#◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Empyrean ┊Celestial collision.┊

[reginrokkr]

Comfort that al-Háitham has already caught on the fact that he has never been intimate with a man before washes all worries away, sending them ashore far where they cannot reach him again. Roseate lips curl in a relaxed smile that reaches his eyes, a small dip of his head is offered in understanding and acquiescence.

What the Sumerian scribe brings to the table next is nothing short of a reasonable necessity. If they are going to engage in this intimate act together, they must be cognisant of where each of them stands, what they can do and cannot, potential dislikes to avoid. Truth be said, Dáinsleif doesn't know how to touch a man in a way that awakens primal instincts to lead to a pleasurable experience beyond what he knows about himself and his own self-discoveries in solitude and with another, when he used to be more active in seeking a partner.

However, despite the silver haired man's question, Dáinsleif is not one to cower or feel intimidated.

❝No experience worth mentioning. But men and women don't differ as much anatomically, I know where they do and what must be done to spark pleasure.❞ Nomad hands uncoil from his arms' embrace to his neck to descend to his shoulders, down to his chest. Al-Háitham has a beautiful chest, well-trained to achieve the visual result it has. Judging his outfit predilection, he presumes pride stands high. As it should have. For being an active warrior no more, he has naught to envy to any of his Black Serpent Knights.

Icy sapphires look back into deep emeralds anew as a means to fight the urge to feel his chest. He will have time for that very soon. ❝However... I'm a firm believer that every person is a world irregardless of their gender. Sexual attraction cannot be measured and create groups with it to generalize all men. What one may like, the next one might dislike it.❞ A restless hand gives his chest a gentle pat. ❝Right now, I wish nothing more than to explore your body, to perceive what takes your breath away or makes you quiver. What makes you gasp and eager for more.❞

❝As I wish for you to guide me if you don't mind to engage in this with me, to show me where to draw lines to not touch, to know how to touch you the way you like... everything.❞ Albeit sincere, hearing himself be so vocal about something that in his mind comes naturally in a process of trial and error makes the tips of his ears burn. Not to say that he dislikes it, however. He finds it best to discuss things beforehand in order to know which buttons not to push, anything. ❝From my end, I can assure you there is naught to be careful about.❞

Difficulty to give in to the most primal temptations makes itself manifest when Dáinsleif makes it so easy for him to continue his endeavours, his neck baring itself open for him in such way that complicates his self-restraint to bare pearl teeth and sink them in his moon kissed skin. Not yet, he reminds himself. They are in the phase of testing the waters, to see what is of their liking and what not. Without mentioning the relevant factor that Dáinsleif has never been with a man before, he doesn't know how far he reached with the two women he's been with either.

A low hum of his own rumbles in his neck as soon as he feels his strong arms wrapping around his neck, as soon as he pulls him closer. He takes it as an invitation to proceed and go farther if he wishes and wish al-Háitham has. Dáinsleif's tremors are a delight, all of them tellers of the effect his kisses have on specifically located spots of his neck. He memorises them all, marks a hand in his mind to revisit and exploit those tender spots of his or make more additions if future occasions like this arise.

Dáinsleif's command is heeded and so he obliges minutely, stays rooted in place from continuing any further and looks into his eyes for signs that tell him if he did something wrong, of feelings he might be hesitant to share that can be gauged by mere observation alone. He finds out none of these are the subject of the blond's worry. Instead, it's the admittance that he never laid with a man before. "So I understood, yes. From your previous words." A punctuated nod is given to accentuate his acknowledgement on the matter, he started this already knowing that.

He appreciates immensely the Twilight Sword's consideration to let it be clear and direct if it already wasn't from before, a gesture al-Háitham repays with gentle brushes of his thumbs over cheekbones. "There is nothing you should worry about. It was my choice to initiate this being fully cognisant of that, after all. We can learn together." Yes, he wants this to be a learning experience for both. For Dáinsleif, to open himself to new possibilities in the sexual realm with men after he showed himself willing to engage in this with him. For himself, to be more loving and less wild— he had sex in previous times with other people... but no real attachment with them to have like he does with Dáinsleif in an intellectual and emotional manner.

It is too early to think of something deeper like love, but not too much to disregard this as nothing at all. They have their shared story, everything they encountered and built along the way culminated in this beautiful connection.

Al-Háitham can't ignore the prospect that something must be done about his lack of experience dealing with a man, however. "You said you know the theory, but let me ask: Do you know how to touch a man? Anything at all for the necessary build up to what you know? Presuming that by knowing the theory you mean what revolves around penetration." His hands fall from his cheeks to his shoulders, down to his arms before finding his sides to keep the motion going, to not lose the physical contact, albeit making it comfortable for him to loosen up. "If you're sure you want to do this, we must be open to one another in order to make this experience as enjoyable as we can."

