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The thing about an injury is that the idea of it aligns itself more with Kaveh’s court rather than Al-Haitham’s.
Kaveh’s dual life as a freelance architect and an educator (from being a professor at the Akademiya to the occasional check-in on the education center at Port Ormos) has him running around Sumeru frequently. Really, you could just draw a spiral on the map of Sumeru and somehow it’d hit all the points of interest that Kaveh’s schedule commonly takes him to.
Al-Haitham, on the other hand, has no need for anything more than a few strokes of the hypothetical pen. The lines would parallel rather nicely to represent his daily commute, with small turns here and there because as Scribe there are still meetings within the Akademiya to attend. And then after work if it’s not straight home or to the Bazaar for groceries or whatever that’s recently caught his attention, it’s a nice, simple line to Lambad’s for a drink or meet up and then instantly back home. There is his occasional proclivity for a rather abrupt expedition out of the City or his consistent routine of a long run on weekend mornings, but the point is that with how little Al-Haitham actually travels you would expect for injury to befall on him less.
With this large disparity in their lives, an injury really, really doesn’t fall under the list of things anyone would expect to befall Al-Haitham. He’s also as deliberate as they come, and if not then he’s also confoundingly deliberately impulsive. The point is, Al-Haitham and injury are like oil and water in Kaveh’s head.
So how does injury befall Al-Haitham, outside of his own carelessness?
You send him to the Red Sands for a joint expedition, of course.
In hindsight–there is no hindsight. Expeditions into the Sands are the bone and tissue of any scholar. What was to unfold wasn’t something either of them could have anticipated. They did the best of preparations they could–checked the routes, listened for information, consulted with Candace of Aaru Village for the climate of things. Maybe they could have decided to hire mercenaries but they’re already two strong vision holders working together. It’s also not as if they both didn’t know the Sands reasonably well, especially with how many journeys they’ve made beyond the Wall of Samiel in the past. All things considered, the expedition was shaping itself up to be a rather quick in-and-out kind of situation. Nothing would have tipped them off that it would have gone the way it did.
At least–how in sweet Celestia were they supposed to account for the cooperation between Consecrated Beast, Eremites, and Primal Constructs? Anyone with a sound brain and working body who knew that was coming their way would certainly postpone their expedition, even if the next available date was a year later.
Still, with the danger already at their doorstep, what other choice did they have but to push through? They were already in the thick of it. Either they somehow made it out or they didn’t. The choice was simple. There was no choice.
It’s just… Kaveh thought Al-Haitham untouchable. If anyone were to be injured, it would have been himself, wouldn’t it? With his own bleeding heart and what not. Kaveh’s legs would spring forward before his senses and brain could catch up, lunging himself into the thick of danger if it meant it was him and not someone else. And he would thank his instincts for it, fractured bones and all.
It would have been him, surely. Not Al-Haitham.
Never Al-Haitham.
The course of an injury is swift, sudden. One moment Al-Haitham is picking off the remaining Primal Constructs–avoiding triangular beams with swift teleports or using his chisel mirrors to redirect them–while Kaveh and Mehrak handle the Consecrated Beast, the eremites retreating after weighing that the cost of this four way brawl wouldn’t be worth it. The next moment the Scorpion burrows itself into the sands and Kaveh’s world beneath his feet shifts, turning him upside down as he loses his balance.
But Kaveh’s mind doesn’t register panic. Good, an opportunity to finally close in on the damn thing. Mehrak has been the one coordinating the swing of the claymore–even if he’s caught in a bad position like this he’s not entirely vulnerable. He feels for her, dendro resonating with Mehrak’s core to direct her to defensively arc the weapon around where he thinks the Scorpion’s tail will make its next move.
The claymore arcs to meet nothing.
Curses. If the beast isn’t reappearing near him, then there is only one other place it would resurface.
“Al-Haitham, behind you!”
A great shadow rises between them, erasing the image of Al-Haitham’s vulnerable back from sight. With nothing but faith, Kaveh grabs ahold of his claymore and directs Mehrak forward to counter the arc of the beast’s stinger. Then Kaveh lunges, stumbling with his balance unstable with the loose sand below his feet, but through sheer will he scrambles upright and pushes past the fatigue clawing at his limbs as he swings the claymore at the juncture between the Scorpion’s raised stinger and the rest of its body to pierce soft, unarmoured flesh.
It is enough to stagger the beast. But it is not enough to stop it.
The deadly flick of its tail continues in its trajectory, knocking Mehrak away onto the ground.
In the moment before impact, Kaveh’s mind summons several schemas at once.
