May 28
wet bastards
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Taiwan
seen from Malaysia
wet bastards
The stars in the Sky don’t look at you. Your constellation appears perfectly completed without your presence; the faraway nebulae are a gorgeous backdrop for a play you’ll never get to afford. Tethered to the ground by a chain of your own making, you know you were foolish for ever desiring to reach the heavens. “You ruined my Alef,” Daleth accuses you. --- In which Samekh are a disgrace.
characters: samekh, daleth; alef | resh is haunting the narrative
tags: conversations, angst, post-shattering
tw/cw: ableist-ish remarks
you can read the fic here or below the cut (but some of the formatting is lost in the tumblr version)
A Fall from
A disgrace, you are. Two disgraces, if it makes you feel better.
(It doesn’t.)
Dramatic, dishonest, rude, arrogant, haughty, pretentious, cynical, egocentric, selfish, manipulative, cruel, terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible — oh, open a thesaurus, for Light’s sake!
(Terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible.)
A disgrace. Two of them. Or, perhaps, one disgrace split in two. You wonder which sounds better; in the silence of the empty hall, the high ceilings crumbling, the plastering on the walls peeling off, the golden statues tarnished and distorted by time, the difference in wording makes no difference at all.
Leave the words to the poets and the lawyers.
(Would the counsel for the defence find a convincing argument in your favour? You don’t think so. But then again, you think little nowadays. Thinking is linked too closely to remembering.)
A disgrace.
A disgrace with a mask, of course — the elegance, the confidence, the skill, the style, the wit, the knowledge, the elusiveness — but a disgrace nonetheless. The tricks of light and the sleight of hand don’t suffice to wash the blood off the gloves you insist on wearing.
Hedonists. Sophists. Liars. Traitors. Abusers. Silver-tongued, cold-blooded murderers... Two compound adjectives next to each other, huh? A clever attention-grabbing trick. Oh, three compound adjectives — you’ve outdone yourselves! What are you going to use this rhetorical device for, hm? Who are you going to use it on?
* * *
The stars in the Sky don’t look at you. Your constellation appears perfectly completed without your presence; the faraway nebulae are a gorgeous backdrop for a play you’ll never get to afford. Tethered to the ground by a chain of your own making, you know you were foolish for ever desiring to reach the heavens.
“You ruined my Alef,” Daleth accuses you, and oh, how hurtful! How inconsiderate of your feelings! Ow!
A dead child is sleeping, capeless, curled up next to the Isle Elder. For someone in whose power it is to summon whoever they want up here, the kid is terribly irresponsible.
The starry water on the ground is boringly tepid — you’d rather freeze to death. Well, not to death. But still.
“Alef wasn’t yours,” you retort. Oh-oh! It looks like all your thoughts got jumbled up! You were supposed to keep this in your heads and say out loud that Daleth’s words were hurtful! You messed this up! A disgrace, truly.
The Isle Elder frowns at you. They’re blind. They weren’t before, but they are now — yet, the way they stare at your faces makes you think, though it’s quite silly, that Daleth can see right through you.
Which they can’t, of course. What a silly thought.
“You mocked a traumatised child and then spoilt them, gave them the wrong ideas... You did ruin them, Samekh. And you still refuse to see.”
You avert your gazes; it’s not like Daleth will notice anyway. But what a stupid, outrageously stupid idea — you ruining your Alef!
“All we did was give them a challenge or two, make sure they didn’t stagnate doing the same thing over and over again until they died, a recluse in that Temple of yours!”
Daleth closes their eyes, and this makes no difference because Daleth is blind, fully blind, completely blind; the two of you are no longer special.
(Couldn’t Daleth have lost their vision a little earlier?)
“Stop implying what you’re implying,” Daleth responds sternly. “Both of the things you’re implying, actually. You know neither was true.”
“And it was them that gave us the wrong ideas!” You continue unprompted. Oh, this is one more thing that should’ve stayed in your thoughts. Have you got rusty? Are you rusty? Oh, this is ridiculous, and embarrassing, and terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible; you should be better than this. “They weren’t much younger than us. All we gave them was understanding, understanding that you never showed!”
“I said stop implying that!”
But Daleth gives up, they always do. They stand up and take their staff in their hands, and they poke the star-covered ground with the tip, sending across the water ripples that die out too soon, and the stars above sing like bells, and Daleth gives up on you and walks away.
