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Cyno is a man of many qualities. He is righteous and strong and easy on the eye.
It becomes one of Al Haitham’s pastime to observe him, especially during meetings such as this one.
Not too long ago, Al Haitham wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been to discover that Cyno disliked him. Although now, despite caring little about being hated, he would rather be at the very least tolerated by the general.
But high as they are, towering above the city in the Sanctuary of Surasthana, these concerns turn almost minuscule.
Lesser Lord Kusanali has started speaking once more, Al Haitham turns back his attention to her voice. She is not a person he willingly ignores.
“I’ve been thinking of introducing a darshan dedicated to the arts,” she says seriously. “I’d like for us to publish a paper about the different kinds of arts of Sumeru as a preamble for this new era of the Akademiya.”
Cyno nods. They have spent too long endeavouring to stabilise the nation. Now, it is finally time to actually reform the Akademiya’s institutions.
Cyno sits on Lesser Lord Kusanali’s left side. Al Haitham is a little glad to have him here with them in those meetings. It’s always engrossing to discuss with him, he’s brilliant the way very few people are.
“This is only a sprout. But this is how we start. For the moment I believe what is important is to set a precedent.”
“I agree,” Cyno says. “It’s about legitimacy, we have to make the people take the arts seriously. Show them that it does belong in the Akademiya.”
Lesser Lord Kusanali nods. “Although we have to be careful about the extent of our involvement. Art belongs to the people. It’d be a shame to unwillingly turn it into an elitist practice.” She doesn’t say it out loud, but the ‘we don't want to become like Fontaine’ is clear enough to Al Haitham’s ears. “For now, we need to show that we do care.”
“If it matters, I’ve been formally trained in a polearm dance called Saidi.” Cyno says all of the sudden.
“Is that so? I wouldn’t have expected that, how fascinating!” Lesser Lord Kusanali brings her hands together gleefully.
“Yes. I have learned while I was still young. Although I might be in need of practising after so long.”
How peculiar. Their general, dancing. It does intrigue Al Haitham.
“How about an event,” he finds himself proposing. “One in which both the Akademiya and Sumeru’s people would take part in. The Sabzeruz festival isn’t too far away, it might be our chance. We could ask Nilou for some support from Zubayr theatre and take part in the celebrations. Plus I wouldn’t hate seeing you dance, general.”
It would be an unprecedented thing. The Akademiya participating in the Sabzeruz festival through the help of the General Cyno. A marriage between academics and non-scholars, between the old and the new.
Al Haitham finds it fitting. After all, isn’t the person supposed to be celebrated during the festival sitting with them at this very moment?
“That is quite the great idea, Al Haitham! Having the General Mahamatra partake in the celebration of the festival would be a tangible proof of the newfound involvement of the Akademiya in the art world. What do you think, Cyno?”
Cyno doesn’t object. “If there is a work that I can do for the sake of Sumeru, then I will do it.” he lowers his head in assent. “But how about the publication? I still think it can be of use, to show that art is a worthy subject of study.”
Lesser Lord Kusanali turns towards Al Haitham with a look that can only mean that his workload is about to be increased.
“Things are calming down, Al Haitham. How about taking on a new research project?”
“If I may, Lesser Lord Kusanali, I’d like to decline the offer. I’m afraid I’m far from the right person for this job. I am so uninterested by the appeal of the arts that it would constitute a disrespect to all those people who have worked so hard to hone their craft.”
She smiles at him and he remembers that she is an archon that has lived hundreds of years more than him. “Call it an experiment of sorts. If someone as ‘uninterested’ as you can find some worth in this deed, then there is hope that the rest of Sumeru will as well.”
“Of course, your work will not go unrewarded,” she adds. “How about a week of paid leave in exchange for your efforts?”
He sighs, she knows him all too well. “Then, if there's a work I can do, I shall do it.” Al Haitham answers at last.
He catches the way Cyno rolls his eyes.
//
Thus far, Al Haitham has held on to all the books left by his parents.
They lay in the drawer of a commode placed in the living area. Not that Kaveh would ever care to touch them.
Some of these documents are completely unlike the usual books Al Haitham reads, but he keeps them, because they used to belong to his parents. He can only imagine who they were, as he doesn’t remember them. The various journals they left are a great way to glance into their mind.
He has retained the books they have read, papers they have published, critics they have written. And letters, a tall stack of them. It’s one thing to discover his parents as learned scholars, it’s a whole other to envision them as actual people with woes and dreams and feelings.