[reginrokkr]

◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Empyrean ┊Celestial collision.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Empyrean ┊Lightless void.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Empyrean ┊Sun & moon.┊

[reginrokkr]

Tag dump #?:

◟༺✦༻◞ May your ideals prevail in ivory forever┊al Háitham → samyavastha.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Luminous salvation made manifest┊Dáinsleif × al Háitham.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Augury ┊Emerald & silver.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Augury ┊Ley Line crossroad.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Aria of the Augury ┊White of hope.┊ ◟༺✦༻◞ Nascent dreams of fading twilight┊Wishlist.┊

[reginrokkr]

✧ Al-Haitham

          How could he resist the urge to let his fingers weave through moonbathed locks of pale blond under these circumstances? There couldn’t be such a thing as ignoring the man resting on his lap, even less when it was him the one who prompted him to stay with him and relax. Gradually his attention was more and more monopolised by lord Dáinsleif even though he did almost nothing to purposefully attract his attention from reading to him. Until he closed the book and directed his full attention to him when his warm fingers trailed the warmth of his own skin. He put the book on the sofa’s armrest to reach out to reciprocate the affections to the knight in kind, gentle and earnest. “Dahri. That’s how we call the Khaenri’ahns that made it to Sumeru and live there. You are nothing short of fascinating.” And with you as their strongest protector, even more of a topic worth investing one’s interest.

Comfort and relaxation are odd occurrences in days of occupations as they would befit a man of Dáinsleif’s position within a kingdom’s workings. They lull him to close his eyes anew to welcome in earnest even rarer acts of affection so alien to him and for roseate lips to act on their own and release a semblance of low purring. Gloved hand rises to gently circle al-Háitham’s wrist, a quiescent message not to limit his caressing movements— to encourage him to continue for as long as he wishes. ❝Outlander presences en masse usually don’t bode well. I wish to think that our denizens’ signifies otherwise.❞ Let it be not the Twilight Sword of all people the man who speaks ill of Khaenri’ahn inhabitants, his service as oracle-priest and royal knight both suffice to tell book-worth stories of his love for this country. Nevertheless, emotions do not deter him from having a critical and realistic mind and so his thoughts are of the kingdom bathed in darkness. Moon-bathed lashes flutter open to reveal the immensity of icy sapphires specked with infinite stars in number, fond and tender for the one and only man whom he ever engaged into the similitude of a romantic relationship alone— if he so dares to call it so himself. ❝Tell me more about the origin of the word Dahri. Is it safe to assume that the presence of Khaenri’ahn citizens in Sumeru was noticeable enough to give them a name?❞

[reginrokkr]

Paperwork is as inclement as ever, unforgiving of other obligations to be prioritized as per the Regent’s wishes. Alert and attentive of the Grand Scribe’s on the day, occupied on his office when the veil of night covers everything and the subject of his custody goes to slumber. It has been that way since it all started, thus surprise reflects in icy sapphires upon catching sight of al-Háitham sitting by the fireplace, book in hand and leg crossed over the other in a stance that denotes utmost elegance. ❝Should you not be asleep?❞ This time he returns to the Twilight Residence just a tad over midnight, symbolizing that today’s paperwork was fewer in number and in degree of concentration. Perfect to get a good night’s rest. Except the fact that concern begins to spring within his mind as the wooden door closes behind him and thus he makes a beeline to where the Sumerian scholar sits.

@samyavastha​ ✦

[reginrokkr]

✧ Al-Haitham

          To say that lord Dáinsleif’s actuation surprised him beyond all expectations would be an understatement. Al-Háitham wasn’t the most bashful man out there, nor he shied away from the closeness granted by sex. On the contrary, he held the firm belief that sex is one such basic needs that made them human and this was no exception. It was unprecedented of him to mirror the knight’s blush with one of his own whilst he let him clean him, it was a gesture that was unexpected but genuinely appreciated. What a gentle lover he was. Dáinsleif.

          He couldn’t blame the Twilight Sword for his hesitation when he lied back on the side of the bed with him. The nature of their relationship was bound to bring confusion after a moment like this. This is why al-Háitham didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t wish to complicate things. Why he wanted him to keep Dáinsleif close to him in their last shared night together whilst he scooted closer to wrap his strong arms around the blond’s equally strong build.

          This didn’t have to mean anything, he thought. But he also knew he was going to miss him.

          Anticipation for the unknown and curiosity lingered in the Grand Sekretar whilst he followed Dáinsleif. It was by his insistence that they took a detour before showing him the way he must take to return to the surface of Teyvat. “Are you sure this is the way to show me what you mentioned before?” Be it far from questioning him, but it was hard to not have a feeling of unrest in a darkness-filled ambiance like this. He suffered the consequences in human body not long ago. He wished not to return to it.

          Everything he saw was darkness, not a single iota of light that could give him a hint of where they’re heading or what they were stepping onto in the first place. Only after some unmeasurable time of walking did they come to a stop and he looked over the other, expectant.

Everlasting darkness reigns indiscriminately over all living beings under its mantle of obscurity, encroaching everything with its protective or dooming dome alike should one not be cognizant of its danger, should one be willing to be one with its most grotesque side. Nevertheless, regardless how big darkness may be, light will always come to shed its might over those whom thrive at their best with its presence. Twilight Sword was born from the notion of a kingdom veiled in uttermost obscurity that saw a spark of hope in an otherwise lost nation to the blight of this star and with it the importance Dáinsleif has for many whom preserve the very first will of Khaenri’ah’s founders: to live in peace without fear towards divinity.