You return to the hall with the crumbling ceilings and the tarnished gold.
Children run up and down the corridor and come up to you and ask you to tell them stories, but your heads hurt, and you feel drained of the imagination power required to embellish the truth and to make yourselves more sympathetic than you could ever be.
You tell the kids nothing. They probably know that you’re a disgrace anyway.
* * *
“We tried to stop them,” you say the next time you and Daleth stand face to face in Orbit. Your voices come out frail; you’re weary, worn-out, exhausted.
Sick and tired of it all.
Daleth only smiles. They would smile like that when you wondered out loud if your missing arms would grow eventually. When you asked why mortals die. When you exclaimed that carrots are the worst thing imaginable and shouldn’t have been invented. When you told them Valley was too different from Isle for one to apply the same standards to both realms. When you assured them you knew where to stop. When you lied about Alef being sick though in reality the Prince was only avoiding the unpleasant conversation that was going to happen sooner or later.
The conversation never happened.
Daleth only smiles, and you used to hate that smile. This time, you’re only mildly annoyed.
“It was too late,” the Isle Elder says softly, quietly. You expected anger in their voice, an accusatory tone, spiky and sour, permeated with resentment.
But Daleth’s remark is soft and quiet and nothing more. You almost wish they would yell at you. But you shouldn’t be surprised: you know that no matter what you do, Daleth always gives up on you.
“We still tried.” An excuse. A lame one, at that.
Daleth sighs. From high up in the centre of the night sky, your constellation looks down on you.
“Trying is not a triumph, Samekh. It’s the bare minimum.”
So much for your dreams of perfection.
And just like they always do, Daleth gives up on you. Walks away. Walks away like they did when you said you found Isle boring. Like they did when you complained about your mortal friends growing up and leaving you behind. Like they did when you asked them why people die. Like they did when you decided to pursue a dangerous hobby despite having bodies unfit even for living. Like they did when you said you wished you were whole. Like they did when you accused them of looking at you and seeing a version of you that didn’t exist. Like they did when you asked not to interfere. Like they did when you mumbled to them that you were sorry.
(A disgrace.)
Children run up and down the corridor and come up to you, but they never speak. You’re grateful, you suppose. You really don’t want to talk. Not today. Not ever.
The tarnished gold of these halls, you can no longer stand.
* * *
“We did care about Alef, you know,” you whisper to Daleth months later, when the stars above your heads and beneath your feet stare directly at you, watching your every move. You feel sick. Sick, sick, sick; you have grown to despise limelight.
The Isle Elder looks your way, and you wonder what they see in the darkness before their eyes.
“I know you did.”
Nonsense.
“But you said—”
“I meant what I said. I do, however, recognise that the fake smiles, the obnoxious laughter, and the heartbreak on your faces looked too genuine at times. I, ah, I sometimes wished they didn’t. But they did.”
Sick, sick, sick.
“I don’t forgive you. But things are, for better or for worse, always complicated with this sort of thing, and I… W-well, it would be hypocritical of me to say I don’t understand—” Their voice breaks and dies out.
You’re the ones to walk away this time.
Children run up and down the corridor, and you yell at them. You yell at them so loudly that the echo of your outcry reverberates through the Temple and hides in the corners, creeping in the dark and haunting you as you sit on the windowsill and look around, the only two people left in these quiet, empty halls.
Children come back, eventually. You’re not sure how long passes.
You wish they would give up on you, too.
* * *
“I didn’t give up on you. I wouldn’t. Not ever,” Daleth says. You don’t believe them.
The constellation above your heads is one unknown to you, a jumbled mess of broken stars and unfinished, lopsided shapes. Eden, if you had to guess. Mocking you. Taunting you. Asking you to save them from a person you made. Well, helped make. It doesn’t matter.
“You did,” you insist.
The Isle Elder closes their eyes and grimaces. They look… pained. Broken beyond repair, just like the Eden constellation, by things you did. Well, helped do. It doesn’t matter.
“I… I may have. With the whole Darkstone thing—”
“Many times before.”
Your voices are cold, and so are your hearts. Frozen. Ice-cold. Defensive.
A disgrace.
Daleth opens their eyes.
“Come here.”
You don’t move.
“Samekh, come here.”
You stand up and take a step forward, then sit down next to Daleth. You only obey because the situation is stupid enough already. No other reason. Not because you… It doesn’t matter.
