Work Text:
Kaveh has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the expletives trapped behind his tongue. “With all due respect”—meaning none—“what you’re asking for simply isn’t feasible.”
“Then make it possible,” Lord Azar says cooly. “That’s what you’re being paid for.”
Kaveh could scream. He breathes through his nose. “It’s not that simple. There’s no way to make what you’re asking for structurally sound. It could be doable, if some of the glass was removed—”
“That’s non-negotiable. You’re the architect, aren’t you? Make it work.”
I would try, if I thought you’d actually stick to this request and not change your mind like you did with the last seven designs you asked of me, he thinks but doesn’t say. If Azar changes his mind and forces Kaveh to scrap all his work again, he really is going to scream. It’s like the lord is being difficult on purpose. Kaveh’s had difficult clients, of course, but this—
Hazards of accepting the commission of a noble, he supposes. Not that he had much choice in the matter. He’d known, just from looking at it, that he’d regret accepting, but even he hadn’t anticipated just how much. But the promised pay was too much to resist, not when it could clear nearly half the debt Kaveh’s drowning under, so here he is. Very much regretting his life decisions.
“As you wish,” he says instead, tone just on the edge of polite. Because unfortunately, as a struggling no-name architect, he very much can’t risk pissing off someone as influential as Azar. He’s already strapped for commissions as is.
So he swallows his frustration and bows his head, as he’s learned to do over the years.
-
Kaveh is much too busy most days to check his mail, run ragged by the multitude of tedious commissions that he has no choice but to take, as well as various other odd jobs he runs just to stay afloat. And, now, more recently, preoccupied with Azar’s increasingly demanding (outrageous) requests.
What it means, is that he hears about the ball well before he sees the invitation he’s been sent.
“A ball, you say?”
The grocer nods, efficiently packing his purchase away in his worn bag—part of it is tearing, he notes; he’ll have to fix that up sometime. “Supposedly, they’ve invited every architect of repute in the kingdom. I hear,” she says, “that the palace is looking for a new Master Architect.”
Of repute, she says, and that means there’s no telling whether Kaveh would receive an invitation. He’s been passed over because of his young age enough times to be aware how difficult the struggle of making a name for himself is. But—of the clients he’s had, his work stands for himself, for all that the commissions have not been anything particularly innovative, jobs taken to make ends meet rather than because the project excited him. So—there's a chance. Maybe…
Still—
“A new Master Architect?” he echoes. “Whatever happened to the old one?”
The grocer winces. “Ah, well. You know how the Prince is soon to assume power? Well, it seems he was rather dissatisfied with the work of the former Palace Architect.”
“Did he release him from his position?” Kaveh says, lips turning downwards. The Prince shouldn’t have that sort of authority—not yet, anyway, and not without sufficient cause. A disagreement was hardly reason to dismiss an advisor who’d served for decades. The positions of court experts are fairly stable, appointments often for life, a protection against the ruler simply getting rid of their advisors for disagreeing with them. It is the highest position one can aspire to.
(The role of Palace Architect—it would be a dream come true: steady funding, the freedom to pursue the projects he wants to do, to let his creativity flourish to its fullest. If he gets the role of Palace Architect, he’d be set for life, he’ll have made it.)
“Not… exactly,” the grocer says. She leans in closer, conspiratorially. “My niece works as a servant in the palace, and she said that apparently the Prince was sharp enough with his tongue to make the Palace Architect cry. He resigned shortly after.”
Kaveh blinks. Stares, sure he’s misheard somehow. “Really.” The previous Palace Architect gave up on his position because of a handful of words? He’s not sure if that’s an indictment against the Prince, or if it’s a sign of the Palace Architect’s fragile ego and lack of thick skin. Maybe both, if Azar is any indication.
“Mm-hm. So now they’re hosting a three-day selection event because the Prince wanted someone more ‘competent’ and only the best will do. Not in those words exactly, of course.”
Interesting. Kaveh thanks her absently and heads to the small town’s mail center, mind spinning. He checks for his mail as soon as he arrives and is greeted by a thick, heavy, envelope, smooth to the touch. Inside is the invitation, embossed in gold lettering, the sort of expensive parchment that Kaveh could never afford. Nevermind that he’s pretty sure that’s actual gold crushed up and ground into the ink.
So. An Architect Selection, and Kaveh only has three days to impress the organizers enough, or whoever is officiating this (since he doubts the prince would take the time to do so personally). He reads through the entire invitation carefully from top to bottom, then once more in case he missed anything the first time.