❝We have arrived.❞ The seraph’s answer does not emerge until they have not reached their destination first, for it would hold no meaning after some more time of walking towards what seems to be nothingness. Naught but void would anyone whom dares to venture this far into the bowels of darkness encounter upon coming to a halt. To al-Háitham’s gladness, it is not Dáinsleif’s case that throws a knowing look at him and reinforces it with a curt dip of his head as he extends a hand to the front, an invitation to step forward. ❝Be my guest.❞

Anticipation fills the luminary’s heart also as he lies in wait for the Grand Scribe to make the move first. Dormancy of that which awaits remains intact, only to react when Dáinsleif steps forward after some moments. Specks of light arise from beneath the heaviness of his boot, perpetrators of a current of light blue that springs from his foot to the front. Luminescent flora and fauna in equal parts reveal themselves and sing songs of praises about the moonkissed man chosen by Irminsul. It is from this melody and luminescence that the Axis Mundi reveals itself last, glowing with its pearlescent white and veins of gold that reach up high to the crown of roseate petals in all their infinite number.

Yes, wishes of witnessing the Sacred Tree unfulfilled permeated the Bough Keeper’s mind, always watchful of al-Háitham’s improvement in what trust and honesty concerns to determine if it is safe to guide him to Irminsul as he so desired. Unfortunate is the best descriptor to define the rupture of a wall that separated them, only to become united in mind and soul within days. Were it not for the pain and the fright he must’ve suffered until he healed and purified him to completion, Dáinsleif would have no remorse whatsoever for starting on a bad footing.

Viridiscent grass glows underneath his feet with every step he takes forward, then he turns on his heels to look at him and offer a nod of his head, ever knowing, ever cognizant.

This shall be my parting gift to you as the Bough Keeper you sought— as Dáinsleif.

[reginrokkr]

Ah, how he missed his tender touch. Softness and care of the one and only that would garner warm sentiments wash over the seraph in tidal waves, brilliant glow within glacial sapphire depths twinkles with glee. Imagine how blissfully his nervous heart beats when rejection was a possibility that Dáinsleif anticipated as an alternative answer. To observe that it was no in the realm of possibilities to al-Háitham gladdens him immensely.

Now does he lean into his touch as he always wanted, to bury his face some more on the palms of his hands and allow himself to feel. To explore all manners that small touches like this does to his heart. Albescent lashes flutter close in anticipation, as soon as realization dawns on him that al-Háitham wishes to recreate their first kiss. No more worries to have, no more what ifs to consider. It's just the two of them, enjoying in full moments that spark out of bouts of sentiments that perhaps none of them expected to have for the other.

Low hums rumble within thoracic cavity as roseate lips welcome the kiss of another set of equally as soft and warm lips. The hand that initially caressed his cheek lowers to his shoulder so it may meet with his other arm to take him in his earnest embrace. Before a pregnant preoccupation lingered in the wake of their first kiss, for al-Háitham was not in the best health condition he could have. He worried he could hurt him, that he could do something wrong and undesirable.

No more.

Dáinsleif parts his lips unasked to invite the scribe's warm tongue in after learning the last time about his enjoyment for spicing up kisses with more warm intimacy like that, enjoyment that is mirrored with Twilight's own. He finds peace in the lack of self-restraint he can exercise with al-Háitham, for a while now when it was crystal clear to him that a breach betwixt them has been stitched together. Within his reserved nature they share, he noticed a genuine wish to be more sincere with him too.

Incarnadine lips byproduct of the languid kiss smile, strong arms pull al-Háitham closer as he trails a path to the pallid column of an exposed neck. He cranes his neck a tad to give him freedom to explore to his heart's content, leveraging in playful lips for each of their descent on his tender skin, basking in the soft tingles of pleasure and the pull of low hums when they reach a weak spot.

Al-Háitham's words are encouraging and comforting in equal ways, now that he holds the certainty that he has done nothing wrong that time when they first kissed and the moment had to come to a sudden halt. His heart flutters within the confines of his chest with euphoria at the notion that he, too, thought about him in this manner. Part of him believes it would be strange not to, when it was him who initiated their first intimate contact.

Punctuated shivers and warmth pooling on the spit of his stomach makes a hand to travel up to hold gently the nape of his head in warning. ❝W-wait...❞ Dáinsleif musters courage to still his beating heart and swallows, warmth spreading on moon-kissed cheeks at the thought of where their current behaviour may lead if they continue. He braves himself to look into emerald irises, then... ❝Before we proceed... I must warn you that I have never slept with a man. I only know the theory.❞ It is the most honest he can be at this moment, so no unrealistic expectations are made. ❝If this supposes any inconvenience to you and you don't wish to continue, I will understand.❞

Al-Háitham doesn't fault him for not having considered the option of seeking that kind of comfort in men. Lord Dáinsleif mindset is in tune with what is expected of him as a pure-blooded Khaenri'ahn and as per his social standing, after all. It has been characteristic of social strata of this level in more civilisation than one, including the times of the Sapphire City and the desert's glory.