“List the times you believe I gave up on you.”
You don’t respond.
“Samekh.”
“It doesn’t—”
“It does.”
It doesn’t. It really, really doesn’t. This isn’t going to change anything. Daleth already hates your guts for, quote, the whole Darkstone thing. For ruining their Alef. For being a disgrace in general. There is really no point in giving them another reason to judge you behind your backs and to roll their eyes and whatever else they do.
“It—”
“Samekh.” Daleth’s voice is stern, but it almost sounds like a plea. You raise your eyes towards the constellation and the gaping hole in its chest. “I have… I’ve had enough relationship-ending misunderstandings.” Their voice trembles. You know Daleth is thinking about them again.
You can’t quite blame them.
“Fine,” you say, not quite honestly, but that’ll do. The sooner you’re done with this whole thing, the better, you suppose.
Daleth waits patiently for you to speak up. Seated this close to you, they seem… smaller than you remember them being. But then again, it’s been a while since you last found yourselves in such close proximity to each other.
“We know you hate us,” you begin. “For Darkstone. For the Alef thing. For… For having been… wrong. For having disagreed with you, on so many things, back when— It doesn’t matter…” Daleth says nothing. Only frowns a little. “For not being what your idea of an Elder is like.”
This phrase alone seems to affect the Elder more than anything you’ve ever said or done.
“I don’t hate you for that. I never—”
“But you do.” You chuckle quietly. “You hate it that we…” Oh Light, this is terrible, terrible, terrible, terrible. “That we, uh, never got over mortals being… mortals.” You clear your throats. “You hated us, back when we were little, for not understanding. For… For being upset. Loud. Whatever.” It’s your turn to close your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Not anymore, at least.”
A sigh. You look at Daleth. Daleth lowers their head.
“See? This— This is exactly what we’re talking about!” You find yourselves on your feet. “We just— We tell you anything, literally anything, and you just, you just refuse to listen! All you do is look away and stand up and leave! No matter what we say, all you ever do is judge!”
Your eyes sting. You haven’t cried in centuries.
Not going to start now.
“Samekh—”
“What?”
They’ve raised their head. They really are smaller, now. Much smaller. You feel old.
“Samekh, I… I apologise if I made you feel that—”
“If you made us feel! Ha!”
“That I made you feel, all right? I… apologise that I made you feel like your opinions — or feelings — didn’t matter to me. I… I must confess I’ve never been good with children, and, you being two, and twice as loud as usual, and, well, terminally ill, I had no idea how to— I-I suppose, I frequently didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I didn’t say anything at all. I… Oh my Light, this is just Alef all over again…” Their voice breaks. A tear runs down their cheek.
You’d imagine, as young, petulant adolescents, the scene far too often and in far too much detail: Daleth admitting they were wrong, Daleth allowing you to do whatever your hearts desire, Daleth confessing they don’t always know everything. But somehow, having just heard the real thing doesn’t give you the catharsis you expected. All you feel is… hollow. Tired. Reflected, against all odds, in the words of someone you’ve never considered a mirror.
You wish Daleth wouldn’t cry. You never quite figured out what to do with people that are crying. Or rather, you never quite figured out what to do with the reasons why people cry.
You throw a glance at the Sky, looking for help where there is none. The empty space in the constellation is a reminder of what you did. Or, perhaps, of what you didn’t do. Just like Daleth didn’t.
You try to imagine what you would do if you could move the stars above your head ever so slightly, just so that the gaping hole in the middle could no longer be seen, as if the one supposed to occupy it had never existed. But then again, with the brokenness of the other stars and the shape as a whole, this silly manoeuvre, even if feasible, would be far too obvious. Would only highlight the absence.
You asked the children, once, if they can summon them up here. The answer was that there’s nothing left to summon.
Daleth continues weeping. Glad to know you hate us a little less than we thought, you should probably say, jokingly, to make them stop. But the words taste bitter on your tongues even before they tumble out of your mouths; in the silence of Orbit, the only sounds filling your ears are the bell-like singing of the stars and the Isle Elder’s sobs.
You sit back down eventually.