The stinger of a Consecrated Scorpion is a death sentence, Tighnari lectures, gesturing to the pile of field notes from his rangers on a recent sighting of such a monstrosity where it shouldn’t have been. Yes, that’s right. Tighnari had been extremely busy as of late–caught up in a neverending crunch ever since Sumeru had its revolution. Kaveh was going to drag Al-Haitham with him to see Tighnari to pull him out of his endless piles of work. He was going to. He is going to. He is– The mortality rate is a hundred percent. Don’t get hit.
Yes. My Electro tends to sear the same way Pyro does. A conversation held with Cyno just last friday, actually, after the rest got up to make their orders. After this expedition, they were going to see Cyno and Tighnari soon for another game night. And… Al-Haitham had actually shown some measure of enthusiasm for this, for once, even if it was disguised as a casual comment about bringing some book on elementalism for Cyno. It was so rare to see something like that on Al-Haitham’s face these days, so when Kaveh caught it he couldn’t stop bringing it up. And then Al-Haitham had looked to him with a flat stare and a show of turning his noise-canceling headphones up, but even that hardly dampened Kaveh’s mood. Sometimes Kaveh thinks about drawing that expression, to keep it around as a reminder that it does exist because now Kaveh would never see it again. One more time, please, Al-Haitham. One more– …Electrifying. I didn’t know the Kshahrewar were thinking about using Electro like that. That was a pun, by the way. Did you get it? You know, because I’m an Electro vision holder and…
They’re mushy because you left them on the counter yesterday. Oh? Why didn’t I bring them in? Why should I encourage you to make the same mistake? Al-Haitham, the infuriating night before they had ventured out into the Red Sands. They had shelved this argument for after they were done with this expedition. On the caravan to Caravan Ribat Kaveh already had thought up a laundry list of points ready to talk Al-Haitham into at least admitting that he should have brought them in, regardless of Kaveh’s repeated carelessness. Yes, it was his fault. Yes, he should have known better. But those vegetables were for their breakfast that morning–couldn’t he at least be considerate about that and wait to teach Kaveh a lesson when it didn’t concern them both? Couldn’t he at least be considerate and not get himself impaled by a fucking–
Kaveh, and it is just the faint concept of it, a feeling (because even with the best memory his Darshan has ever seen this is the one thing Kaveh could never memorise), but Kaveh’s stomach rots at the not-sound of it in his ears, decaying with the rest of the vegetables and the arguments he will never touch again. Hands reach out from the bloodied sands and grab Kaveh’s ankles. Fingers pull and pull and pull, and no matter how much Kaveh twists their hold is unyielding. Kaveh is sinking. Kaveh is sinking. Kaveh is sinking, and he will never see the light of day ever again. The sand gets in his mouth, between his teeth, in his ears. The sand whispers. The sand haunts. Why don’t I win it, so I can let you play with it for a few days?
The stinger flashes purple in the acrid desert air.
No, Kaveh pleads. Not again.
It impales Al-Haitham.
Kaveh screams. Kaveh can’t feel the scream. Kaveh thinks it’s his screaming. Kaveh plunges the claymore deeper, twisting and twisting to shed chitin from the inside out. Dendro and electro sparks flash as he carves chitin off like a bust from marble. To hell with it if his hands burn and sear from the barrage of aggravating reactions that reach the hilt of his weapon. Kaveh shreds and tears until the useless skittering of the Scorpion ceases. Then, without bothering to catch a single breath, Kaveh runs.
Please. Just this once.
This is what Kaveh sees:
The stinger embedded in the side of Al-Haitham’s chest, an ugly gaping wound. But there is one saving grace that has stopped it from puncturing Al-Haitham’s lungs–the flickering, green glow of Mehrak’s dendro, a shimmering outline around the stinger tip. Mehrak is beeping frantically, her interface entirely cracked but still just dimly alight. Somehow, battered as she is, cracked as she is, she had drawn on her emergency reserves to put her all into the last command Kaveh had sent her for.
Counter the stinger’s arc.
Mehrak–oh, dearest Mehrak, dearest little light. The back of Kaveh’s eyes begin to burn, but not now. He has to get on with it and focus on the next step. Calculations ring at the back of his mind.
(How much power would Mehrak be draining in this state? Accounting for the damage, the projections, how much longer does Kaveh have before the situation dips straight for the worst when Mehrak powers down? How much longer before everything good is taken away from him again? What must Kaveh sacrifice this time?)
Kaveh sets to the task of carefully extricating Al-Haitham. It’s a daunting task, but the wound is mostly cauterised by electro and not piercing any internals; it is still easier than it otherwise would be. His stomach churns and gnaws at itself, adrenaline and nausea mixing to form a tight noose around his neck.