Their first correspondences are more of the formal kind. Asking about such joint assignments between their two darshans and keeping each other updated. And then it evolves into something else. His mother proposes to go to a seminary together, his father asks if she properly received the gift he sent her. Eventually, words of love and devotion fill the pages, and instead of renowned scholars his parents become simply two people who have fallen for each other.
Falling in love doesn’t exactly fit Al Haitham’s idea of a peaceful life. Not that anyone worthy of such affection has ever appeared.
He traces a finger on the words ‘dear,’ ‘darling,’ ‘my most loved one’ written in long-dried ink. He cannot fathom ever feeling such dedication for another person.
Al Haitham gets a week of tentative freedom before he is summoned by Lesser Lord Kusanali. Seems she hasn’t forgotten about him after all.
Mountains and mountains of books surround her. She is eager to read everything and see everything, catch up on all she has missed. Their archon is not one that likes to sit still.
“I’m afraid I’ll be relying on you Al Haitham. The rehearsals have already started but we still need to work on the logistics. I trust that you’ll work efficiently and have everything go without a hitch.” At least she looks sorry for giving him more work.
“As for your assignment—here,” she hands him a paper filled with names, some he recognises and more he does not. “I have been observing my people for some time now. Here’s a compilation of every person I think you should talk to.”
“During this trip, you will be my eyes Al Haitham. I’ll be looking forward to reading what you write.”
Al Haitham hums in response.
Lesser Lord Kusanali fiddles with her sari. “I believe the most important part of art is the person behind it. I’m aware we have plenty of papers on the subject but they all fail to satisfy me somehow.” She turns her head towards one of the towers of books. “Perhaps we have been looking at it the wrong way, we need a new perspective. Perhaps we should see art as something that is alive.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Lord Kusanali.”
//
Al Haitham crosses paths with Cyno as he goes down to Lambad’s Tavern for a well deserved lunch break.
By the looks of it, he has just arrived back from one of his many expeditions. How he’s able to carry out such a large amount of work while also dedicating time for the dance rehearsal, Al Haitham doesn’t know.
He invites him to join him, after all, Cyno is one of the very few whose company he doesn’t mind.
Cyno is a captivating enigma.
More and more Al Haitham has been catching himself trying to define him. Cyno is a caring man. Cyno is a valiant fighter. He’s a gifted intellectual. And now he’s a dancer as well. He is so many things. It’s fascinating to watch.
They sit at an empty corner of the tavern and order a plate of fish roll and tahchin respectively.
Cyno is the one to break the comfortable silence first.
“Al Haitham tell me,” he says in between bites. “What is your opinion on the arts? With the work that Lesser Lord Kusanali has assigned to us I can’t help but ponder what you might think of the whole ordeal.”
“I tend to focus solely on what I know will come useful to me. Therefore I can’t say that I’m a person that cares much for it.”
Cyno is someone who gauges people. He looks at Al Haitham with his penetrating eyes. What will be his judgement this time?
“I see. Regardless, it’ll be a lot of work. I’ll have to delegate some of my duties to my Matra.”
“Sounds like we’ll both be busy.” It’s a shame he won’t be able to share his company for a while. Al Haitham has a suspicion that Cyno doesn’t dislike spending time with him either.
“Somehow you seem dissatisfied.” It’s in the slight downturn of his mouth, the thoughtful tension between his eyebrows.
Perhaps he’s already regretting having accepted.
“Our definition is too narrow. I think we need to broaden our horizons,” Cyno frowns contemplatively. “Art is a far too vast term, that encompasses many things. I fear we’re not doing enough”
Al Haitham has to agree. If they wanted to be thorough, then they’d need to add more than just one darshan. Though in that case the public reaction would be quite the headache to deal with. Which is why they need to start slowly, one thing at a time.
“I don’t like that we’re calling it ‘art darshan’ as well. It deserves its own meaningful name, just like all the others,” Cyno adds. “And we should give a bigger importance to the many arts of the desert.”
Al Haitham shrugs. “It’s just as Lesser Lord Kusanali said, it’s a start. Rather, I am more curious about your dancing, if I have to be honest. I’d never imagine you to have this sort of interest.”
Cyno gazes at one of the windows of the tavern. “It was part of my priest training, back in the desert. Worshipping has always been something that aims at being both useful and dignified. The dance was to teach us how to defend ourselves while also paying our respects to al Ahmar.”
They finish their lunch in less than half an hour, with sparse bits of conversation in between. They’re both people who tend to not speak a lot, though Al Haitham finds himself cherishing Cyno’s every word, as if they were little droplets of liquid gold.
Cyno refuses to let him pay for his own share. Too soon after, they separate.