Sah, my beloved
ehem-
lmao i keep posting old arts, but i will post new ones soon! trust trust
Sah and Mekh twins, Valley of Triumph Elders.
my favoritess
“If you leave now,” Resh says, still facing the opposing way, and Sah finds it infuriating but knows they should not: the King’s mask would not reveal more than their back does. “If you leave now, you will lose everything.” ___ In which Sah is a diplomat, and things would be easier if they were not.
characters: sah, resh; mekh is mentioned
tags: conversations, character study, diplomacy
you can read the fic here or below the cut
Two-Way Street
“If you leave now,” Resh says, still facing the opposing way, and Sah finds it infuriating but knows they should not: the King’s mask would not reveal more than their back does. “If you leave now, you will lose everything.”
There is no emotion in that utterance, not really. Even a menacing note, which, Sah realises with a pang of annoyance, would fit this situation really well — trust the expert — is absent from the Ruler’s voice. They sound indifferent — resigned almost, except resignation is in itself an emotion, and this would be a contradiction. Sah has no fucking clue what Resh is thinking about (frankly speaking, they have not known that for quite a while now), and complementing their anger is the nagging feeling that regardless of whether Resh is playing some sort of role or not, the combination of those words and the striking lack of emotion is too damn confusing for their own good. The words are emotional; at least, they imply some sort of caring (genuine or feigned) about the situation or Samekh or the success of the (already failing) venture; the twins taught Alef how to write speeches creating an effect on the listener a long time ago, so Resh is guaranteed to know what they are doing. But why this flat, almost monotone delivery going against this implied (genuine or feigned) caring? What for?
Is this a trick?
If yes, then what are they trying to achieve with it?
Is this a slip?
If yes, then which of the two juxtaposed elements is a mistake?
Is Resh even aware of what they are doing?
If no, how did Samekh manage to miss the moment when their fr— al— colleague turned into whatever the fuck is sitting in that chair right now?
The answer to that last question Sah would rather not know.
They fight the urge to sigh; walking around the desk, the Valley Elder sits opposite Resh, their only eye glaring (with a manually decreased intensity but still showing a note of defiance; Alef called this technique “being a little bitch” once. But Alef is no longer here) at the soulless, grotesque mask that Samekh themselves are partially responsible for having created — both literally and, unfortunately, metaphorically.
“Lose everything?” Sah settles on repeating; pointing out the incongruence in Resh’s words would not be particularly helpful, especially considering how harsh (which, once again, goes against their indifferent tone of voice; a doubt crosses Sah’s mind regarding whether the Ruler is physically capable of expressing an emotion nowadays) the King has been as of late.
Resh does not move, and the mask concealing their face keeps staring at Sah — or rather, at the wall behind them. The flickering light of a couple candles on either side of the desk would make the setting terrifying to anyone else; Samekh have seen worse. The room only looks fake — and the Valley Elders are no strangers to fakeness themselves. Perhaps, this is why Resh has never scared them, even at their lowest, as much as it has others.
“Yes. Lose everything.” The monotone voice does not suit the whole point of the conversation — that being persuasion (forcing?), an attempt to keep the King’s allies (not anymore) on their side in a conflict (which they are clearly losing). Sah cannot help but wonder, once more, what the reason might be. “You know what our victory will bring us, don’t you?” The Ruler’s question is rhetorical. “Freedom to continue expanding the industry. Cheaper resources. Cheaper workforce. The perfect system designed to bring back the Light.”
They sound like they do not believe what they are saying: pauses too empty, words almost rehearsed, movement completely lacking. But if Sah were to enumerate every public speaking rule that is completely ignored here, they would sit in this dimly lit office all day. And they have much more important matters to tend to.
Sah presses both of their palms together (they fit perfectly, and yet not at all; the Elder wishes Mekh were here) and brings their hands to their chin.
“Look, I know I’m the diplomat,” they feel like wincing just because of how many mistakes they are aware of intentionally committing, but they must get their point across. It is not like they need to preserve their (non-existent at this point but at least not bad) relationship with the Ruler — they no longer need them. In fact, Samekh find it that they have grown tired and disappointed; not having the King in their lives would be beneficial to them, their realm, and the Kingdom as a whole. “But!” they make an emphasis on the but, and they know they are digging their grave. The thought makes them feel giddy, in a way, almost lightheaded: look at them, sabotaging their own image! Too bad their image is not worth jack shit now. “I’ll be as direct as I can be: you’re not winning. There’s nothing we’ll lose if we leave — nothing we haven’t lost already.”
Sah almost wishes Resh would get angry. This, at least, is familiar territory: Sah knows how to calm people down, and Mekh has shown them how to make use of anger. Unfortunately, Mekh is not here, busy with the real and tangible problem of a fucking uprising that has followed a whole week or so of strikes.
