Chapter Text
Al-Haitham was a Haravatat scholar, it was in his job to decipher the ancient languages lost to time, burying his head into the thick tomes to read the small text lines; while his mind comes up with thousands and thousands of possible meanings to find the one that best suit his line of thought and construe it accordingly. Or maybe he would look for an appropriate book to sink his eyes into, sharp gaze scanning ink upon paper, converting the letters strung to words then into a sentence, into a paragraph and finally a page worth of meaning and complexity. Leisurely, in his mind, Al-Haitham would take them apart, slipping any interesting information to the back of his head to reference later when he needs it, or just simply because he found it intriguing enough to occupy space in his hippocampus. This is his job, and though some may call it monotonous or repetitive, Al-Haitham finds comfort in the routine that he had set up himself, and that’s enough for him.
Studying languages was indeed his expertise, and by far no one can compare to the level of comprehension and speed of interpretation that he’s most known for. And in recent days following the overthrowing of the corrupt Sages, Al-Haitham has been set to be an impromptu Grand Sage promoted by lord Kusanali herself; the days of interpreting runes and lost prose are now getting increasingly overridden with approving Darshan applications for funding, which he finds little to no interest in trying to interpret whatsoever. Al-Haitham finds himself wondering why they couldn’t have look for someone else who is more fit for the job, but in the end, it was his own expertise that contributed to his ‘downfall’ and occasionally, the scribe would curse at himself for his unintentional decisions that ultimately led him down this path.
Although he liked monotony, that was only limited to when he could do things he wanted, for example reading a good book in the house of Daena. But this kind of uniformity had started its wear and tear on the scribe’s mind, each day he loathed to get out of bed just to reject the expected dull applications that are sent his way. The hands that were used to writing paragraphs and reports on runic languages now turned into a machine that pumps out ticks and crosses relentlessly without fail. The scribe soon finds himself more drained and tired compared to his previous title, at this point he would be more than happy to shove this new position to any available hands; just so that he can return to unraveling the vernaculars of the desert people.
It was a pipe dream, Al-Haitham quickly quipped in his mind. There was little to no chance that lord Kusanali would be happily willing to let him retire from his post, he knows that it’s hard to find a suitable grand sage after the previous one had been corrupt and nearly destroyed Sumeru. He understands that she can only trust a few people and officials that wouldn’t immediately take advantage of the vacant position, perhaps she knew how much Al-Haitham disliked jobs with too many responsibilities, and thus deducted that he probably wouldn’t try anything at all, nothing is out of the question for her.
But he’s dying to find something to decipher, even the books he read nowadays are soured by the fact that he had to return to work, unable to continue them until late into the night. His mind, muddled with monotony of paperwork, is craving something to analyze and hypothesize about, his Haravatat instincts itching to be sated from these dull and plain words of Darshan applications. Recent days, these thoughts have increasingly invaded Al-Haitham’s mind, sensing that he would not be able to work efficiently anymore he returns home, head heavy and tired.
However, not all is lost amidst his pursuit of finding something to construe, after all he does have his roommate, Kaveh, that satisfies most of his demands for intrigue in the colorless continuance that was work. The blonde’s expressiveness is effective in the way that Al-Haitham can figure out exactly what he’s going to say and quickly retort the incoming attack at him. These expressive words and motions made Al-Haitham more than happy to decipher to see what they meant, and although they seemed aggressive and hostile to those who don’t know him or Kaveh well, the scribe sees past the front, having learnt to read in between the lines from the countless texts he had interpreted in the past years of studying under Haravatat. He can tell it, sees it even, in the way Kaveh moves his hands in a stuttered motion, he smiles at the gesture and finds the blonde flustered by his quips, or maybe his brows furrow and create a crease in his otherwise flawless face, Al-Haitham doesn’t even need to dwell on it for long, his roommate’s most likely stuck on a particular project and is projecting his anger onto him through a form of a glare that, he knows, carries no real heat. Al-Haitham could compare looking at Kaveh and his behavior as interesting as looking at bygone diction, if not even more.
The two of them never needed any words anyway, at least the words that mattered most to the two of them. The art of dancing around each other was in their profession, and as much as Al-Haitham hates doing unnecessary things to reach the same outcome, he likes humoring Kaveh and his comedic attempts at evading the scribe’s probing. “So how exactly did we learn to become so aware of each other?” Al-Haitham often asks himself, to the point where even their breathing transcribes into a text full of substance and insinuation hidden behind each inhale and exhale? As much as he wants to know, his recollections are hazy and fogged over from infrequent musings.
So, now in the comfort of their shared home, he starts to recall the memories one by one, as they flow steadily into his mind.