Work Text:
On a morning much like every other, the Dendro Archon sits across from his desk and asks Alhaitham to bring his roommate to meet her. She says it almost absently while licking some halvamad off her fingertips, and smiles at him when he looks up from his paperwork in confusion.
Kaveh hasn’t been doing very well lately. Alhaitham does not question whether or not Nahida already knows this. Instead, he reaches for one of his stamps, and marks the application on his desk as denied, and moves it aside before he bothers to speak.
“And what should I tell him, when I bring him here?”
“Hmm…tell him I’ve got something that’s perhaps a little bold. Something time-consuming, too…I hope the clients waiting to talk to him won’t mind.”
Alhaitham does not ask any further questions. He knows without her saying that this, too, is part of her plan. And so, he marks the next application rejected, and speaks without much force or emotion to it.
“I’ll bring him tomorrow.”
🏛🏛🏛
Kaveh stares up at the long marble pillars of the Sanctuary of Surasthana, along the gilded arches that have grown cracks and moss into those cracks, at the glowing cage that sits unused, everywhere but down at the Dendro Archon, who stares merrily up at him and waiting.
The question she’d asked him rattles around in his chest, beating painfully in that hollow space that’s never been filled for more than an instant, and Kaveh thinks that if he looks at her for too long, she’ll see it. The great artist, the master architect, the Light of Kshahrewar–is truly nothing but hollow inside.
How absurd. How vain. Of course, she must already know. Which begs the question–
“Are you sure you want me to do this?” Kaveh gestures up at the space, keeping his eyes upward, keeping them away from the ancient innocence of the God of Wisdom. Keeping them away from where Alhaitham stands, back against the door, pretending to read, too. Away from people who can see the truth.
“This edifice…it’s neglected, but it could be restored, instead of renovated, if you wanted to. The foundation was solid enough it could still be saved, after five hundred years–”
“Kaveh,” She calls out to him gently, and he feels a small hand gently tap against his, until he lets her take it, her glowing palm wrapped softly around two of his fingers. She is warm in a way he can’t remember having felt before. She already knows everything. Kaveh thinks he might cry, looking at her unmarred hand wrapped around his scarred and calloused fingers.
“I don’t want to restore the cage they made for me. No matter what it was before, that’s all I can see now…instead.” Lesser Lord Kusanali smiles up at him, and it looks like the sun shining over the Great Tree. “Kaveh, I want you to make me a home.”
Kaveh swallows, and does not cry, and does not glance back at the man waiting for them to finish.
“Yes,” He says, slowly. “I think…it would be my honor.”
🏛🏛🏛
This is a project with no hard deadline, nor no true upper limit to its budget, a project that all other clients were expected to defer to. It is not a secret who Kaveh is now working for. It is not a secret what he is tasked with doing. It is not a secret for whom he works.
Alhaitham wishes it was. But it could not have been so–Kaveh will not be available for other work for a very long time, and so publicity staves off his creditors, silences his fans and would-be clients alike.
But the rumor spreads through Sumeru like a ripple–the Light of Kshahrewar, commissioned by the Dendro Archon herself–and the nation turns to the city and waits, expectantly, the audience for a grand performance.
Very few people know what lies behind it.
Very few people see the scattered, torn and stained designs, the ripped up sketches, the piles and piles and piles of books researching materials and styles and plants. In fact, only one person is privy to it, the ruins collecting on the floors and walls and every flat surface in their home.
Only Alhaitham can see the open wound in Kaveh, where Nahida ripped out stitches long gone gangrenous, and oh, he knows this is part of the process but he cannot stand to see what this makes of Kaveh again. And so, he must do what only he can. Right now, that is to peel the pencil out of Kaveh’s hands and peel the man off the desk he’s slumped on and ignore it when Kaveh fights against him, cursing and smacking weakened fists against Alhaitham’s chest, struggling to escape.
“It is enough today,” he tells Kaveh, and means it, but Kaveh does not relent.
“It’s not enough, it’s not done, it has to be perfect, it has to be–”
“What did she ask you to make, again, Kaveh?” It is a question that always works. It is the only thing that soothes the desperation in Kaveh’s eyes, the fear and wounded anger in his voice. Alhaitham wishes it wasn’t all he had to convince Kaveh with. Alhaitham wishes Kaveh could hear anything else he was told.
“...A home.”
“And is a home made by perfection?”
“No, but–” Alhaitham presses his hand over Kaveh’s mouth, and shakes his head.
“She is not asking you to build another palace. She has waited five hundred years. She can survive waiting a little longer so you can rest.”
“...I just–” Kaveh starts, and stops, and starts again, in a painful, thready whisper. “I want it to be my best, for her.”
Alhaitham sighs.
“She knows it will be.”
