Chapter Text
Kalim Al-Asim is meant to burn bright and fast, not allowed to settle into a routine that’ll grant him a long life or anything as peaceful as that. It’s not a secret and it’s not something anyone raises an eyebrow at either – this is just a fact.
Jamil stays one step behind Kalim and his father – ever the picture-perfect image of an obedient servant – as they walk through a hallway that will lead them to the reception hall. The portraits on the wall, small and large alike, stare at him as he passes by, their familiar gazes something he’s used to. Underneath each one is a name and dates that he knows by heart, having once spent afternoons here with Kalim, challenging each other to see who remembered the most facts about the family’s ancestors.
At the edge of the hallway, just before a corner, is the most recent painting, one Jamil appears in, even if he isn’t the main subject – Kalim is, a Kalim who doesn’t smile and instead looks at the viewer with an unsettling intensity. In an elegant handwriting and jet-black ink, the painter has written Kalim’s name on the bottom, adding the year of his birth and leaving a blank next to it.
Kalim’s death is already announced, waited on so he can become part of the family’s long and noble history.
During the party, Jamil erases his presence, not out of any particular desire to not stand out, but because he dislikes the particular brand of fakeness that comes with this crowd. At least, NRC students are honest about their intentions, even if there’s nothing pleasant about their attitude.
It’s not surprising that Kalim is the center of attention, he thinks as he watches his master entertain the guests – it seems his slips of the tongue are seen as endearing enough that the adults laugh instead of sneering – as, even if he weren’t the host today, his presence always draws people into his orbit, pulling them toward him until they too, like the others can only see his radiance.
Frankly, they’re all pitiable fools – Kalim, the guests, and Jamil.
Despite his detractors, Kalim is still the country’s darling little boy, easier to approach than the prince, less prone to escapades too, a shining beacon of goodness that might not last long but will leave an impact, or so the media says.
Everyone is aware of how precarious, fleeting his existence is. Everyone likes being dazzled by the star that is Kalim Al-Asim.
Jamil hates it.
To him who’s been blinded by this light before, who’s been betrayed by and has betrayed it, watching others fall for its luster is frustratingly amusing. Only he has pulled the curtain away. When, after the reception, Kalim directs a smile toward him, it’s muted, dim and tired, looking nothing like Kalim Al-Asim, who’s living on borrowed time and more like Kalim who needs rest, Jamil silently sighs in relief – like this, he’s more tangible, less likely to fade away.