Chapter Text
“Are you stupid? Can you not receive instructions as clearly as they are given?” Al-Haitham was forced to raise his voice for the second time this week. The Grand Conservator Sana was already livid about some new forged document from an Amurta herbad, and now this?
“Grand Scribe, please have mercy!” the poor employee pleaded. “I promise, I will have the forged papers removed from the database immediately!”
“Just this once, I will let you go. One more pathetic clerical error like this and I will make sure you never enter the Scribe’s office again.”
The Scribe’s work had stopped being simple as soon as he had stepped down from the position of the Acting Grand Sage. Sumeru was in shambles after the false god’s unveiling, and who, exactly, had to undo decades of corruption in the Akademiya? Al-Haitham, of course. So he did his duty as the Grand Sage, gave some speeches, soothed the public and got all the basic systems within the Akademiya up and running again.
Then, he quit. For who would wish for such a stressful position, no matter how well-paying it was? Back at his office as the Scribe, and Nahida saunters in one day.
“Al-Haitham, how good to see you! The Scribe’s office shall be handling some extra affairs within the Akademiya. Not much at all! I’m sure you’ll manage.” Her small smile was actually rather sincere, and so were her reasons for giving him all that extra work. After all, there truly was no one else who could manage civil affairs as efficiently as Al-Haitham.
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Al-Haitham had needed to go to the Bimarstan thrice a week to replenish his migraine pills.
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Al-Haitham got home so late that even Kaveh was long since asleep.
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Al-Haitham hated his workload with a passion. And do note, passion came rarely to a man as calm and collected as him. But there he was, actually raising his voice.
What a terrible day.
── ⋆⋅⁺₊ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ ₊⁺⋅⋆ ──
The next day he twisted his ankle. Zaha Hadi’s new batch of tomatoes was being carried by some coolie rather carelessly, and he couldn’t just let it fall. So he caught it with one hand and in the process produced a small ‘crack’ sound from his ankle. And obviously, he had no time to visit the Bimarstan since the elections for the new Grand Administrator demanded his presence.
At lunch, even the always-perfect Lambad managed to over-salt his fish rolls. And Al-Haitham had taken them to his office, so he couldn’t even get his order changed.
And so he trudged back home at half past ten with a hurt ankle, half-empty stomach and a really, really foul temper. Kaveh was awake. Kaveh asked him how his day had gone, told him how the spice-vendor had finally gotten a divorce, and so on. Kaveh was lovely, his only respite, his oasis, after a long day of suffering, after a day in the scorching hot sun.
But a part of him ached to even think that. He was not deserving of Kaveh’s perfection and his presence. Late at night as he drifted into sleep, he wondered why he felt that way. And for the first time in many years, he jolted up from his bed and from his sleep.
Why did he feel that way? Al-Haitham had no answer. Forget that, he didn’t even have some leads as to how to obtain his answer. Why did he feel so lonely, unworthy, unloved, unlovable, and tired? For the first time in many years, he did not have an answer to his own question.
Perhaps some pacing would help. So he got up from his bed and walked up to the window. And there, he saw it.
The reflection of a shadow of a man. A man with soft hair, a sharp face and stiffness in his bones stared back at him. He had dread in his eyes and a dull ache in his chest. He looked like an utterly broken man.
Al-Haitham cracked under it all, realised that he felt empty, and went to sleep straight after it. He did not have any time to think about foolish things like feeling ‘empty’. No one but the mad scholars of Aaru thought such ridiculous things.
Time to go to sleep, he thought.
But when he woke up the next day, that ache refused to leave his chest.
── ⋆⋅⁺₊ ◯ ☽ ◑ ● ◐ ❨ ◯ ₊⁺⋅⋆ ──
He had begun to fade away, shard by shard of his fractured self. Tighnari visited the city and Kaveh and Cyno suggested they all meet, so he agreed. Cyno reprimanded him for his sharp tongue and how cutting his answers felt. So Al-Haitham focused on his many cups of wine instead.
Cyno gave him scathing looks. Apparently, Al-Haitham was being rude to the new Matra batch. Okay, whatever. He dealt with it diplomatically.
Nahida dropped by to check on him. She saw him sleeping on his desk and left a small pulse of Dendro at his forehead, so that his dreams and his days may be blessed. For a god never wishes for her children to be in pain.
Nilou asked him why he had stopped attending her shows. He replied with a stern ‘I’m busy’ and didn’t look back as he walked away.
Dehya once asked him where all his ‘flame’ and ‘fire’ had gone and he had nothing to say in response.
Kaveh gave him worried looks, and the hurt in his eyes, when Al-Haitham ignored his questions again and again, stung.
He was doing his job well. The citizens of Sumeru now had nothing but well wishes for the Mahamata. On the outside he still attempted to make small talk and be normal and take care of himself, but by the archons, it was getting tough. His human suit was tearing and he was scared of what would reveal itself once it tore through completely.
He really did try to fix it. He gave Cyno a new TCG card, went with Kaveh on his shopping trips, attended Nilou’s rehearsals and sparred with Dehya. On paper, everything was absolutely amazing. He was looking great, and was clearly well-liked by so many people. But the darkness always snuck up on him. If not in public, then his room.
Alone at night, he had stopped sleeping. He read some entertaining, distracting book till around 3 am, when his imagination took hold and made him shed a tear or two. Then he would lay in his bed and wonder about meaningless things till around 5, which is when exhaustion would take over and put him to sleep. He then woke up at 8 am, trained, came back home, had breakfast, worked, came back, and did it all over again.
Nahida had started noticing. She gave him some Halva on the days he looked gloomy and offered to grant him healing Dendro at his forehead, but he had started to refuse. Why should the god pay any heed to him? He was unworthy of it all.
He was not okay, and he was not fine. He worried constantly about his own condition and why it seemed impossible to fix. The emptiness and not knowing where it originated from bothered him more than he could confess. And so he kept it all to himself. No one needed to know.
“Chinta aisi daakini kaat kaleja khaaye,
Vaid bechara kya kare, kahan tak dava laaye.”
“Worry is like a witch who eats into the heart,
And the doctor is helpless, medicine he cannot provide.”