Even more unfortunately, Resh shows no sign of any human emotion. Sah would be disappointed if they did not know better.
“You are mistaken,” the Ruler responds, and they do not seem convinced, and here is the paradox again, and the Valley Elder is so, so sick of it. “All the odds are in our favour.”
Sah is a diplomat. Mekh is the honest one, the direct one, the rude one when it is needed. Sah, on the other hand, uses charm and active listening and makes funny expressions that people interpret as empathy and carefully picks the most correct words in the world, and Sah would rather die than be completely honest when it is virtually guaranteed not to work in their favour. This is why Samekh are two, they suppose: they complement each other. They fill the gaps in the other’s skills and mind and soul, and it is only together that they are invincible.
But today, Mekh’s force and loud promises-masquerading-as-apologies-masquarading-as-promises and strategising are needed elsewhere. Sah must be pragmatic for once. Not that they usually are not; mind you, they are much more pragmatic than their sibling. Though their pragmatic side is the inner one, the one that calculates Sah’s moves and solves problems, not the one that is shown to the general public to empathise with. Mekh, on the other hand, puts the practicality of everything in a way that is understandable for all — they do it in a manner that almost appears natural, at that.
Sah is a diplomat, but they are also tired. Sah is a diplomat, but the Kingdom lies in shambles. Sah is a diplomat, but there is a rebellion in their realm. Sah is a diplomat, but they are losing, and the King is failing to see it — or whatever is happening in their head. Out of all minds in the world, Resh’s is completely impossible to read.
Sah is a diplomat, but above all, they are an Elder. And being an Elder means having responsibilities. Being an Elder means being wise. Being an Elder means fucking up terribly and falling and then standing up and trying to fix everything, because this is what they are for, and they might as well die if they do not repair the damage that they have inflicted upon their realm, upon their people.
Sah is a diplomat, but Resh is not the person they used to (pretend to) be.
“We’re leaving,” Sah says just like Mekh would: cold, straight to the point, hitting the bull’s eye. “Our troops will withdraw. Our funding will stop. Our feet will never bring us to this stupid place again.”
The Ruler remains silent, immobile. Sah gets up from their chair, the untangling knot in their chest slowly coming loose.
“We’ll never return. This is your fault.” They know Samekh are at fault, too, but Resh does not need to hear it. “Don’t write to us. Don’t come to Valley.” Sah makes a half-circle and ends up behind the Ruler’s back; they almost wish the King would turn around, but they do not. “And, above all, don’t expect to win. You’re running towards a dead end.”
They know that lingering at the door for even a split second would be a weakness that they are not allowed to show. They open the door and walk out immediately, ignoring whatever nonsense their insides have been screaming at them about for the entirety of the conversation.
Sah may be a diplomat, but diplomacy is a two-way street.
Alef used to be a diplomat; Stars know Resh is not.
“No idea? Really? Where did that wonderful brain of yours go? Vacation?” Sah teases with a smirk on their lips as they lean against the Prince’s shoulder. Mekh sips wine a few steps away, their eye fixed on their sibling’s interlocutor and studying the slightest movements of their face’s muscles. Alef raises both of their eyebrows while their mouth remains a perfectly straight line — an unimpressed look they picked up a few years ago and seem to have been enjoying greatly ever since. It serves its purpose, Samekh suppose, but they still find it to be a hilarious expression to put on a face that, no more than a decade ago, was childish to the point of being impossible to be taken seriously. “You would know,” the Prince responds, appearing completely unfazed.
characters: alef, samekh
tags: conversations, light angst, some humour, character study
you can read the fic here or below the cut
Folie à Trois
They roll their eyes.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
The room is bright. Bathed in the glow of infinite lanterns and the massive chandelier in the middle of the hall, the place needs no sun to illuminate it, the dazzle reflected in the stained-glass windows and the polished plates and goblets on the tables much brighter than the sun itself could ever dare be. It may be nearing midnight or midday — as long as you are inside, you can forget about your fear of the ticking clock. The passage of time can bring no darkness, not in the always-shining Valley.
The room is bright, and the voices and the music are loud. Samekh do not mind; if anything, they are quite satisfied. The loudness, or as they prefer to call it, the liveliness of its parties is Valley’s whole shtick. Not the only schtick, of course; the realm can offer anything your heart desires: music, sports, theatre, you name it — as long as your wallet is on your side.