The way he spoke earlier about relationships doesn't inspire distaste, either. What he had stated thus far is the conventional manners that mankind work with in order to preserve that blue bloodline. In the past, al-Háitham used to think that way too until he has come to the realisation that were he find a woman who wouldn't understand him and would still seek to bear his children, it couldn't work with females. Not that he wouldn't bed any of them, no. To this day he has sporadic relationships with both women and men alike— though he makes sure to be protected with both lest he contracts a disease, he is particularly careful with women as to not have any undesirable child.

Dáinsleif's touch makes his snap out of his reverie, makes him look at him with impassive surprise only visible to the eye through quivering vermilion-rimmed white pupils. It immediately makes him return to precious memories of the knight touching him this tenderly while they kissed, causing his cheeks to warm with renewed hope and a fluttering heart in this ribcage of his.

I think about you.

That's his answer to a question that he pondered so seriously for minutes of silence. He doesn't think about men— but about him. The realisation of what he implies makes his heart jump in his chest, emerald eyes soften knowingly. So... this is his answer. And there is no one else he would want that way that isn't him. Just him. Even after he left him in the dark back then when they stopped kissing, he still chooses him. That makes him overjoyed.

Without thinking further does al-Háitham reach out to cradle the blond's face in his hands gently before bridging the distance between them for a kiss. There is no waiting this time for him to see if he's accepted, he knows he is. That's why his eyes close to let himself feel, this time for real, without any abyssal presence to wreak havoc his feelings and magnifying them more than they were at the time. This is him in his purest essence.

He sighs in their kiss whilst he brings Dáinsleif closer to him in an open invitation to hold onto him as he pleases. The kiss is soft and telling of many feelings that can't be conveyed with accuracy through words. Is this love? No, that would be too early. Infatuation? Perhaps, that defines better the state al-Háitham is in. Except there is no idealisation of his person as it was at the time, though perhaps it never was— for the way al-Háitham thought about Dáinsleif is the way he turned out to be in reality. Curse you, abyssal presence.

The need to breathe makes them separate from the kiss, although the scribe doesn't want to stop— he doesn't need to wait to recover. He continues a trail of kisses to the corner of his mouth, cheek, jaw and further below to pepper his neck with his affections. How he wanted for this moment to come. "I've been thinking about you, too. All this time, since back then."

[reginrokkr]

Roseate lips warm in earnest smile as all previous apology melts in the wake of al-Háitham's reassurance. So alien does this fallen seraph feels in open discussion about innermost worries and concerns that should be forbidden. Standing in a podium where people set him makes him unreachable to many, thus sentiments of inadequacy and lack of rights to even complain about this life he leads from a privileged prism feels wrong. Truth is, Dáinsleif worked from positions of distrust and even disdain to where he currently is, he earned it.

Grand Scibe's stance is heard with quiescent patience, head nodding every once in a while, vocal chords humming as tellers that he listens. Being a long-living creature is not without its consequences. Slaves of the passages of time cannot stop ever once to mourn the loss of others, most of them whom cannot make it to a century worth of life while other celestial beings suffer from erosion and this star's malady as any human would. From his position as a human, Dáinsleif wonders if al-Háitham has anyone left in his life to brighten his darkest moments. Someone whom can share the burden of time with him. His mind wanders about Dendro Archon's existence, alas in truth is naught but an assumption.

Truth be told, he envies him. Oneself's agency has been lost long ago, Twilight wonders if he ever had one to begin with considering the rough beginning he had in Khaenri'ah. To see a man whom is in a comparable social standing be true to his heart and do what he feels in every moment... Dáinsleif wishes he could be that way, too. Selfishness is a word used oft times to describe a negative trait, he finds it does not have reason to be negative so long as it doesn't cross boundaries. To be self-immersed is positive to oneself so long as consideration for others is kept. He... only how he comes to the realization that he always thinks more about others than he does for himself, al-Háitham's words confirming as much.

❝Men?❞ The Sumerian Scholar's query sparks curiosity in Dáinsleif, whose albescent lashes flutter in a couple of blinks until registration is achieved. Icy sapphires descend to open hands, palms facing him. If he is bluntly honest, he never had. Not even once. All this time, Bough Keeper thought that he would only stand a reasonable chance with women, believed that it is the only path for him to tread were he consider the expectations set on him for his standing and genetics.

Starlit-kissed lashes flutter close in quiescent thought, an attempt to think harder is done. His mind is occupied with al-Háitham alone as his answer. With cheek caresses that defied self-restraint and begets realization in the premise of touch-starvation. About warm lips soft to the touch against his own, tongue even warmer with every slow caress to his own. About strong arms that hold him with much care, as if holding sacredness.

Tranquil past weeks were not different, finding himself prone to leaning a tad longer than it was appropriate when shoulders bumped against one another. Lingering touches lasted equally as long, with no intention to let go until something else would caught their attention that would conclude in their separation.

All of this and more his fluttering heart daren't reminisce... Dáinsleif liked it. It is not a matter of al-Háitham being a man, no. It is a matter of finding attractiveness in honed intellect, of finding fairness in his actions despite general beliefs about fickleness of heavenly creatures. Of acting no different than he would to an equal, despite differences in their origins.