“This is goodbye for now, then,” Cyno says, and he trails towards the exit of the city without glancing back until his form is but a dot in the distance.
//
Nilou is easy enough to find. The convenience pleases Al Haitham. Zubayr theatre is not far from the Akademiya, he’ll be able to make it home before the end of the workday if everything goes smoothly.
She’s the first person on the list. It’s not such a bad way to start this assignment.
“Oh yes, I have many ideas,” Nilou clasps her hands together. There’s something light about her that always makes Al Haitham feel at peace.
“I was surprised to see that General Cyno was so well-versed in dancing! He showed me some of his moves, we’re currently working on coordinating them with my own. Polearm dances sure are fascinating, I dare say it suits the general pretty well. Both elegant and sharp-edged. Oh! Not that I’m calling the general dangerous,” she shakes her hands in front of herself, as if she’s trying to dissolve the very idea into thin air. “I have to admit some of us were scared of him in the beginning. He can be very intimidating, but I’ve been telling him to smile more. I think it’s working. His jokes really helped loosen the atmosphere too.”
At the very least, it’s nice to see that Nilou is looking forward to the performance.
“He gave me complete authority, he says he trusts my judgement,” she puffs her chest proudly. “We’re thinking of doing something a little more different. With costumes and back dancers and a plot. It’s a lot to think about, but it’s so much fun!”
“We’ve had young people in matra training join the rehearsals as well, it was the general's idea,” she continues to explain. “General Cyno said that the polearm dance was just like typical polearm training. It’s convenient, since it’s hard to find dancers who already know how to wield a weapon. We don’t have enough time to teach them, see.”
“Do you think the arts have their place as teachings within the Akademiya?” Al Haitham eventually asks her.
Nilou hesitates. “I’m… not sure. Dancing to me is about freedom and happiness. I can’t help but worry that the Akademiya would turn it into something too rigid that would instead become a source of anxiety. I’m not too fond of inflexible teachings when it comes to the arts I guess,” she fidgets with the horns on her headdress. “I do think that it’d help scholars understand that dancing means more than meets the eye… but I’m not sure how I feel about it, to be completely honest. ” She gives him a smile full of guilt.
After being denigrated by the Akademiya for so long, it’s only natural for her to have her doubts. “I see. I thank you for your input.”
“Do you want to stick around and watch the rehearsal Al Haitham? General Cyno won’t be here but you can get an idea of what we’ve been working on.”
“No need. I still have much to discuss with Sheikh Zubayr.”
//
The rest of the trip is not as convenient and has Al Haitham travel too far from his house for his own liking. He passes the time sitting in the carriage by reading his parents’ letters and the many journals his mother left him.
The second person he meets is Taraneh, a dancer in Port Ormos. She is very different from Nilou, Al Haithaim notes.
He finds her near the merchant street, performing her heart out on the side of the road. She has drawn quite the crowd, he has to nudge passersby with his elbows in order to reach her.
“I dance because I’m angry,” she says matter-of-factly when Al Haitham takes her aside to converse.
None of the people he is set out to meet have been notified in advance. It would be quite pointless if in preparation they were to craft a perfect speech that would please the ears of the Akademiya. This isn’t Lesser Lord Kusanali’s aim. What she wants is their on-the-spot, genuine opinion.
“When I dance, the weight of my problems goes away. I take all the negative energy that slumbers inside of me and turn it into something pretty. Here, why don’t you come dance with me? You have the face of someone whose lover has abandoned in favour of sailing the sea. Not that I would know anything about it.”
Al Haitham shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“Alright then. Perhaps watching me will make you feel better. In all my years as a performer I have not met someone whose spirits I couldn’t lift,” she declares proudly.
“How would you feel if performing became a subject taught by the Akademiya. If dance classes became part of the students’ curriculum?” He asks her.
She laughs. “Ah! That’s a funny joke, are you trying to lift up my spirits too? Dancing being taught at the Akademiya just isn’t possible. Those arrogant scholars would need to pull their heads out of their asses first. Oh, I guess you must be a scholar as well… Please don’t take this the wrong way.” She clears her throat. “More seriously, I think it’ll do them good. You scholars are always stressing out, thinking up about the secrets of this world or whatever. You might find that dancing is a great way to make your troubles go away.”
She extends her arms and moves them fluidly around herself, a demonstration of her talents.
“When I dance I am not simply myself. I am the wave of the ocean, I am a breeze of wind, I am the branch of a tall tree. I make one with nature. Dancing is balance, it’s harmony. Sometimes I sing as well, and then I feel freer than a dandelion seed in Mondstadt.”