From the looks of things, the first day will be an one-on-one interview. The second is a technical challenge, a series of trials, and they’re also advised to bring a project, an idea, a blueprint, that they’re most proud of and which will be presented. (The Palace of Alcazarzaray has remained tucked away in his thoughts, for the most part, the knowledge that it is a dream he’ll probably never be able to realize. But for this…) The last day is when the announcement is made. On all three days, there’ll be a ball, a party for the interim. Never let it be said that the palace is lacking in money.
Kaveh won’t have much time to prepare. The deadline Azar set is coming up—almost right after the selection, actually—but he’s mostly reworked that now, it’s just a matter of putting in the finishing touches. And this is—It’s monumental, perhaps the greatest opportunity he’ll ever have. It’s almost daunting, except Kaveh has never backed down from a challenge before, and he’s determined to seize this.
Something softer than his usual burning determination to prove himself rises, light. It tastes a lot like hope.
-
The sun slips under the horizon on the evening of the first day of the Selection, and Kaveh picks up the pace on the way back to the place he’s been staying. It’s in the furthest outskirts of the town, closer to the forest than anything else, really, which is probably the only reason Kaveh is able to afford it. It’s inconvenient, for the most part, and not in the best of conditions, but it’s a roof over his head and at this point, that is all he can ask for.
The door is slightly ajar when he reaches it, and alarm flashes through him. He’d been sure he had closed it that morning, as he has every time he leaves. Did he forget, in his haste this morning, distracted by the anticipation thrumming underneath his skin?
Kaveh steps into the room, only to be greeted by the sight of absolute devastation. Shreds of paper litter the floor like fallen snow, interspersed by clumsy ink-black trails of pawprints. The occasional scrap of red breaks up the blanket of white, the brilliant hue of his favorite—and most expensive—cape, one he’d saved for months to afford.
The bottom of his stomach drops out and he practically lunges for his work desk, desperately hoping—
Kaveh sinks to his knees, and with trembling fingers, tries to fit the pieces of his blueprints together again, but it’s no use; the scraps of paper are far, far too small, and there’s too many of them. It’s not just his work for Azar; there were dozens of pages on his desk this morning, the completed work for all his various commissions that he’s pushed himself to finish in time to go to the ball. And now all of it has been torn to shreds, because he’d been so utterly careless and left the door open and some woodland creatures got in.
Weeks of work, wasted. Gone in an instant.
Nails bite into flesh, digging so deep they draw blood, even as his hands shake with tremors. Something hot and ugly prickles the back of his throat and he swallows it down.
He can’t go, and beyond the burning of his eyes and the ringing in his ears, somehow this is what his mind circles back to. Kaveh needs to replace everything, redo all his plans and blueprints and ideas, and even if it’ll be faster than when he first created them on account of having written them down once, he’ll still need to work through the night—the next few nights, even—to restore everything, if he wants to be able to get everything in on time before his looming deadline. And he must, because if it gets out that he doesn’t deliver on what he promises, Kaveh’s done for. He’s already in a precarious enough situation as is, struggling to make his name known. His name and his reputation are things he cannot afford to tarnish.
So. He doesn’t have time to go to the palace. The greatest opportunity he has to turn things around, the chance to grasp at a dream, and he won’t be able to go. He has to bite at his cheek to keep from screaming at the unfairness of the world. Hasn’t it taken enough from him? How much more must he give, bleed and sweat and struggle, before it is satisfied? How much more must he claw for every inch of progress, fight past setback after setback, before it relents?
And it’s in this moment—tears stinging at his eyes, the taste of iron on his tongue, a burning fury and helplessness swallowing him whole—that soft green flashes, light taken shape, and Kaveh realizes he’s no longer alone. There’s a child in the room with him, soft white hair and so short she barely reaches his chest. Yet there’s something ethereal about her (even ignoring the green light heralding her appearance and the way she flickered into existence, gone one moment and there the next), a wisdom in her green eyes far beyond her physical age.
“Please don’t cry,” she rushes to say, a child’s voice, high-pitched and light.
If nothing else, this is at least an excellent distraction. “Who are you?”
She bites her lip. “I guess you could say I’m your fairy godmother? At least, I think that’s what humans would call me? Or, well, I guess godsister might be more accurate, given my appearance…” the last part trails off into a mumble. “Anyway, call me Nahida! I’m here to help.”
He summons a wan smile for her, but suspects that it probably looks as terrible as he feels. “Thank you, but unless you can somehow fix this…”
To his surprise, she nods. “Give me a moment.” Nahida closes her eyes, clasping her hands together, and green light flares once more. It’s like watching a snowstorm, but in reverse, the fluttering scraps of paper whirling around them in a circle, picking up speed and reassembling, until at last it all dies down to reveal a neat stack of papers on his desk, whole and pristine once more, like they’d never been destroyed at all.