Having the Prince themself attend the party is a clever trick — and not only because it attracts even more visitors, travellers, and investors (whatever they invest in, Samekh do not care much; what matters is that they keep the cash flowing) to Valley, giving happiness to the locals and much-deserved glory to its Elders, but also because it gives said Elders an excuse to waste less time talking to morons. Sure, there are prominent personalities here — if everybody in the realm were a good-for-nothing, the number of attendees would be three, the list coinciding with that of the hosts.
But one must admit that all this ideas-money-and-profit talk that Samekh try to cultivate at the events for the sake of their own realm is terribly boring to participate in all the time. Alef, on the other hand, gives the two a much-needed break from all the tedium — a break that no one dares deprive them of, due to the obvious outcome that such insolence would warrant.
Alef, thankfully, does not seem too burdened by the occasional invitations.
“No idea? Really? Where did that wonderful brain of yours go? Vacation?” Sah teases with a smirk on their lips as they lean against the Prince’s shoulder. Mekh sips wine a few steps away, their eye fixed on their sibling’s interlocutor and studying the slightest movements of their face’s muscles.
Alef raises both of their eyebrows while their mouth remains a perfectly straight line — an unimpressed look they picked up a few years ago and seem to have been enjoying greatly ever since. It serves its purpose, Samekh suppose, but they still find it to be a hilarious expression to put on a face that, no more than a decade ago, was childish to the point of being impossible to be taken seriously.
“You would know,” the Prince responds, appearing completely unfazed. Sah’s face scrunches up (did not expect that, huh? the spark in Alef’s eyes mocks), and Mekh chuckles, carefully placing their glass back on the table in case Sah comes up with an even funnier comeback.
“I must say I expected something more creative from you,” Sah strikes back. “I feel like you are not using your wits to their full potential.”
“Oh pardon me!” This sing-songy voice is also something Alef has picked up naturally, without Samekh’s instructions. They seem to be observant like this, as observant as the Elders themselves. This must be one of the reasons why Samekh enjoy the Prince’s company so much more than anyone else’s — said reason ranks below the reputation aspect, of course — Alef is good enough to be their equal, which only a select few can pride themselves on being.
“You are forgiven,” Sah throws the same unimpressed expression back at Alef.
“What an honour.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“I would be delighted not to.”
“Wow, what an asshole.”
“Ouch.”
Mekh snorts — and immediately collects themself.
“Sah, I was under the impression the word you have just used was on the not to say around highly valued guests list.”
Sah’s only eye goes wide for a split second — a realisation slipping from beneath the mask — before they return to their nonchalant expression.
“I do not think anyone has heard.” They shrug, approaching the nearest table to pick up a grape from the fruit plate. “And if they have — it is not like they are going to do anything after one time, is it?”
Mekh squints at them. Sah pretends they have not got the message and opts for focusing on savouring the single grape in their mouth. Shuffling on their feet, Alef lets their eyes roam across the room for a moment before following Sah’s example and helping themself to the fruit.
“You know perfectly well about some rumours that have been spreading,” Mekh whispers. Their sibling frowns.
“Oh, are these the rumours about our partnership being based on, quote, favours?” Alef jumps in, a devilish smile on their face. “I heard that one from one of my guards; I had a great laugh.”
“I’m glad your sense of humour is still terrible.” Mekh crosses their arms. “But rumours, funny or not, are still better avoided. Right, Sah?”
There is an unveiled reproach in their voice that their sibling chooses to ignore.
“Mekh, relax.” Sah pours a drink in Mekh’s glass and passes it to them. Mekh stares at the bubbling foam for a moment before bringing the glass to their lips. “It’ll be fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Mekh mumbles, frowning, “and then acting in a way that makes me doubt every word that has ever left your mouth.”
Their sibling’s expression remains the epitome of nonchalance; yet, in the back of their mind, Mekh hears annoyance. They make sure their own is audible, too.
And judging by how much brighter Sah’s smile gets, by how quickly they grab Alef by the sleeve and whisper something in their ear, by how the Prince needs a moment to disguise their confusion before they walk away from the pair, Mekh’s thoughts must have echoed loud and clear in their sibling’s head.
“I’m not being reckless,” Sah hisses, standing close enough for the words being spoken to become unnecessary. “I’m being believable. We’ve talked about this.”
