the touch he longed for… was real. His thumb swiped Kaveh’s wrists lightly, causing Kaveh to wince, but Kaveh cared little about the pain.
He missed these dexterous hands, large and defined in their consolation. The feeling of the fingers of these hands threading through his hair; the palms of such roughness caressing his cheek gently; the feeling of Alhaitham’s chest, solid, beneath his head. He missed the security he provided. There is no need to hold on to his reservations anymore.
“You need a doctor,” Alhaitham observed.
“I don’t want a doctor,” Kaveh weeped, tears pressed into Alhaitham’s neck and shoulder. “Please… just take me home.”
“Okay,” Alhaitham conceded, fingers stroking the back of Kaveh’s head. Kaveh exhaled shakily, soothed by the touch. “Let’s go home.”
Alhaitham’s assistance provided little help for Kaveh’s shaking legs. In the end, Alhaitham lifted Kaveh into his arms with ease. Kaveh wrapped his arms around Alhaitham’s neck, too tired to make a remark on how ridiculous it is Kaveh needed to be carried like a child. Cyno scoured the area ahead, unsure if he was allowed to bear witness.
Kaveh’s head found Alhaitham’s shoulder once again.
Anticipating rumours abound in the city of Sumeru, Alhaitham arranged for discreet transport. Cyno decided he would make his own way back, leaving the architect and the Scribe together in the carriage, said architect braced against said Scribe's body, unable and unwilling to let go.
"Don't fall asleep," Alhaitham muttered, caressing Kaveh's injured hands. Kaveh knew better than to ask why.
Rope burns twisted along his irritated flesh. Blood, both new and old, sang around his wrists. The humid air would be of no help, leaving them feeling torn asunder. Kaveh refused a doctor, but he would at least need a balm and bandages for these burns. Kaveh’s wrists appear shredded, skin peeling off them in the angriest way.
After a thorough inspection, Alhaitham halts his ministrations around Kaveh’s wrists to move to the cut on his cheek, his dirty hair, his bruised waist; both gratitude and despondency belied his search for injuries. Kaveh watched as his frown deepened, creased in something other than concentration.
Neither of them said anything.
Their silence spoke for them.