“There,” Nahida says. Kaveh reaches reverently for the papers, runs his fingers over it for seams that he can’t find. It’s entirely smooth, save for the strokes of his pen.
“Thank you,” he breathes, and it doesn’t feel like enough, to convey the magnitude of his gratitude, of this miracle.
Except Nahida looks morose, shifting a little on her feet. “...I couldn’t save your clothes. I’m so sorry,” she says. “I wish I could do more. Knowledge, I can easily restore, but I’m afraid everything else is beyond me.”
“It’s alright,” Kaveh says, mind already spinning through what’s left of his wardrobe, his savings, to see if there’s a way he can make it work. The tailor’s already shut down for the night, and even if he hasn’t, there’s no way Kaveh could afford this sort of rush job. He could go with his everyday outfit, he supposes, but the first night is the interviews. Still, it’s that or nothing. “This—giving me back all of my notes, my work, is more than enough.”
Nahida doesn’t look like she believes him, even though Kaveh means it; getting the weeks worth of his work is more than he could hope for, a miracle in it’s own right, and he can hardly ask for more. “...It’s not that I can’t help with your clothes,” Nahida says slowly, “only that my spells there will not be permanent. I’m not powerful enough for that. But—I can spell them for a time.”
“How long will it last?”
Nahida mulls it over. “I can give you until midnight,” she says at last. “After that, the magic will begin to unravel.”
Midnight. “That’s plenty.” Kaveh doubts the event will last much later than that, and certainly not the technical aspects; he highly doubts they’ll want to interview anyone past eleven or so at night. He can always make his leave early, and really, that suits him better anyway.
She nods, solemn. “Okay, then.”
-
Kaveh makes it to the palace in time, if only just, and he’s led into the grand ballroom set aside for the Selection along with all the other architect-hopefuls. Some of them, he recognizes, though not well. Fellow classmates at the academy he studied at, or else competitors or people he’s collaborated briefly with in the beginning.
The ballroom is something resplendent, as only befitting the grand ballroom of the Palace, with dancing gold and turquoise designs across the pillars, melding into the dome arching high overhead, adorned with delicate mosaics and swirling geometric patterns. Large, arched windows line the wall, stained glass glittering in a rainbow of colors, interspersed with lovely tapestries of detailed embroidery and vibrant hues. He’s certain it would be even more beautiful in the light of day.
Various palace officials mill about the room, enjoying the live music or else chatting with each other, along with some lower-rank nobles—the latter likely in hopes of commissioning a project or two, and where better than at a gathering of the best and brightest? None of the nobles of higher rank—including Azar—are present, likely deeming it beneath them to attend, the architects beneath their notice until the Master Architect is officially chosen.
Along one side is an impressive display of food, and Kaveh makes a beeline towards it, offering brief greetings to his acquaintances along the way, as is only polite. The table is laden with platters, fatteh and rich soups and padisarah pudding and a dizzying variety of pricey dishes he hasn’t been able to indulge in in ages, especially when he’s more prone to skipping meals, if anything. No expenses spared for the Selection, it seems, and Kaveh intends to take full advantage of that to enjoy his favorites, minus the alcohol—at least before it is his turn to be called in.
He watches the other candidates trickle out a few at a time, some returning with hanging heads, others with uncertain demeanors. A few return in less than a couple minutes, either with red faces or watering eyes.
He waits, and then it’s his turn.
-
It’s just his luck to get Madame Faruzan, the infamously sharp-tongued court expert on mechanics, as his interviewer. Still, despite coming out of it feeling vaguely like he got sand-blasted, Kaveh thinks it went rather well. At the very least, she didn’t send him out in under five minutes like he’s seen her do to some other unfortunate souls.
That doesn’t mean he feels entirely up for rejoining the party, though, so Kaveh opts instead to take a walk. It’s not like they’ve been told not to wander or that any part in this wing of the castle is off-limits, and now’s as good a time as any to get a closer look at some of the palace architecture.
He strolls through the halls, taking in everything he can. And the architecture is lovely, but his eyes catch on the ways he would’ve done things differently, had he been the one to design it—the angle of a window here, the sweeping designs of an arch there, the placement of a particular tapestry.
And, most damningly—the alcoves along the way, some of which contain truly ugly wooden statues, terribly incongruous against the rest of the decor. Kaveh's not even sure what some of them are meant to be. He fights the urge to throw them out, blemishes on the elegance of the corridor as they are.
Eventually, he’s had his fill of the hallway and decides to enter the nearest door, figuring that if anything were off-limits, it’d either be locked or he’d be told. It opens to an enormous library, rows and rows of shelves stretched as far as the eye can see, creeping up the walls almost to the ceiling, spiraling from a center dais of some sort. It’s beautiful, a different sort of elegance from the eye-catching designs of the ballroom, dark wood polished and unpainted but arranged in lovely patterns.