Al Haitham distantly wonders if it’s the same for Cyno. When he dances, what does he think? How does he feel? Does he think about balance? Does he care about beauty? Does he even see it as a performance, or as solely a way to further master his wield of his weapon?
Cyno has always been a fascinating subject of interest. It must be an illness, Al Haitham is starting to see him in everything.
In Pardis Dhyai, Janani explains to him how she makes her floral carpets with various petals and sells them to wealthy travellers and curious scholars alike. She tells him how the market for her flower art has been slowly taking off and has become popular enough for her to afford to quit her job as a greenhouse custodian and dedicate her time to this endeavour.
She shows him some of her flower petals rangolis. They are rather delightful. But all that enters Al Haitham’s mind when he looks at the flowers is the question, would Cyno like this bloom?.
It must be an illness because Al Haitham isn’t normally like that. He berates himself for being unfocused and turns his attention back to Janani and her floral carpets. He asks her opinion on integrating the teaching of her artistry in the Akademiya.
She’s not a person of many words, this Janani. She’s shy and a bit reclusive, but her answers are not less precious.
She brings her hands together. The tip of her fingers are dyed with henna. “I think I would like that. The problem with my profession is that I’m not often taken seriously. Pardis Dhyai is a place mainly for Amurta scholars, so they’re inclined to look down on my craft. They don’t understand it. Just because its sole aim is to be pretty, it doesn’t mean that it has no value.”
The music in Pardis Dhyai’s greenhouse is almost soothing. Like the chamomile tea that puts him to sleep. Port Ormos was filled with a different kind of melody. Something bustling and dynamic. Something that sparks the urge to dance in people like Taraneh. Even two places that are not so far from each other can look and sound so differently. Port Ormos is the tumult of the afternoon whilst Pardis Dhyai is the peace of an early morning.
Al Haitham remembers what Lesser Lord Kusanali told him. Art is alive. It thrums and beats like a heart. Just as paper is a medium for words to be inked on, art is a medium for love, happiness and turmoil alike, all those emotions that feel too big to be held inside of a single human.
//
Caravan Ribat offers its share of colourful sights. Banners, bandanas, headscarves, turbans, hijabs. Red, violet, greens, dark blue, orange and more.
He has read once that each symbol and each colour has a specific meaning, and helps the various Eremite tribes determine who is an ally and who is a foe. If a new tribe was to emerge, with its own new symbol, then all the other ones would notice immediately
There is no one for Al Haitham to meet in Caravan Ribat. All Lord Kusanali’s notes say is this: focus on the sights and focus on the sounds, use your senses to familiarise yourself with the way of life of our people.
What stands out the most to Al Haitham is the outdoor bazaar. Caravan Ribat is the checkpoint for those travelling from the forest to the desert and vice versa, therefore it has developed into a capital place for trade to provide them with the equipment they need. With time, the products they sell have evolved beyond simple travelling necessities.
Craftsmen hammer at their wares and create their own rhythm. They display all sorts of products on their booths. Food of course, a large variety of baklavas and dried fruits, but also lamps glowing with coloured glass, ceramics plates and bowls covered in calligraphy, and those uncountable pieces of fabrics being woven by hand under the eyes of the crowd.
The people of Caravan Ribat have a way of combining the useful and the agreeable.
The limit blurs between purely commercial goods and art. Or rather, the limit disappears altogether. Art becomes an essential product. It’s akin to sword dances in a way. Both awe-inspiring and practical. Both a martial art and a form of entertainment.
Al Haitham takes note of it. Art is too often deemed as useless. These workers are so essential for the good functioning of their nation and yet are viewed with so much disdain.
Talents such as those aren't formally recognised, though this is what Lord Kusanali is aiming at changing. Their craft that has been studied and passed on for decades deserves more than being reduced to an overlooked hobby.
Spice merchants, carpet makers, glass artists. So many colours. If Al Haitham had to assign a word to Caravan Ribat, it would be colours.
The last and final stop is Aaru village. It’s a relief to finally be reaching the end, though it truly wasn’t that long of a trip. A more in depth and complete research would have him staying longer in each parts of Sumeru; without mentioning the places he hasn't visited; and exploring farther into the desert to meet the different tribes, see the many ruins for himself and learn about the rich culture that has not yet been deemed valuable enough by the average scholar.
Al Haitham is aware that his work is both short and lacking. He’ll call it an ‘abridged study’ then, to attest to his awareness that this paper is in no way comprehensive.
He reaches the entrance of the village by late afternoon. Aaru has changed a lot since the last time he has visited, although most things remain the same. It’s sand, sand, sand everywhere. In his shoes, on his parents’ letters, and in his hair. Cyno would call it the perfect environment to meditate.