🏛🏛🏛
Here is the truth that nobody who doesn’t make art understands; Art is made out of blood.
Oh, it’s not literal, usually, but to make truly beautiful art, one cannot do it from a sterile, safe distance. No, to make art, the artist bleeds into it, leaving behind an irrevocable piece of themselves, never to be regained, nor ever to be denied, as much their blood and flesh as a living child would be. The true masters could do this almost unceasingly, expertly metering out themselves to never run out of more of that necessary lifeblood, a bottomless wellspring from which life and beauty flowed.
Kaveh has never really mastered the trick of metering out his bleeding. And so, in everything he built, he pours out blood by the bucketful, dyeing his creations in the whole of him, each time wondering if this time the bleeding wouldn’t be worth it.
Wondering if this time he’d be certain it was.
Every time, they’d sung his praises afterwards, called him a master, called him their Light, heaped exultation at his feet as though he’d made miracles, but Kaveh knows he hasn’t. Art is not miraculous–it is the domain of mortals, and thus can be made by any with the vision and the will. Kaveh knows this best of anyone–his brilliance is not divinity in his hands, nor is his genius a crown of light. Anyone could learn to do this, he knows, and so waits for the world to realize he is not exceptional.
He does not have time to wait.
All of Sumeru exults in the beauty of the Palace, the mausoleum to Kaveh’s broken heart and bleeding ideals, and now with the Sanctuary in his hands, Sumeru holds their breath.
Will it outshine the Palace? What will Kaveh make for the gods themselves? What will shine, nestled in the crown of the great tree, offered up in supplication to the stars themselves?
It will be magnificent, they murmur. Surely this time he shall reach new heights.
Kaveh doesn’t want to reach new heights. He looks down at the blueprints in his hands and knows which one is right, but–
But…
Well.
He has a set of designs for Lesser Lord Kusanali to choose from, and his favorite is not in them, because he cannot bear it if Nahida passes it over. He also cannot bear it if she chooses it. Alhaitham has already had to convince him not to flee and reschedule this meeting, itself two weeks later than he’d already meant it to be, and Kaveh’s bravery is frayed and cracked and left out somewhere in the jungle, probably sopping wet and molded by now, and–
“Kaveh!” The Dendro Archon calls for him, excited to see him, excited for company, and Alhaitham puts a hand on Kaveh’s back, right between his shoulders, to keep him from bolting. He swallows, and nods, and comes to lay out the designs on the table.
Only to be startled when Alhaitham pulls one out from under his cloak, and lays it over top the sprawled out designs. There it sits, Kaveh’s favorite, the one his heart and blood shines out of, beating steadily on the paper.
“You missed that one when you rushed out,” Alhaitham explains nonchalantly when Kaveh glares at him, and before he can snatch it up, Nahida has pulled it towards her to stare at.
The world goes still. The world goes silent. What Nahida is holding is not an exultation. Not a prayer. Not a dream swaddled in glory.
“I–I have others, you don’t have to–”
Lesser Lord Kusanali smiles up at him. Kaveh forgets his ability to protest.
“I like this one.”
And who is he, or anyone else, to argue with that?
🏛🏛🏛
The materials are sourced from Sumeru itself, a demand by the designer in charge. The construction to be done in relative secrecy–the Sanctuary sits high enough up that it cannot be hidden, but also can easily be cut off from those who would peek up at what is wrought there. Only a select few are allowed to walk up the paths to see the progress–the construction team, brought in from the desert for their secrecy and diligence. The Forest Ranger, consulted once more on plants, allowed to bring his young student with him. The Traveler, of course, wanders in and out freely–truly, no one could possibly stop the First Sage of Buer from climbing up anything vertical anyway. The Vanhumana student who still, to this day, signs his papers Hat Guy, despite his new name being now rather well-known in Sumeru.
(One day, quite strangely, a young bard in blue and greens had strolled down the road into the city from the Sanctuary, startling the guards who never saw him walk up to the Sanctuary, and laughed when questioned. Nahida had merely said she’d gotten a visit from a dear old friend, and she was glad to see he was still in high spirits.)
Of course, the designer himself is always allowed to come up into the Sanctuary, and some days he goes at first light and stays until the stars are high in the sky, fretting over every detail and placement, getting a little bit underfoot during construction, checking and rechecking and checking again that everything is as he sees it.
And every time, the Scribe brings him up in the morning. Every time, the Scribe goes up and fetches Kaveh in the evening. At the beginning, it is a fight, and more than once the matra witness Kaveh carried down out of the Academiya slung over the Scribe’s shoulder like a particularly pretty sack of potatoes, squalling and yelling ineffectually the entire way. More than once, too, they see him carried down dead asleep, draped over Alhaitham’s shoulders, looking terribly drawn and frail when he is asleep, and his shining presence cannot blind them.