In contrast to the charged atmosphere of the ballroom, at once tense and revelrous, it is tranquil here, peaceful. Chandeliers and soft lamps light the room with a gentle glow, illuminating the shelves—bright enough to read comfortably, yet not so bright as to potentially hurt the eyes.
Kaveh keeps his steps light against the wooden floor so as not to disturb the quiet, even though there doesn’t appear to be anyone here. He stops near the end of the row, by the dais, tipping his head up to study the twisting motifs and tilework lining the honeycomb muqarnas vaulting of the ceiling.
“You’re blocking the shelves,” someone says from behind him, and Kaveh starts.
“Sorry,” he says, and steps aside to let the stranger carrying an armload of books pass, watching as he carefully slots the books into place one by one. A librarian, then? A pretty librarian, he amends, as the stranger turns around and he catches sight of piercing multicolored eyes, accented with red shadow and lined in kohl, framed by soft gray hair streaked through with strands of pale green.
“If you’re here for the Architect selection, it’s down the hall to your left,” the librarian says.
“Oh, that’s not—” Kaveh catches himself. “I mean, I am here for the Architect selection, but I’m not lost.”
The librarian nods, then—turns and walks away. He settles down in one of the chairs next to a karmaphala table, cracks open the book he just pulled off the shelf, and begins to read without another word of acknowledgement.
Which. Rude, much?
Kaveh should really leave him well enough alone—there’s plenty more of the palace to see, inspiration to find—but instead he finds himself perched at the edge of the table.
“What’re you reading?” he asks, peering at the book, but he can’t really see much of the cover at this angle.
“How is that any of your business?” the librarian counters, not even bothering to look up from his book, eyes still glued to the page.
Kaveh huffs. Normally he'd be more polite, his public mask well polished in the face of numerous difficult clients, many far more contemptuous than this, but he’s tired and stressed and still feeling raw from his interview, so he can't help the annoyance bleeding into his voice when he says, sharp, “I was just asking. Is it such a crime to be curious?”
The librarian sighs. Obligingly, begrudgingly, he holds up the book enough for Kaveh to see the cover and goes back to reading, perhaps hoping that Kaveh will go away if his curiosity is sated.
Kaveh can’t stop himself from pulling a face. “You’re reading Rashidi? Really?”
“His discourse serves as the foundational principles referenced in numerous other works.”
“Well, yes, but his writings are, to put it bluntly, a complete and utter mess. You’d be better off just reading dissertation about his theories. It would certainly make more sense at any rate.”
At this, the librarian finally looks up and offers him a cool glare, orange-teal eyes piercing. “Regardless of the coherence of his writing, the source material should always be considered. Secondary sources offer context, but also introduce bias, and it is always better to ensure a stable understanding of the source first-hand. The foundation is the most important element; I thought an architect of all people, would understand that.”
And oh, Kaveh cannot let that stand. He crosses his arms. “In most cases, you’d be right. But just as it would be a poor idea to build on quicksand, so too would any attempt to use Rashidi’s writing as the foundation for understanding be futile.”
The librarian snaps the book shut and sets it on the table. “If you think that, then your understanding of the subject must be lackluster at best.”
Kaveh grits his teeth. Admittedly, alchemical reactions are indeed not his area of expertise. But he considers himself decently well-read, even beyond the general knowledge requirements for an architect. Who is this librarian to criticize? “Oh? Enlighten me, then.”
The librarian proceeds to do just that. Barely two sentences in, Kaveh interjects to correct something that is so obviously blatantly wrong, to which the librarian responds in kind. He loses himself in the argument—for all that the librarian is absolutely infuriating, there’s still something satisfying in finding someone who can match him word for word; a proper intellectual debate is hard to come by, really. Somehow they go from alchemical reactions to architectural design principles to semiotics (which he quickly finds is the librarian’s greatest area of expertise, which is saying something considering Kaveh’s pretty sure his knowledge of other subjects exceeds some masters of the fields), and Kaveh finds himself dredging up and dusting off tidbits of knowledge he has not had cause to reach for in ages.
He’s barely aware of the passage of time, only broken out of the heated debate by the tolling of the bell. Eleven times it sounds, and was it really eleven already? He’s spent far more time here than he’d meant to; he’d only intended to stop for a brief while, before returning to the ballroom and making his rounds, yet he’d spent his entire time in the library instead. And as reluctant as he is to leave and let the librarian get the last remark in, he’s reminded of Nahida’s warning that the glamour won’t last past midnight.
“We’re not finished here,” he says, jabbing a finger at the librarian. “We’re continuing this tomorrow. I’m going to prove to you, in detail, exactly why what you just said is complete and utter bullshit, and I can't believe it just came out of your mouth.”