Al Haitham is thankful for Candace. She serves him a glass of water and lets him lounge on the village chief’s couch.
“It is not like you to be roaming around the desert during a sandstorm Al Haitham, regardless of it being a small one,” she remarks.
“It’s reassuring to know I wasn’t being overdramatic at least,” he empties the sand that has gathered inside his boots.
Another person is there. He doesn’t recognise her but her face is not entirely foreign. He must have seen her a number of times before.
This said person clears her throat. “Grand Scribe Al Haitham. You probably don’t know me. My name is Setaria. I wanted to thank you for everything you have done for Sumeru. “
Setaria. He recalls her as one of Azar’s assistants. He has heard about her recently moving to the desert to help develop education there.
“I’ve seen the newly established school,” he replies. “I think you’re doing valuable work.”
She smiles, she seems relieved somehow.
“Thank you. We’re grateful for General Cyno’s unyielding support. Relations with the Akademiya are still a complicated affair, unfortunately. General Cyno told us to go to him directly for our queries so it could go more smoothly. Lesser Lord Kusanali gave her accord of course. Thanks to the general we’ve been able to obtain most of the resources we’ve been in need of.”
Al Haitham goes out after dinner to look for the last person on his list.
“Oh if there is one thing I think you should become acquainted with, it is undoubtedly the folktales told here!” Setaria tells him before he leaves. “They are only passed on orally so each time the story is told it is never exactly like the previous iteration.”
“Isn’t that quite the unreliable way to transmit information?”
“True, facts get distorted as time goes by, thus a lot of stories that used to be veracious end up being filled with lies… If you want to see it for yourself, come sit by the campfire tonight.”
The man Al Haitham is set to meet turns out to be a storyteller.
Julaybib is a skilled orator. His beard and his skin are the colour of the night.
He has a deep voice that rings clear and is pleasant to the ear. Al Haitham finds himself removing his noise-cancelling device. He listens to every word and tries to let himself be carried by the story.
Julaybib first speaks of a chicken and a falcon that became friends a long time ago. The children that are gathered around the fire listen with great attention.
The story is simple enough. It is a clever way to pass on knowledge and illustrate abstrait values through simple scenarios.
The next one is about a girl who used to work in King Deshret’s court. She got caught trying to steal one of the king's jewels and was in turn transformed into a pig.
In between two stories, while Julaybib soothes his throat with sips of a cup of tea, Al Haitham goes to sit closer to him.
“Wouldn’t it be more convenient for you to write down your stories, instead of reciting them from memory? I find it a shame that they often end up riddled with lies.”
Julaybib grimaces behind his beard but doesn’t chase him away. He shakes his head, he looks like he already knows Al Haitham will not understand him.
“If we wrote them down, then they would be too rigid. Our stories are meant to change, with the passing of time. Like grains of sands, they shall take many forms, shaped relentlessly by the wind. It is not their purpose to always remain the same.”
He continues.
“You see lies as simply that, the opposite of what is real. To me lies are the biggest indicators of the truth. You get to wonder, why did this fact change, why was this important to add? With lies you get to see how our predecessors used to think.”
He’s not shaken by the doubtful rise of Al Haitham’s eyebrow. Instead he pats his back with more strength than would have been necessary. “Now sit back son, get something to drink, and listen to the folktales of the desert dwellers.” His smile reveals a set of sharpened teeth.
The audience asks for more stories. Julaybib continues, he will as long as people are there to listen to him, even as the night bleeds into morning.
He tells a tale of love this time, a tragic one.
After some time Candace comes to sit next to them. She’s not entirely relaxed. Her back is straight and her ears open. Her spear and her shield never too far from her hands, ready to intervene when need be.
“Are those storytelling sessions a regular occurrence?” Al Haitham inquires.
“People have to find how to entertain themselves, one way or another.”
“Do you tell stories as well, Candace?”
She chuckles. “I could tell you about my youth but it wouldn’t be very interesting. Julaybib is the most talented out of us. He often travels to other nations to broadcast his stories and bring back new ones. I’m thankful that he still takes the time to come back to Aaru village when he can.”
Al Haitham spends the night in one of the spare rooms of the village chief’s house. Anpu is indeed a kind-hearted man.
As morning comes, he exits the room to go to the kitchen, he catches sight of a silhouette covered in a cape and with ears sewn on the hood.
It’s him in the flesh. Cyno. It's Cyno.
Seeing him here feels like waiting for the sun all day and then getting blinded when it finally appears through the thickness of the clouds.