The Sanctuary’s resurrection takes the length of a year. And as those seasons turn, the guardian matra see that Kaveh stops fighting when he is fetched. More often now, he comes down on his own feet, even if he’s arguing with the Scribe the whole way down. More often, his steps grow steadier, less tired.
One day, they walk down arguing, but their hands linked together, and the Dendro Archon strolls along behind them, a quiet smile on her face. When the Matra question her in their confusion, she laughs.
“It’s time for dinner, that’s all.”
It was the first night that Lambad’s tavern had the honor of hosting Lesser Lord Kusanali. It wouldn’t be the last.
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“Alhaitham, what is home to you?” Kaveh asks one night, when he cannot fall asleep and so sits in the living room and watches moonlight track along the floor, and imagines he can see figures in the shapes through the glass.
Alhaitham stirs, tiredly, from the lump of blankets he is ensconced in, opposite Kaveh on the couch, and grunts. He remains silent for long enough, Kaveh wonders if he has fallen back asleep, but finally, Alhaitham sighs, and cracks an eye open.
“Home has never been a place for me, Kaveh, I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
“Tell me what you’d say it is, anyway.” Alhaitham huffs again, and looks at Kaveh, eyes gleaming under the moonlight, the flush on his ears almost hidden in the darkness.
“...It’s you, of course.” His voice softens. “It has always been you.”
Kaveh doesn’t say anything. But there’s an answer on his lips anyway, and he lets Alhaitham taste it, all the same.
🏛🏛🏛
The place he dreams of is nowhere he’s ever been, but he knows it all the same. The stump he sits on isn’t a seat meant for him, nor is the one Alhaitham sits in meant for him, either, but they are here in this dream by invitation, and who were they to refuse.
“I think it’s tomorrow,” Nahida says, and Kaveh stares up at the clouds that never move.
“It’s tomorrow.” He confirms, without needing to check, because he knows it in his bones, when his work is finally done. Alhaitham watches him, and then Nahida, with a curious tilt to his head.
“If you like,” Nahida says innocently, though the mischief in her eyes is anything but, something both men know well, by now. “I think it might be nice to have a wedding as my housewarming gift.”
They don’t answer for a while, and then Kaveh laughs, clear and bright in a way that makes the eternal Paradise glow brighter, and for a moment, breathe.
“Well, why not?” He laughs, and grins across the meadow at the man across from him.
“It would be our honor,” Alhaitham answers, and holds a hand out for Kaveh to take, to the sounds of Nahida’s delighted laughter.
🏛🏛🏛
The reopening of the Sanctuary of Surasthana is a private affair, until it’s not. The Dendro Archon opens it only to her closest friends the first night, and then to the public the day after, but even with those precautions, all of Sumeru has heard of what happened there that night before dawn even breaks.
The Sanctuary is not rebuilt as a grand, imposing temple, this time, but it is no less a marvel now. The wood of the Great Tree holds the marble delicately, seeming to grow into it, living branches billowing out into stone blossoms, gold and emerald filigree winding into breathing wood and rustling leaves. The exterior shines like new, but was not drastically altered, just refreshed, allowing it to seem as though it was simply pruned after years of untamed neglect.
Inside, however, the public walks into a verdant paradise, plants rising up from every free space, shading the gleaming floors from the light. Light that now streamed in from the ceiling, the uppermost portions of the roof replaced with delicate glass, so the sky shone down into the Archon’s home from the leaves. There, at the center, a small cottage stands where a cage once did, delicate wooden arches and bright emerald shingles shining in the dappled light. It is no grand thing, but the flowers that bloom along the eaves, in the windowsills, across the mossy rooftop make it more beautiful than any grand temple or glittering palace.
There is an archway of branches, just before the step down into the meadow that houses the Dendro archones home, and it blooms brightly with padisarah and sumeru roses, the same flowers that rest in a bouquet kept on a table within that cottage. None of the public is allowed to see it but for a peak in the windows, but they know what it’s for nonetheless.
Still drowsy in his triumph, the Light of Kshahrewar glows, even in his exhaustion, bright as the shining ring on his finger, bright as the rose still tied in his hair, and the whole of Sumeru knows the answer to a question they’d never thought to ask.
So be it, they think. Let this be Kaveh’s great victory–not a shining palace, nor a beautiful bridge, nor a shimmering lighthouse.
Let it be this home, made with the hands that have shaped and molded Sumeru, and be at peace.
🌱🏛🌳
“Hey, Kaveh…what is it that makes a home?”
He never hesitates to answer this, anymore. Once, he’d used a lot more words to answer this question, but now he doesn’t need so many to express it.
Home is the flower in his hair. Home is the ring on his finger. Home is the keys tangled together in a bowl on the entryway, and the laughter that breaks the warm silences.
“It’s love.”