Long, albescent lashes open to reveal trembling glacial sapphires, tellers of countless emotions and feelings not even he can describe. All he can do is let his hand surge up to touch smooth skin of a cheek, long fingers muster courage to sprawl over the expanse of the side of his face to provide a gentle caress.

❝I think about you.❞

"Think nothing of it. It would still be a matter of time until I fell asleep." He barely accommodated himself in the comfort of the bed and closed his eyes, at the end of the day. Time would be needed in order to fall asleep completely. Al-Háitham focuses on towel-drying his hair as he thinks on his answer, admiring the care he put on making it grow so long and healthy. There was a time when he, too, sported an enviably long hair. But ultimately he cut it short as it proved more practical and less bothersome to treat. Dáinsleif's hair, however, is really beautiful and silky, shining with the color of the starlight or the moonlight, rivalling their light in pallor at night.

Being a stranger to a land that seems to be his homeland must be tough, even more so in solitude. Al-Háitham can't help but empathise with him in that matter. He started off alone, being subject of stares and suspicions and distrust only for him to reach to this social standing and lack the freedom he would've wished for himself. "Being on the spotlight to everyone does that to people. It makes them have a lesser agency of their own, morphing them into some public mascot to do as they please." Harsh as his words may be, they are nothing less of factual. This is exactly the reason why he maintains a low profile and to his luck, he managed to keep that for thousands of years. He presumes that lord Dáinsleif doesn't have it as easy to do the same, considering the titles he bears: one of the highest entity of the military, another of an oracle-priest to act as intermediary between Irminsul and mankind.

"I have not in the same extent as you, but I know what you mean." What he resonates with the most is that sense of intrusion. As a long-living creature, he is bound to see generations after generations born and die. Times change, yet he remains the same. To those gods who involved themselves with the people must be hard, too. To understand them, to adapt to them if they believe it is the best option. Even al-Háitham himself is still in a learning process of humankind, a learning process that will last for eternity. "As the Grand Scribe, I am expected to act in certain ways or otherwise. Unfortunately for them, I do what I want." It's his life, after all. They have no business in telling him how he should live it. "The knowledge about the existence of Garuda has long been buried in the past, so at least I don't have to concern myself about that."

Seeing Dáinsleif so affected by this topic makes him feel bad for him. Yes, long ago he has been doing everything he does —always following a set of rules as they exist in any other place, of course—. While he firmly believes that he should learn to do the same... he has the suspicion that he can't, hard as he might try. Because he is too kind for his own good, he learned about him on his own flesh. He would sooner do what is right for someone else than for himself.

Doesn't he ever grow tired of being that way, always looking for others before he would for himself? He would like to ask someday, but he refrains against it. Al-Háitham might be insufferable for some with his brutal realism, but he will not with Dáinsleif. He has enough on his plate for him to add more shade.

His ministrations halt at the closest sign of movement, al-Háitham stills his hand to let the blond move and meet his eyes. His apology is met with a shake of his head, earnest. "Don't. You haven't done anything wrong. Giving yourself the liberty to think about yourself for once isn't wrong." Perhaps today this will sound like so foreign and distant for him, he genuinely hopes that he will learn to do that more for himself. For his own good.

"In fact, I was wondering..." Vultur Volans' hands fall to his lap as his emerald gaze does for a fraction, before it meets with Dáinsleif's sapphire own. "Have you ever thought about men?" It won't be him the one to tell him the pros and cons about it— the Bough Keeper is mature enough to know them to perfection when his attempts at building the designed life for him by a woman's side did not work. More due to the weight of expectation and his lack of interest in the matter at this point in time rather than the ladies themselves, he knows. "If your struggle comes from the standpoint of feeling force to engage into that lifestyle, that should halve the downsides." At least if he can find someone who can share his mindset and who can keep quiet.

Life is too short for him to spend it in voluntary solitude, he should give himself a chance to live.

Without realising so at first, his initial query is filled with intent. He is here, he understands. Because he will leave to some point, too, there shouldn't be that issue. While he would be more direct on this matter, he forces himself not to. He doesn't want to be any more of a thorn on Dáinsleif's side as he already was two weeks ago. And yet... fruitless hope glows dimly within him.

[reginrokkr]

Dáinsleif had to pause on his tracks at the sound of al-Háitham's voice. Was he hearing things? Or was he awake and noticed him by the door watching him? Mindful not to be loud in case his mind was playing tricks on him, the seraph peeks through the gap of the door and notices an increase of light in the chambers as a result of the lamp's luminescence. So he wasn't hearing things, after all.

Nigh gingerly does the luminary open the door to enter, closing it behind him. ❝I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to wake you up.❞ He blinks at the invitation to sit betwixt al-Háitham's legs, yet he doesn't remain rooted on the spot to ponder for too long until he walks towards the bed and sits there. Whatever initial confusion Dáinsleif must've had is cleared up as he senses the removal of the towel from his neck and its touch on his head.