“I came to check things in the village after a mission nearby. I heard from Candace that you were here,” Cyno smiles and approaches Al Haitham. “It’s good to see you’ve been well.”
The realisation that Cyno enjoys his company enough to seek it himself makes Al Haitham feel unsteady. His breath comes short. He is sure of it now, there’s something not right with him.
“Are you almost finished with your paper?”
“Almost.” He clears his throat, becoming strangely self conscious. Cyno makes him feel so seen. “I’m done with the draft, I mainly need to word it out now. How about your performance, is it quite ready?”
“Not entirely, but we’re making good time. I could show you some of it if you’d want.”
And who is Al Haitham to say no.
The lower part of Aaru Village is not very frequented, Cyno settles for an empty space next to a water source.
He first assumes a battle stance, his polearm in hand. And then he starts.
Al Haitham watches him as he moves, he swings his polearm back and forth while stepping rhythmically.
Cyno is brilliant, Cyno is kind-hearted, Cyno is strong, Cyno is unswerving. But among this list, there’s a new qualifier that appears.
He’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.
He spins, his hands brandishing his staff high in the air, reaching towards the sun. The sand twirling around him is probably only a product of his environment and not a conscious decision yet it adds wonderfully to the performance.
He comes to a stop all too soon, planting his polearm next to himself.
“So, a mora for your thoughts? You look… tranced,” Cyno pushes back strands of hair with his hand.
Al Haitham swallows.
“I think I can see the appeal of art a little better now.”
“Never tell a joke again, it doesn’t suit you,” Cyno scoffs with a roll of his eye. “Anyway, how was your little trip, are you returning to Sumeru City now?”
“I am. I’m satisfied to say my travels have been most instructive.”
Cyno has a small smile. “That’s good to hear. If you can love this place a little, witness how rich it really is, then it’s enough for me.”
He is beautiful, and he is so close, that Al Haitham kisses him.
He starts with a press of lips that quickly evolves into more. How has he lived so long without knowing the feeling of Cyno’s lips against his?
He bites his lower lip because he can, because Cyno doesn’t push him away, because he kisses him back with the same amount of fervour.
It’s not enough, Al Haitham wants so much more. “Cyno.”
Cyno covers Al Haitham’s mouth with one of his hands. He fails to hide his own flustered face.
“Let’s go home, Al Haitham, before it gets too dark. I’ll escort you.” There’s no sand anymore, it’s just Cyno everywhere. Cyno, Cyno, Cyno.
As they walk back, Al Haitham fails to stabilise his footing and nearly falls. Fortunately, Cyno catches him on time.
“Careful.” he squeezes Al Haitham’s hand with his own, to keep him steady, of course. Their fingers entwine together.
Al Haitham is tempted to trip more often.
//
The date of the Sabzeruz festival is getting nearer. Zubayr theatre has as good as become Cyno’s secondary abode. Al Haitham visits, at times, to check on the logistics as Lord Kusanali has asked of him, and often catches sight of the general instructing his army of dancing matra.
Everyone is going out and about, making sure everything is completed on time. Even Kaveh has been making himself useful, babbling all day about coordinating costumes with the scenery.
After being done with his paper on the arts, Al Haitham has found himself with much more freetime. He has read and reread and dedicated to mind each one of his parents’ letters. He hides them in between the pages of his books, little keepsakes he’s not sure what to make of.
There is one that stays in his mind. It reads: Even as I know you won’t be here, I find myself looking for you. I see a long and dark braid swaying in the crowd. It is not you. Have others always done their hair the same way you do? The other day I passed by a florist selling padisarahs. I know how much you hold them dear. Unfortunately, they’ve been sitting on my table so long, waiting to be gifted to you, that they have withered and lost their beauty. Will you come back soon, tell me? Your research is important, but your presence is so dear to me, being deprived of it brings me much suffering. I’ll be waiting for you, at home with blooms of padisarahs in my hands.
He’s read his father’s essays before. This piece doesn’t match his cold and analytical nature nor the scathing way he annotated his books.
Al Haitham is not a person who gets attached easily. Even now he's less than excited by the arts.
He has been assisting Sheikh Zubayr and his troops in organising the festival and has more than once talked with Nilou and other overly passionate dancers, yet he doesn’t find himself in any way overly engrossed in the ordeal.
Cyno is the opposite, he loves and loves without relent. His friends, his duties, his heritage. Even the Akademiya, despite everything. People fail to see it, even if it’s in plain sight.
A little before evening, Al Haitham arrives at Gandharva ville. The smell of a simmering harira already invades his nostrils. The curtain of the hut opens not long after Kaveh calls out.