After this, there is still the work of patching Al-Haitham up before setting up camp for the night. Then, they will grab whatever rest they can before making their return to Aaru Village in the morning.
It will not be simple. The desert at night is easier with the watchful eye of a second companion, but Al-Haitham in this state can do nothing more but lay prone and recover. This is still preferable to the alternative, at least.
(At least, there is something at all that Al-Haitham can do.)
. . .
Kaveh’s hands are rough and burnt from the flood of quickening and aggravating reactions from earlier. The energies of it all had also burnt right through his own gloves. It stings to the touch, hissing at any contact. All that electro and dendro had seared through skin–he won’t be able to draw or really do anything with his hands for weeks. While this would usually incense him, for tonight at least Kaveh finds it more of a boon than a hassle.
His thoughts are manic tonight. Wild. Impossible to rein in. Only the pain of his hands keep him grounded and anchored.
It has been a few hours since everything came crumbling down. In the span of these hours, Kaveh’s gotten a small campsite going and settled both Al-Haitham and Mehrak down within a tent. Mehrak–well. Apologetically, there’s not much he can do about her for the moment. She’ll need specific parts from his workshop back at home and sturdier hands that don’t shake to repair her. But she’s the first on her priority list after the immediate present slips away, and he’ll make sure she gets the best damned upgrades he can salvage. It’s the least he can do.
Al-Haitham, on the other hand.
It’s not the worst. Al-Haitham’s still breathing, although he’s mostly been prone and drifting in and out of consciousness. Even with his hands as tattered as they are, Kaveh’s managed to bandage the wound. But he can’t do a lot about the fracturing ribs.
Each time Kaveh’s eyes inevitably wander down to the site of injury, his stomach starts to rot again. So he doesn’t look. And whenever he does, he pinches the raw of his hands–felt through even under the layers of bandages he’s wrapped around them.
“I thought you were gone,” Kaveh says. He doesn’t know if Al-Haitham can hear him. “For a moment, I…”
For a moment the worst despair Kaveh had ever felt returned to him. The despair that enveloped him when receiving the news of his late father. The despair that clung onto him when watching his mother wither away. The despair of an unemployed voice and forgotten name that decorated the empty rooms and the empty hallway after she left for Fontaine. The despair of a broken thesis and a shattered friendship. The despair that had driven his feet to Lambad’s at the end of it all as he sought for something else to feel. All of it came back to him.
Not again. As if Kaveh’s life was forever destined to a cycle of leaving claw marks in people and dreams only to have them all taken away in the next stroke. Not again.
“I’m just glad you’re still alive,” Kaveh says, subdued. The weight of his emotions would suffocate them both. Stay here, Kaveh tells himself, listening to the slow measure of Al-Haitham’s breaths. That’s all he has to do. He sprawls himself out on the ground next to Al-Haitham, looking up at the ceiling of the tent.
“Everything’s as well as it can be. I’ve done… I’ve done everything right. You’re all patched up. Luckily there’s nothing too fatal–so just rest. You used so much dendro today I’m surprised your vision still glows. Mehrak, though… she’s not very good, but it’s a salvageable mess of destruction. She’ll be fine. And as for our plan from here on out, well, I calculated the distance from here to Aaru Village. It’s doable. Even if it turns out you can’t really move, I still have enough dendro in me to construct a stretcher. Tomorrow, we’ll head back. Al-Haitham, tomorrow, we’ll go home.”
Home.
At the thought of it, Kaveh squeezes his eyes shut. Warmth gently stretches across his chest like a cat under the sunbeams.
Stay here, Kaveh. Think about home. Think about the comfort, the hope it gives you.
It’s been so long since he had a place to call home. Four walls does a house make, but it’s all in the little, smaller details of it that constitute a place you would look forward to returning to.
Like:
Footsteps in the doorway, sounds of the tap in the bathroom, the physical proof of someone else borne out of misplaced utensils and cups that he knows he didn’t bring into the front room. The soft sounds of the spin crystal, or amateur fingers on an untuned dutar. The freedom to speak a question into the air and hear another voice resonate to answer you.
Someone to nag. Someone to bicker with. Someone to discuss what to have for dinner later on.
Someone to talk to. Someone to listen.
Someone to be with.
Someone at all.
Kaveh opens his eyes then, staring at the fabric ceiling of the tent. Heart pounding in his chest, thoughts abound in his head.
Al-Haitham… Al-Haitham feels like home.
Al-Haitham is my home.
He shakily exhales.