Roseate lips heave a content sigh as his hands root themselves at each side of al-Háitham's hips in order to sustain his weight in blissful relaxation. His careful hands do wonder to soothe any bit of tiredness that the comforting bath could not wash away, a hum in approval makes his lips vibrate as albescent lashes flutter to a close in order to let himself feel.

Al-Háitham speaks again after a moment's quiescence, causing moon-kissed eyelids to open to reveal icy sapphires reflecting the lunar light that enters the windows. ❝Yes, he does.❞ Though his lips remain impassive, anyone could notice a smile in his voice, fondness for that man who watched his evolution since he was but a lost man who just arrived to Khaenri'ah. ❝He's a very good man. Even in times when I felt lost the most he would give me the most valuable of advises without judging me.❞

Ah, those were great times.

It doesn't escape Twilight that al-Háitham noticed the effect that conversation had in him back then at the restaurant, making him act somehow timid but specially hesitant as he went through the topic. As perceptive as ever. ❝I have.❞ Even the Regent offered to search him the best candidates for him to marry with— albeit he was not ignorant that he was trying to get him to marry someone of his own clan. Though it was flattering to some extent, it was not without the bitterness of knowing the intention behind such kindness.

❝In the past... I dated women in two separate moments of time. But it did not work well.❞ The first one was his worst experience, being the first time he was engaging in the intricacies of love. He was naïve and candid, he could not register the possibility of being taken advantage of due to his standing in society alongside what he represents. The second one was much gentler, much more understanding of the scars he had and more experienced than him— she could tell this was not for him, try as he might. He did his best to go through it nonetheless, and it was she the one who prevented him from hurting himself any further. There would be no resentment, no ill feelings whatsoever, and so he built the courage to split ways. He hasn't been with anyone else ever since, finding himself to stay better that way.

❝Have you ever felt... like you know what should be your path in life, what you should do not because of yourself... but the people? The society around you?❞ Dáinsleif is slightly timid in asking this, as he has never once before talked about this with anyone— not even with Halfdan. He is a man who he deeply respects and trusts, yes, but it is hard to open himself fully... when the weight of expectation is so big on him. Even if that life is not for him— at least not yet, perhaps not in this place, he doesn't know. ❝Everyone expects the Twilight Sword and Bough Keeper to marry one day, to have a family with. As a pure-blooded Khaenri'ahn also... there is an additional layer of expectation that it must be with another pure-blooded Khaenri'ahn. After thousands of years of mixed progenies, those who resemble closest to the founders of this kingdom are rare and far in between.❞

Despite knowing fully well that he doesn't come from Khaenri'ah— wherever that place of origin may be.

Dáinsleif ducks his head in dejection. Hardly ever he gives this any thought, but sometimes it is hard not to feel this way when the topic comes. It has been close to 10 years since he came to Khaenri'ah, after all. ❝They say that I am one of them, pure-blooded Khaenri'ah judging by the shape of my pupils. But I... cannot help the thought that I don't belong here, as much as I love Khaenri'ah and as much as I do everything in my power to assist to their cause. Somehow it doesn't feel like it's designed for me, that kind of future.❞ A bitter chuckle escapes him, a shrug of his shoulders then he turns to look back at al-Háitham. ❝Apologies. I got carried away.❞

Lord Dáinsleif's hand is smoother than he would've given him credit for as a captain knight, waker of warm tingles he hasn't felt in a very long time from loved ones. To say that al-Háitham is promptly surprised when the blond urges him to get back to rest is an understatement. He expected him to ask, to prod a bit in search of something that might escape him and that could be related to the abyssal presence —which it is—. It is possible that he is in control of the residual abyssal traces in his organism? Or that he already knows the reason behind his hesitance to speak? He doesn't know and he would prefer to not think further on it.

There is an unmistakeable kindness in the Twilight Sword in leaving things be, in burying whatever has happened between them and feign ignorance— albeit he is well cognisant that he is very aware at the same time. For this... al-Háitham is grateful. Emerald eyes wander to the gift Irminsul has given him until they close, focusing on the back of his mind about the good things that happened to him just recently in hopes that no more nightmares will plague his sleep. He counts with Irminsul's protection, lord Dáinsleif's... and the bittersweet happenstance of a tender kiss he will never forget.

How fortunate he was to have Dáinsleif and see him put endless efforts into his purification, for the next time he has woken up, he felt weak no longer. Only a bit vulnerable, as if it has been several days without exercise that could be remedied with the return to his own personal training in order to regain his strength. That topic was never risen ever again, albeit it never left al-Háitham's mind. One day it would be a topic of conversation before he leaves Khaenri'ah, he wanted it that way. Lord Dáinsleif deserved as much, after everything he's done for him.

Which rose a series of questions he was hesitant to ask: What is he, truly? No human he knows can achieve such great feats like what he achieved in expunging every sliver left of darkness within him, allogene or not. He knows he counts with Irminsul's blessing and the two of them both have an unbreakable connection that even Greater Lord Rhukkadevata acknowledged since his very conception. One day he may ask about it, today is not the day.