The librarian arches a brow, and Kaveh wants nothing more than to wipe that cool smirk off his face. “By all means. If the great architect has so much spare time to waste, far be it for me to stop you.”
“Ugh, you're impossible,” Kaveh says, throwing his hands up. He storms out before he gives into the urge to say anything else and risk getting drawn into another argument.
On the way back, he mentally begins composing his points, too worked up to slip into anxiety and a nervous spiral of his own mind over the architect selection, the way he normally would've. He finds himself looking forward to the next evening, even.
It's not until he gets home that he realizes he forgot to ask the librarian’s name.
-
Kaveh wraps up his presentation, feeling quite good about it. It’s gratifying, satisfying, to finally be able to share the dream living in his mind, the Palace of Alcazarzaray, of what he’s sure will be his magnum opus—or, at the very least, the crowning jewel of his work thus far, given that he has no intention of stopping there—if only he had the opportunity and means to build it, to bring it to life. He’s fairly certain the judges were impressed too, and he was more than able to handle any comments on its “unrealistic” nature. (Of course it’s feasible; he might be given to flights of fancy, but he grounds his work in his calculations, and he is confident in them.) And, of course, he easily breezed by the technical challenges in the first half of the night, as he was fairly certain he would, though he’d admittedly worried all the same.
Now that that's over with…
As quickly and as discreetly as he’s able, he slips out of the ballroom and makes his way to the library.
“You’re back,” the librarian says without lifting his head, one hand occupied by a book. But there’s far more pressing matters, because in his other hand—
“What is that?” Kaveh asks, horrified.
The librarian glances down and back up from the monstrosity in his left hand. “Sabz meat stew, baked into a pie,” he says simply, matter of fact. He takes another bite, eyes still glued to his book.
“That,” Kaveh says, “is not Sabz meat stew. What did you do to it?”
The librarian shrugs. “I dislike soups; they are far too messy. This makes it much easier to eat and read at the same time. I fail to see the problem.”
“Of course you do.” Kaveh sighs. “Are you even supposed to be eating in the library? Don’t most libraries prohibit food and drink?” Certainly, the library at the academy he studied at had done so.
“It’s hardly an issue if there’s no mess,” the librarian says. “And I’m exceedingly careful with the books. Besides, what I say goes, so I’m hardly going to disallow myself.”
“Fair enough,” Kaveh concedes, because of course the librarian has full authority of the library’s rules. “Anyway, I realized we forgot to introduce ourselves yesterday. I’m Kaveh.”
“I know,” the librarian says.
Kaveh blinks in surprise. “You do?”
“You’re one of the Architect candidates, are you not? It was simple enough to find your profile.”
Meaning… “You looked me up?” Kaveh says, delighted. The librarian looks away, briefly, and Kaveh’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the hint of pink, though it’s hard to tell in the lighting. “Fine then, guess it’s just me who doesn’t know your name.”
“It's Alhaitham,” the librarian says, and there’s a stillness to him, as though expecting a reaction, bracing himself for a fuss, and Kaveh takes a moment to wonder why. The name does ring a little familiar, but he can’t quite place it, and he figures it can’t matter that much.
“See, was that so hard, Alhaitham?” he says without missing a beat, and something about the set of Alhaitham’s shoulders relaxes a fraction, a miniscule easing of tension. “Anyway,” Kaveh barrels on, “regarding your claim about the validity of certain structures and the function of aesthetics in bridge construction yesterday…”
-
And then, it’s the third day.
On the third and last day of the selection, Nahida presents him with a pair of earrings. They’re absolutely lovely, glimmering turquoise and bold garnets set in a bright gold. His favorite colors, and when he tries them on, they’re heavy in his ears, but they suit him perfectly, glittering colors and darker gold beautiful against his hair.
“I wanted to give you something nice to keep,” she says. “I felt bad that I couldn’t do more, that all my spells were temporary at best, so I asked a friend of mine to help me with these. These are permanent; they won’t vanish at midnight like my other spells. I… I hope you like them.”
“They're beautiful,” Kaveh says, and tries to infuse every bit of the swelling gratitude within him into his words. If he could even convey a fraction of how thankful he is… “I love them. Thank you, Nahida. You didn’t have to; you’ve already done so much.” More than he can ever repay.
She beams at him, joy effusing her features, and like this, she looks the child she appears. “I wanted to.”
Nahida applies the glamour one last time, and it’s no less wondrous watching his everyday clothes transform, rough cotton bleeding into brocade, worn boots melding into something far more expensive.
“Remember,” she says, “midnight.”