Al Haitham catches the sight of tall ears and has to remind himself that they belong to Tighnari, and not a certain general’s headdress.
“Don’t mind him, he’s been acting weird. All spacy and distracted, even more than usual if that’s even possible,” Kaveh says instead of a greeting, while gesturing in the approximate direction of Al Haitham.
“Well, come in,” Tighnari leads them inside. “Cyno won’t be here, he has a rehearsal tonight apparently. And he refuses to let me watch him dance because, he says, the performance is ‘strictly confidential’ and ‘I shall see it at the same time as everyone else, no favouritism.’” He rolls his eyes petulantly.
“Oh too bad, I wanted to consult him about the set.”
Over dinner, Tighnari and Kaveh quickly get absorbed in a heated conversation about mushrooms; or rather Tighnari talks whilst Kaveh who has already drunk too much stares into the blank of his eyes.
On the other side of the room, the usual green-haired girl is settled in front of a table, a pen in hand. Al Haitham remembers her as Cyno’s protegée.
“You’re writing.” He approaches her. The girl startles, not expecting to be addressed by him. Al Haitham suspects she doesn’t like him that much.
“Ah…I’m writing letters…um, fictional ones? Now that I’m healed I’ve been able to write more, so Master told me to pick a subject that I enjoyed in order to train. I’ve always loved to read letters, I used to read the ones Master exchanges with the General Maha—Cyno all the time. Oh! With his permission o-of course… I wouldn’t snoop around Master’s things…”
Al Haitham is no stranger to making people feel uncomfortable but this might be the first time he actually feels bad about it.
“Do you write too? The Gen—Cyno says you’re very talented...”
How interesting. Writing. Something not of the academic sort for once. He’s been studying the arts after all, it would be hypocritical of him to not dabble in it at all.
“I compose academic papers at times. Nothing as interesting as what you’re doing.”
It might constitute a diverting enough venture.
Cyno fights and thinks and dances. Al Haitham doesn’t have that many talents. He feels like he’s losing to Cyno. A funny notion.
He picks up a pencil and settles next to Collei. The scratching of her words against the paper is a continuous yet peaceful background noise.
//
The bustle of the street is a muffled distraction, trying to reach his ears through his head gear. Many people have come to attend this year’s celebration of the Sabzeruz Festival.
Lesser Lord Kusanali expressly told him to come to the spectacle, but truly she didn’t have to. It helps that he has a special interest for one of their main dancers.
Different kinds of arts are linked, just like vines getting entangled together. The back dancers enter first, a flurry of red and gold. The musicians start stroking their ʿūd, promptly followed by the darbukas.
A nation to be proud of its culture, indeed.
But pride isn’t really what bubbles in Al Haitham's chest as he watches the performance. It’s rather the satisfaction of being finally done. This has been way more work than Al Haitham usually allows himself to do but he is glad everything is going without a problem. Or else, that would mean even more work for him.
Cyno enters the stage.
He has donned a red shendyt adorned with gold, as well as a helmet shaped like a falcon’s head. His chest is bare except for a golden broad collar. His eyes are painted with kohl.
What an alluring King Deshret he makes.
He has his polearm with him. He twirls the weapon in his hand then starts to dance, accompanied by the music. There is elegance and determination in the way he moves.
“Everyone is falling in love with Cyno today, it seems,” Tighnari remarks, looking at the awe apparent on the audience’s faces. They’re all so dumb-strucked, it’s ridiculous.
“I’m not surprised. Cyno is pretty handsome, so they were bound to notice it at some point.” Kaveh sounds strangely pleased as he says this. He derives a misplaced sense of self-satisfaction from Cyno’s newfound popularity. “If only he were more sociable I’m sure he could attract a lot of people. I’ve always been one to think his bachelor status a pure travesty. I should try to set him up with someone, while everyone is being swayed by his beauty.”
Well, Al Haitham doesn’t entirely disagree with Kaveh this once. It’s hard to not be staring at the fierce figure Cyno cuts.
He pushes through the crowd to get closer to the stage.
Cyno swings his polearm around himself. He balances on one foot and rotates.
All eyes are on him. Perhaps Tighnari was right. This afternoon, all of them are becoming a little bit in love with him.
Nilou joins him on the stage not long after, wearing a long dress of white and greens. She and Cyno dance around each other in a harmonious circle; she makes a resplendent Nabu Malikata. Though Al Haitham’s attention remains on her counterpart.
They play out the story of king Deshret and the Goddess of Flowers. It starts with what seems to be a gracious courting, dancing in proximity of the other while slowly closing the distance, careful touches of hands.