The past few days were joyful at best, treading every corner of Khaenri'ah by Dáinsleif's side and sporadically Halfdan's, too, who would join them in his free time. Non-verbal as the Bough Keeper was, he got to learn about the little joys in life he has such as a hearty meal at a restaurant whose boss is so fond of him— so much that he came by to talk with him and asked him when will the great news come of his wedding. That he wishes for him to find the best spouse and to have a family of his own as one of the most anticipated events some Khaenri'ahns have. Al-Háitham knows that man meant well for him, but he couldn't shake the air of solemnity Dáinsleif had once he left and on their way back to the Twilight Residence.

Al-Háitham was ready to rest for the night after a well-deserved bath. Silver lashes felt heavy, they weighted him until his eyes closed, punctuated by a deep breath. Blame it to his acute senses and perception, a presence is felt— though he does not act on it. Not yet. The one and only presence that can be made manifest at this time and at this place is none other's than Dáinsleif's. Truth is, al-Háitham is no ignorant to the blond's nightly endeavours, watching over as if he is checking that no more abyssal presence can act on this body of his.

Emerald eyes open in time to see him close a tad more the door. "Come." He lets his voice penetrate for a few seconds until he hoists his weight up on the pillow to turn the lamp on at a dim light. Al-Háitam waits patiently for the Twilight Sword to come, only now he registers his long, wet hair and the towel around his shoulders. The Grand Sekretar pushes away the mattress and sits on the bed, legs open and a soft pat between them is given as an invitation for him to sit there. When he does, al-Háitham removes the towel around his neck and starts to towel-dry his hair. He practises self-restraint from burying his nose in the luxurious hair of his to have a better smell at the lovely scent his hair emits, such is the effect Dáinsleif has on him.

"That man appreciates you greatly." More than an opinion of his own, it is a factual truth empirically proven by his presence there while he spoke to him. Al-Háitham starts with the crown of his head, hands working their slow way down to his head with firm and circular movement to apply a scalp massage in the process. "Have you ever considered earlier what he told you? About settling down for a spouse, a family of your own." Deep down, there is a sting that pierces his heart as he says so. But al-Háitham remains impassive. What right does he have to claim anything? They are temporary companions, friends at best if they are— and one day will come that he will leave Khaenri'ah.

[reginrokkr]

An air of solemnity washes over Dáinsleif in tidal waves as he watches al-Háitham deflate, the warmth of his arms leaves him. Name it instinct or something else altogether, his heart feared that something would go wrong in the process— gentle and tender as the encounter might've been. It leaves him wondering: Did he do something to provoke this? Was the fact that his hands touched his chest that caused something in him that otherwise wouldn't?

In pursuit not to overthink without being told what it exactly is —if al-Háitham chooses so, at least—, the abandoned seraph chooses not to think more than he should about it. The fact that the Grand Scribe didn't remove completely their physical contact is teller enough that perhaps it isn't entirely on him— if at all. But another prospect that maybe he didn't contemplate. Whatever it is, it matters not.

Dáinsleif runs his hand gently over his cheek and ultimately he pats it to signal the end of their physical contact as to not make this any more awkward, painful or anything in betwixt. To his fortune, his observational skills are sublime and he knows better than to tempt fate like this. ❝Rest.❞

You needn't tell me if you wish not. It's okay.

Everything that is left for him is wait until he falls asleep anew, hopefully it will help him feel better soon, now that he is so close to expunge completely the abyssal traces within his body. If he wishes him to think nothing of it, he won't.

Two weeks has it been since the ceremony of Irminsul and that incident, since the first Inteyvat flower bloom until their return to the astral soil until these flowers grace this kingdom once more with their spotless purity amidst so much darkness. The purification process was a success, all residue of the Abyss gone from al-Háitham's body and a subsequent speedy recovery of what has been touched by its nightly horrors.

Ever since, not a single night has passed without Dáinsleif checking on him, as they reached to the general consensus of leaving the door to their chambers half open in case something were to happen— so they would have one another's back. In truth, it was a white lie so he could have an excuse to watch him and not be watched, for nothing would happen to his person.

Tonight is such night after they have returned from a lengthy stroll around the kingdom and a hearty meal in a restaurant Twilight frequents so, to show him his favorite meal. A microfiber towel surrounds his shoulders, platinum blond hair dripping wet after a most relaxing bath. Icy sapphires check on what he believes to be his sleeping form, he looks so sound asleep— so peaceful. Content with the fact that he can spend another night completely clean of nocturne's malice, he nods to himself and closes further his door so no light may enter his room.

So that is one of the different symptoms that abyssal presence encompasses. Though he is cognisant of the fact that he has yet more particularities to learn about this malady, he is positive that this is what had pushed him to be so bold with lord Dáinsleif when he otherwise wouldn't have acted upon it— not this way. Blood boils within his arteries and veins at the thought that it registered a strong sentiment that sparked recently and made use of it to make him give up to the fall to darkness... whatever that would imply, he doesn't know. It scares him to know, albeit he knows that sooner than later he would have to find that answer, too.

He knew since the mention that he could stay with lord Dáinsleif this way would be forever if he only gave in, to give him a reason to stay by his side like this. Forever doesn't exist in the vocabulary of a human that is mortal, he as a celestial creature bound to be long-living knows this better than anyone. From his parents, from his grandparents. There would be no forever to be had with Dáinsleif, not like this.