Mekh keeps their mouth shut and eye directed straight at their interlocutor’s. The latter chuckles humourlessly at Mekh’s thoughts before turning around, a glare on their face visible for a split second before giving place to their normal people-pleasing expression.
“The difference between a Master of Ceremonies and a General,” they say before disappearing in the crowd, “is that the former is admired.”
The latter remains there, an unpleasant aftertaste in their mouth, ears, and head.
***
“Have you two argued again?” Alef’s eyes return to the window and the barely discernible snow-covered rooftops in the distance.
It is quieter in the corridor; though now, in the hall, it should be calmer, too. It has been a couple of hours since the party was at its peak, and people are slowly staring to become sleepy.
Mekh does not blame them; they are sick and tired of it all themself.
“Don’t remember allowing any of our guests to wander here,” they reply, ignoring the question.
The Prince turns around, smirking in a way that makes Mekh feel both a lot better and considerably worse.
“I don’t need your permission for that. What is Sah up to?”
The Elder leans against the wall and pinches the bridge of their nose.
“No clue. Something stupid, probably.”
The Prince hums quietly but says nothing. Mekh supposes they must be studying the paintings on the walls — or, at least, pretending to be studying them while trying to come up with a way to deal with their interlocutor’s grumpiness.
“They aren’t really the person to do anything stupid…” Alef says slowly, carefully picking their words. Mekh knows exactly what they are trying to do and is genuinely grateful for that — and wishes the Prince stopped.
“Liar,” is what they settle on saying. If they could send Alef a thought or two like Samekh can do to one another, Mekh would be happy to do that; considering the unavailability of the option, the Elder simply hopes that the Prince will infer what they are implying.
Alef leans against the wall by their side.
“’s basically my job. Lying.”
“No, it’s not. You’re not being paid for that.”
“Paid? Pfft, thank the Stars above and around they’re no longer putting me in—” they trail off. When Mekh turns to look at them, Alef’s eyes seem unfocused, lost in thought. “The bar is low,” they add after a pause, their voice strangely quiet even in contrast to the muffled music coming from the hall.
Mekh understands but wishes they did not. The bar used to be low for how they were treated, too.
“You can raise it” the Elder says and shrugs.
“M?”
“You can raise the bar. It’s not that hard, though it does require some effort… Actually, I’m pretty sure you’ve already started doing so.”
Alef remains quiet for a while, probably processing their words. Mekh does not expect a thank you — this is not how things usually work between them — but it almost seems like Alef is going to give them one when steps echo in the corridor.
The two look up just in time to see Sah’s figure appear at the end of the hallway.
“Now, what’s this!” they exclaim, approaching, their eye narrowing a tiny bit as they notice the expressions their interlocutors are wearing. “A pity party? And I’m not invited? Outrageous!”
“Cut it out,” Mekh almost growls. Sah stops a few metres away from them.
“I can’t do all the work alone, you know,” the newcomer adds with slightly more sincerity shining through; not many would notice the difference though.
“Oh, you can’t? Strange, I was under the expression you were the expert in—”
“Don’t be so loud,” Sah hisses.
Alef takes a small step forward, placing themself between the two, which is not exactly helpful but feels grounding, in a way. It is much easier to lose control arguing with someone who you see and hear twice, both with your eyes and mind. The duality of interaction can make it harder to tell which channel is used for what.
Not that it cannot be achieved, of course: Samekh can perfect anything; it is rather that they do not wish to risk it when it is not necessary.
“Okay, I will go back,” Mekh says with not much enthusiasm after a few moments. “Hey, Your The-bar-is-low-ness, you’re coming with us.”
Alef mutters something resembling idiot in that awful accent of theirs; they have been succeeding in keeping it at bay, but the Isle pronunciation sometimes finds its way into their speech nonetheless.
“Speaking of the bar,” the Prince speaks up once they are done brooding. “You gave me an idea…”
“Exchange of ideas? Without me?” Sah makes an exaggeratedly hurt expression, in which only they know how much sincerity lies.
“You’re not the only brilliant idea-generating mind in the room.”
“Alef, the two of us share the same mind.”
“I was including myself.”
“What an a—”
Upon either seeing or feeling Mekh’s glare, they stop, a frown of their own appearing on their face.
We’ve talked about this, resounds in both heads.
which of you two has more braincells
It’s up for debate
We’re back (no we aren’t )