Leave it to him to skip the front part and head straight for the ending. Yet Kaveh finds no resistance coming from within him at the thought. Not even a single doubt in his head about what this is, about whatever which lies between Al-Haitham and him is. It’s probably a sleeping charmelon that, when spotted, would be impossible to forget about every time you looked back.
The tent feels simultaneously too small and too big for this type of realization. With their history, it feels like the kind of thing to be shouted from mountaintops until the throat grows too bloody and sore. No more pranks, universe. Is this what you wanted? Are you happy? It’s the kind of revelation that would knock Kaveh back if he tried to physically speak it aloud. And yet, at the same time, it’s the kind of revelation that Al-Haitham would put down his book for, shrug, look at Kaveh in the eyes and say: Yes. That is the situation. And so?
So, he’s not happy that it took him so long to come around to it–much less enthused about the fact that it quite obviously won’t be in any of their priorities for a while. And, well. Call Kaveh presumptuous if you will for thinking about it like they’re both a unit and Al-Haitham would agree with whatever course of action they take (after extensive discussion), but suddenly, a lot of things are starting to make sense and that’s just off the top of Kaveh’s head.
Al-Haitham is his home. Kaveh has a home.
Kaveh loves–Kaveh loves.
“I think I should just retire from academia,” Kaveh murmurs, clenching his hands on instinct. His skin protests at the contact, seething with pain and needles and ache. “I can’t believe I–I can’t believe it took me this long to see it this way. If you’ve seen things this way the whole time… Can’t expect you to say something, can I? You’re so–infuriatingly enigmatic at the wrong times. Now look at what you’ve done. Look at me, ruined in the middle of the desert. Why couldn't all of this have been done somewhere else? Preferably not after such an event? Preferably not after–after–”
Kaveh chokes on his words, his mind speeding ahead.
What is he doing thinking about matters like love?
For a moment Kaveh was on the brink of returning to an empty house, and all of what that entailed. He shouldn’t–he doesn’t have time to be thinking about love. Not when he was so, so close to losing everything once again. The worst part of it is that he would have been the only one alive in between the ashes and ruins of it all. And he would–he would have to face it all again.
Another undusted room. Another funeral. Another decade of nothingness. Another lifetime of unlearning everything.
What would have become of all of these thoughts if he hadn’t–if Mehrak hadn’t–? Would he have only realised after the fact? Would he have had the additional burden of spending the rest of his life mourning over what could have been? No, moreover–what would have become of Kaveh if he had just clawed his way up from one handful of guilt only to fall right into another, this time with a heart in pieces?
“I almost lost you,” Kaveh blurts, sitting up. His hands itch, dry and raw. “Again,” Kaveh chokes out, curling his fingers. They itch to rip papers apart only to stitch them back together again. “Permanently,” he spits. “If I was a second too slow. If Mehrak didn’t have her emergency reserves. If I couldn’t finish off the beast. You would have–”
“Kaveh,” Al-Haitham croaks. Kaveh goes still, quiet. “I’m… here.”
Al-Haitham’s right hand, the one closest to Kaveh, twitches. It is an unpleasant sight. There’s bruises and cuts all over, with some patches of burns from when he had most likely tried to push the stinger away from himself on instinct. Kaveh uncurls his hands at the sight of it. He needs his hands to be in as best shape as they can be. For Al-Haitham. For them.
Al-Haitham slowly turns his head to the side. His eyes are woozy, almost unfocused, but they find some sort of anchor in Kaveh. Al-Haitham has seen better days. But he’s still looking. Still trying.
His gaze trails down to their hands, both equally marred by the events of today. His hand twitches, shifts slightly closer.
“I’m here,” Al-Haitham repeats.
. . .
Later, Kaveh will learn that in catapulting himself forward until he was behind the Scorpion, Al-Haitham had been forced to call off the barrage of chisel mirror projections he had already been in the middle of sending in an attempt to throw off the Scorpion’s aim himself. Fresh from a teleport and still in the throes of momentum, there was not enough dendro in Al-Haitham to move himself again or to precisely control his projections. Since there wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t hit Kaveh, it was better not to try at all.
Maybe, in a different world, the Kaveh of there would have snapped at Al-Haitham about his carelessness and misplaced concern out of crushing guilt, wishing himself to have been able to do so much more only for Al-Haitham to remark about how wasn’t this the kind of action Kaveh would usually condone and wasn’t it hypocritical for him to judge Al-Haitham for it?
But in this one, in this world where Kaveh would sit next to Al-Haitham at the back of the caravan with intertwined hands, Kaveh would only hear what Al-Haitham didn’t say out loud and think about it for the rest of their trip back to Sumeru City.
. . .
The hands in the sand go back where they came from. No, Kaveh decides. They will not follow him home.