Kaveh nods. “Thank you, truly,” he says again, though the words feel inadequate, a clumsy attempt to express the depth of his appreciation. Briefly, he wonders what Alhaitham might have said in his place, clever with words as he is.
Nahida giggles. “Good luck!” she says, seeing him off before vanishing in a flash of green light.
-
It’s probably a bad idea to go to the library again; he has a tendency to lose track of time when he’s (arguing) with Alhaitham—he’d only barely remembered to leave on time yesterday—and today is the announcement of the Selection besides.
He goes anyway. (It’s almost funny, Kaveh muses, that he’s going to the palace for three nights of a ball, and yet he’s spent almost all his time in the library.)
It’s the last day. He wonders what will come after this, if he’s not chosen, wonders if maybe he’ll never see Alhaitham again. Something twinges in his chest at the thought, and he chooses not to examine why. And even if he is chosen, what are the odds their paths will ever cross, Architect and librarian? Perhaps the elusive prince, who he’s yet to meet, will keep him too busy to seek out this library and these evenings of heated debate, especially in the beginning of his tenure when he must prove himself.
“Those earrings are new,” Alhaitham comments when he catches sight of Kaveh. His book is set down on the table, almost as though he were waiting for him.
Kaveh can’t help the smile that crosses his face, small but true, a more genuine smile than in ages, thinking of Nahida and all she’s done for him, the earrings the physical proof of her kindness. Something flickers in Alhaitham’s eyes, a brief stutter to his movements, but he’s back to his usual grace in the next moment, and Kaveh wonders if he imagined it. “Yes,” he agrees.
“It suits you,” Alhaitham offers.
“O-oh,” Kaveh says, a little flustered, taken aback by the lack of an insult. Alhaitham looks amused of all things at his reaction, the jerk.
Alhaitham tips his head to the side, studying the plates piled in his arms. “Were you hungry?”
Kaveh blinks. “Oh, these?” He sets the dishes down on the table, careful to avoid Alhaitham’s book. Some pastries and other delicacies, both savory and sweet—ones that could be eaten one-handed and without causing too much of a mess. “I brought these for you. I thought it was a shame that there was a party going and you wouldn't be able to partake in any of the food. Like you said yourself, it shouldn’t be a problem if we're careful.” And at any rate, it was better than the horror Alhaitham inflicted on a perfectly good Sabz meat stew.
Alhaitham shrugs. “I was invited. I just chose not to go.”
Fair enough. It figures loud festivities and crowded gatherings wouldn't be Alhaitham’s style. Still… “You could just say thank you, you know.”
“Why should I? It’s not as though I asked you to bring them.” But Alhaitham reaches for a piece a baklava all the same, and Kaveh counts that as a win.
“Do you know when they’re announcing the results of the Selection?” Kaveh asks, plopping himself down on the unoccupied divan.
“Are you nervous? Don’t be,” Alhaitham says. “There is no point; it is not as though it would change anything.”
Kaveh crosses his arms. “Not all of us can be logical machines like you.” It takes everything Kaveh has to bite his tongue and leave it there but—best not get started into a debate rehashing their ideological differences, or they’ll be arguing for hours again. “And you still have yet to answer my question.”
For once, Alhaitham decides not to be difficult about it. “It should be a couple more hours. I’ve been told that they are still deliberating. There’s been some… disagreements.”
Kaveh’s eyes narrow. “You are remarkably well-informed, for someone not involved in the process.”
“My input was asked for,” Alhaitham allows.
How interesting. Even Alhaitham, the librarian, was consulted? Just how involved is the selection process? Then again, considering the involvement of all the other Court Experts, including Lady Faruzan, perhaps Kaveh shouldn’t be surprised. It’s entirely possible, likely even, that Alhaitham holds decently high rank, given how undisturbed they’ve been. Chief Librarian, perhaps.
But… “Hours?” It is already quite late, and of course, he knows that tonight’s ball is meant to last longer than that of the other two, given that it’s the final one, but still… He worries his lip. Even if the ball itself continued after that point, surely the announcement won’t stretch past midnight?
“Yes. Is something the matter?”
Kaveh shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing.”
Alhaitham hums, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully lets the matter drop beyond one last searching look.
The night draws on. They tear apart a paper together, which does an excellent job of distracting Kaveh from his nervous anticipation. Alhaitham’s sharp tongue and keen wit are truly a wonder to behold when they are not trained on Kaveh for once.