The back dancers perform just as skillfully. It’s a mix of dance and percussion. They hit the tip of their staff on the stage and create a rhythm that accompanies the music.
They twirl around each other, red and green. The desert and the rainforest.
The music goes from festive to tense. King Deshret abandons reason to follow his great ambitions.
Nilou reappears with her own polearm in her hand. Her moves become similar to Cyno’s and result in something that is between a dance and a spar. Nabu Malikata yields eventually, and lets her sceptre fall in order to allow Deshret to win.
One last mournful stroke of the ‘ūd and the performance ends with the passing of the Lord of Flowers. The back dancers clad in red and gold surround her, holding padisarahs in their hands, and King Deshret falls to his knees next to her lifeless body.
It’s not a happy story, yet the audience erupts into roars of applauds as Nilou and Cyno stand back up to thank them for their attention
Al Haitham claps along. It was a well-executed spectacle.
He doesn’t expect for Cyno to exit the stage and immediately join him.
Something that has been budding in his chest is now coming into a full bloom.
“You came,” Cyno says. His skin is glistening and some of his hair is escaping his King Deshret headdress.
Al Haitham reaches a hand to place the strand back into the helmet. Cyno lets him.
“You should avoid Kaveh at all costs. Or else he’ll be trying to set you up with the first living thing he can lay his eyes on.”
Cyno chuckles. “I don’t imagine you’ll be kind enough to help me hide?”
The tumult calms down and settles into an excited murmur. It is then that Lesser Lord Kusanali appears on the stage.
Their Archon makes an announcement. An art darshan is in the works and art classes will be implemented as electives in every program. “These electives will be obligatory for each darshan. Students will be able to choose them from a list that we’ll communicate in due time.” Her sari wraps her almost protectively; green and pale yellow, not quite gold because it wouldn’t suit her character. It’s her first public appearance, her first time addressing them as their archon. ‘Legitimacy,’ Cyno said. It’s important for her to establish herself as a figure of authority. They don’t want another sage fiasco.
The people who were cheering a minute ago turn hesitant.
Change doesn’t happen in one day, it is simply the truth. And one’s opinion is often as inflexible as a tree trunk.
Kusanali keeps talking. She’s not imposing, their archon. She’s not very tall and she hasn’t seen much of the world yet. But she is brave and she is wise, and she will not bow down when it comes to the good of her people.
Her henna-painted hands tighten into fists.
“We’re putting down roots. We shall see how they come to grow. I’ll be counting on everyone’s support.”
//
The news of an art darshan travels across Sumeru rather fast. Some indignantly declare that it is going too far. Others say that it’s not doing nearly enough. Al Haitham finds himself not caring. They’ll figure things out, eventually. It’s hardly his role to worry about it.
His paper was successfully published on the day of the Sabzeruz Festival, and his paid leave has been approved.
He’s been picking up the quill more often. In the journal he keeps, he has started to write. Insignificant things that don’t mean much. Nothing of value.
He has tried his hand at a novel of the epistolary kind, just like Cyno’s kid, but eventually realised it simply wasn’t for him.
Short stories should be a better place to start. He writes and crosses out the beginning of a plot line, not feeling at all satisfied.
He tries again. A diary entry this time. Not entirely fictional but nothing academic either. He writes a little of everything. Things he has seen, bits of his daily life. Half a page ends up being dedicated to complaints about Çai, the insufferable roommate of the main character. This part is strangely easy to write.
For hours, he continues.
Al Haitham gets interrupted by a knock on his window, when the sky starts to get painted by hues of orange.
“Cyno,” he watches him climb the windowsill. “Please use the door next time. Is there something you need?”
Cyno observes him for a moment before he shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort, I simply wished to see you. I read your paper.”
Cyno is beautiful.
Al Haitham hums. “I’ve been writing something else as well. Would you give it a read?”
Showing his work to someone has never felt so embarrassing. He feels as if he has bared himself in front of the eyes of the general.
“So?”
Cyno has been staring at the pages for far too long. “Did you really write all of this,” he asks.
“It’s not great, I’m aware.”
“No, no, I think it’s good. I love it.”
“The pacing is off.”
Cyno simply rolls his eyes at Al Haitham.
“I admit I wouldn’t have expected some of those words to come from you. ‘My light,’ ‘beloved,’ ‘my soul.’ I didn’t know the scribe had a knack for romance.” He leaves through the journal, probably trying to find back the pages where the words were written.
“I guess that with the right source of inspiration, even someone like me can become full of affection, Cyno.”