The gap between closes bit by bit, and at some point they end up on the same divan, but Kaveh barely notices, all his focus hell-bent on making his point. He leans over, jabbing his finger at the page so that there’s no way Alhaitham can pretend to have failed to see it. “Look,” Kaveh says, “all I’m saying is—”
A reverberating echo sounds, the tolling of the bell tolls, loud in the otherwise quiet of the library, and it's a bucket of cold water. Kaveh jolts, head snapping up at the sound, throwing himself backwards to his feet. Midnight, and he remembers Nahida’s warning. “I have to go,” he blurts, ignoring Alhaitham’s surprised “Kaveh?” behind him as he bolts, tearing through the halls. He cannot let the glamour wear off here, not in front of all the palace officials, can’t let Alhaitham see it.
“Where are you going? The announcement will be in only a couple minutes,” Alhaitham calls from behind him, voice hardly raised, yet echoing down the mostly empty corridor all the same.
Kaveh ignores him and keeps running. A second pair of footsteps sound behind him.
Kaveh rounds a corner too fast and he stumbles, crashing into a tapestry. Something catches, trapping him. He doesn't have time for this. He tugs, sharp, and that something comes tumbling loose, clattering to the ground behind him, and he breaks out into a sprint. He doesn't look back, can't.
“Kaveh, wait!” Alhaitham calls behind him, but Kaveh keeps running, doesn’t stop until he’s out of the palace and safely ensconced by the shadows of the night—just in time.
The final midnight bell tolls, and fabric shifts across his skin, expensive attire once more melting back to his usual wear.
He bends over to catch his breath, stays for a few moments. When he straightens, his head tilts slightly to the right, and with a frown, he reaches up—
His left hand closes around empty air.
The earring's gone.
Panic swells within him, horror bleeding into his bones.
No. He can’t have—where is the other earring? He spins around in a circle, scanning the ground around him, praying that by some miracle it dropped close by. When did he—
Oh. Oh no. He remembers—he’d stumbled into something, hadn’t he. The earring must’ve caught, then, somewhere in that rush down the hall. Something hard lodges in his throat, nausea twisting in his gut. Nahida’s gift to him, and he lost it. He wants to storm back to the palace and turn over every nook and cranny until he finds the earring, but—
He can’t go back, not like this, in every kind of disarray. He doubts the palace guards would even let him, and he certainly can’t return to face Alhaitham like this. He’s acutely aware of the tangle of his hair, the tears in his clothes, his public mask tattered and shredded.
And what’s more, he hadn’t even been able to be present for the announcement. He laughs bitterly. What a way to end the three nights.
It’s over. Even if, by some miracle, he was chosen, Kaveh can’t imagine that they’d sit on the offer and keep it open for him when he wasn’t there to hear it in person, not when there are so many other qualified candidates.
He does not sleep that night.
Life returns to normal. Back to struggling to make ends meet, buried under a mountain of debt, drawing designs for clients who fail to appreciate the artistry of it. Kaveh keeps wearing the remaining earring, the uneven weight of it a tangible manifestation of his guilt. He lost Nahida’s thoughtful gift, and it's only fair that he wears the weight of it.
Already, the three nights at the palace feel like a distant dream, memory worn and faded at the edges. Kaveh supposes that he ought to let it go; there is no point dwelling on that which is not his to have.
And so, four days pass.
-
A knock sounds on the door, dragging Kaveh out of his misery. “Coming!” Kaveh calls. He swings the door open only to be greeted with an incredibly intimidating palace guard. Despite his short stature, the guard exudes a quietly intense aura, especially with his arms folded across his chest and the jackal headdress perched atop his head.
Kaveh wracks his brain, trying to think of anything he might’ve done wrong recently. He doesn’t think there’s anything. Surely just thinking about throwing away those ugly wooden statues doesn’t count? He certainly hopes not, anyway; he has the feeling that he would hate to be on this guard’s bad side.
“Can I help you?” he asks, trying not to let any of the panic show.
The guard studies him up and down, amber-gold eyes scrutinizing. “Are you Kaveh?” he demands, blunt.
“Uh, yes, that’s me. Were you looking for me?”
The guard nods once, a sharp motion. “Yes. Come with me.” He strides off and Kaveh finds himself following without thinking, caught up in the authority radiating off the guard.
“Wait,” he says, “where are we going?”
The guard glances back. “The Prince wanted to see you.”
Kaveh stops in his tracks. “The Prince? Why?” He doesn’t think he’s ever even met him. Why would he come all this way to speak to Kaveh personally, rather than summoning him to the palace?
“You’ll see,” the guard says curtly, gesturing for him to keep walking. Kaveh does, bewildered.
As they near the town center, another guard approaches them. “General!” she greets. “Aarav and his group reported back. They’ve visited all the houses in the west side; no luck there.”
This guard’s the famous General Mahamatra, the leader of the Royal Guard? No wonder he’s so intimidating.
“Shohre,” the General Mahamatra says, “you can recall everyone. There’s no more need for the search.”
She stops, clearly spotting Kaveh. “Oh, I see! I’ll go inform His Highness of your arrival right away.”
She beelines towards the carriage, speaking quietly to someone, presumably the prince, before the carriage door swings open.
The prince steps into the light—
Kaveh chokes on his tongue. Alhaitham? Alhaitham is the prince? Alhaitham is the prince?
“Alhaitham,” the General Mahamatra says, dipping his head down briefly, even as some of the other guards bow in greeting. Alhaitham—and oh archons, he’s the prince, what the hell—waves them off.
“General,” Alhaitham returns, inclining his head in acknowledgement. “Excellent work as always.”
Alhaitham looks straight at Kaveh, who’s still frozen, shock coursing through his veins, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Kaveh swears the corners of his mouth turn upwards briefly. Alhaitham takes another step forward, and Kaveh feels distinctly like a deer caught by a hunter’s gaze.
Snap out of it, he tells himself furiously, forcibly shaking himself out of his stupor. He finds his voice again. “What the hell, Alhaitham. You’re the prince?” And ugh, that’s why his name had sounded familiar when he’d introduced himself. Suddenly Alhaitham’s demeanor back then makes a lot more sense.
Alhaitham comes to a stop in front of him, and that is definitely a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. He probably finds this whole thing funny, doesn’t he? “Hello, Kaveh.”
“What the hell,” Kaveh repeats. “I cannot believe you didn't tell me you were the prince.”
Alhaitham shrugs. “It wasn't relevant.”
“Wasn’t relevant? You let me think you were the librarian,” Kaveh bemoans.
Alhaitham crosses his arms. “It’s hardly my fault you made assumptions and jumped to conclusions.”
“But you could have corrected me.”
“Again, you were the one who made assumptions.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Kaveh grumbles. “Were you actually going door to door looking for me?”
“It’s your own fault for not telling anyone where you lived,” Alhaitham says. “All anyone seemed to know was that you lived somewhere in this town. And, besides, it was not as though it was me personally. Cyno’s guards are exceedingly well trained, a diligence they’ve learned from their General. I would only have gotten in the way.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, you get my point. So why did you go to all this effort to track me down, anyway?”
Alhaitham uncurls his fingers to reveal something lying in his palm, bright crimson and hints of turquoise winking amongst gold. He holds up the earring, lets it sway as it dangles from his hand. “You dropped this.”
Kaveh’s eyes widen. “You found it,” he breathes, and the tightness in the chest eases, the guilt over losing Nahida’s precious gift melting away. He reaches out and Alhaitham obligingly drops it in Kaveh’s waiting palm. Kaveh doesn’t hesitate to slip it back on, to join the other half of the pair, weight balanced once more.
Thank you, Kaveh wants to say, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, what comes out is, “Did you really come all this way just to return my earring?”
Alhaitham rolls his eyes. “Of course not. I’m here to formally extend the offer for the role of Palace Architect. Congratulations.” The last sounds faintly mocking, coming out of his mouth, in that dry intonation.
At first, Kaveh thinks he’s misheard. “What?” It’s over, he’d thought, but this—ah. Kaveh bristles. “If you’re only choosing me because we’re—” what were they? Friends, maybe. Surely at this point. Again, he ignores the fluttering of his heart. “—friends, then I don’t want it.” He refuses to accept pity. It will be on his own merit, or not at all.
“Do you really think,” Alhaitham says, “that I am the sort of person who believes in charity? I am not some bleeding heart like you. You won the position by your own skill, and nothing else. Lady Faruzan, at the very least, was far more complimentary of you than of any other. And she is not someone who is easy to please.”
“And how do I know you’re not just saying that?”
“When have you ever known me to soften my words to spare someone’s feelings?” Alhaitham counters. “And besides, I have never once lied to you. I may have left things out, but my words have always been truthful.”
Kaveh closes his mouth, words dying on his tongue. Because—he has been, hasn’t he? Kaveh trusts Alhaitham, and it’s a startling realization. Something warm rises in his chest. Alhaitham came here, to look for him, to return his earring, and—he could’ve just sent for Kaveh, or had someone else come. He’s the prince. He didn’t have to come in person. Yet he did. He chose Kaveh.
He chose Kaveh.
Maybe things can work out for Kaveh, after all. Maybe things can go right for once. Maybe he can have this, have Alhaitham.
“Well?” Alhaitham says. Kaveh looks up at him, haloed in the warm sunlight, attention focused squarely on the architect, eyes glittering with something soft and fond. All that brilliance, trained solely upon him, world narrowed to the two of them. Kaveh’s breath catches in his throat. “Won’t you come with me, Kaveh?”
And after everything, after all that, it’s hardly a decision at all. Kaveh reaches out and takes Alhaitham’s hand.