The notion that he was touched by the abyssal presence in such manner that it affected his cognitive perception sours the mood for al-Háitham, causing his arms to unwrap from Dáinsleif's neck and letting them fall to his sides on the bed. Silver brows knit in a frown as rage washes over him— for not realising this sooner, for letting it reach as far as it did to involve the Twilight Sword in such an intimate way. Only to lead to confusion on his end, he presumes, and bitterness and sorrow in his heart for being the one to provoke this.

Alas... how does he tell lord Dáinsleif now? Specially when it's so hard to fight off the shame he feels?

"..." Every good emotion and feeling that kiss transmitted to him is now behind him, refusing to give himself the privilege to let his mind wander towards that pleasant moment as a way of self-punishment. Kiss-swollen kiss press in a thin line, he fights the urge to sink pearlescent teeth on his bottom lip until it breaks and bleeds. After a moment's reflection, al-Háitham finds himself incapable of telling the blond about the complexity of this situation, he prays to the merciful Dendro Archon and the other Six if need be that he will see past his silence and understand— ever the brilliantly observant one he is, lord Dáinsleif.

[reginrokkr]

Be still, my beating heart. The wait in pursuit to know if he's been obscenely improper is torture, a torture that to this seraph's luck doesn't last for more than a few seconds thanks to al-Háitham's ease to read the situation alongside his observation skills. Roseate lips allow pass to a sigh in his mouth in relief and a smile the next time they join for a kiss, soon to become much more fervent in passion than he anticipated this first kiss for them would be.

Not that he complains, be it far from him to do that. Al-Háitham's strong arms wrapping around him serve as leverage for him to release some of the weight control of his body onto him, just a tad to let him feel more— to get himself more involved into the moment. He can feel his heart beating vigorously against his chest, another sign of relief to him at the knowledge that he is feeling just as strongly.

That gives Dáinsleif all the tranquility and comfort to stop overthinking, to stop treating this so differently as it would've been in his past times with other women. Al-Háitham is sharp and bold, unfettered by anything that could hold him down. It's proven as much when he so unapologetically licks his lips open and Dáinsleif lets him. If kissing him made him feel warm before, feeling his tongue waltzing with his own makes him feel warmer.

A man's mouth is not anatomically different than it would be a woman's, he notes as al-Háitham lulls his tongue into his mouth to do the same he did earlier and Dáinsleif delights at his own pace in chasing the taste of his mouth. He caresses his tongue with intent, as he does the walls of his warm entrance. To his surprise, it makes him yearning for more like it never did before.

Dáinsleif isn't bothered by the pause of their kissing session when the Sumerian scholar pulls away, though their physical contact persists as it does the warmth of one's breath hitting the other gently on the face. His thumb caresses the skin of his cheek as albescent lashes flutter close, letting this moment set— it may be the first and last one, he ignores.

Starlit lashes open a tad to peer in emerald irises when a question is made. At first it's dissonant in Dáinsleif's mind, so little to do with what just transpired between them until realization dawns on him. An air of solemnity blankets him like a veil in quiescent understanding, should he refer to what he thinks he does. ❝...Yes. Among its symptoms, there have been recurrent findings that the abyssal presence magnifies one's sentiments.❞ Whether that implies falling to the temptation that is described as abyssal intoxication, he doesn't know in full— he fears it is.

A question of his own rises, albeit only in his mind: Is it possible that... this moment was pushed as a result of his affliction? He prefers to not jump to conclusions without gathering more information, not for now. Whatever may be the case... he hopes it will not beget sentiments of guilt in al-Háitham for this.

The missing confirmation al-Háitham needed in order to let all restraints on the back of his mind are there: the slow closure of Dáinsleif's eyes, the weight beside his head to stand closer still to him, the gentle hand that cups his cheek so gently one would not believe possible from a warrior, from the strongest knight of an entire kingdom. It makes him hum in the kiss and close his own eyes, to enjoy the closeness he never considered before he would need until now.

Al-Háitham's free hand moves to the small of his back and lingers there, long fingers kneading in the fabric of his clothes opening and closing as the kiss goes. Air fills his lungs every time their lips part, only to find one another again in the middle. Dáinsleif isn't the most expert in this action, he notes. The hesitance behind his movements and the willingness to let him take the reins of the kiss proves as much. He is a great learner, nevertheless. In no time he was able to figure out what has al-Háitham grunting and sighing in his mouth and they haven't reached as far yet compared to how much heated the kiss could be.

Heated the kiss will be, part of the reason because Dáinsleif's gentleness keeps him going. The small twitches he makes when something feels particularly good and that sound anyone would mistake for an angel's song makes him want to keep going deeper. Amidst the milimetric parting of their lips he draws his hot tongue to lick the blond's lips open for him. He hums, pleased, when Dáinsleif offers no ounce of resistance and so he wastes no time to enter the warm cavern of his mouth to meet his tongue.

The warmth keeps him rooted there, prodding and tasting and teasing his tongue with languid laps; his taste intoxicates him like fine liquor. Al-Háitham's hands touch the blond's sides as they ascend until they snake around his snake to keep him close to him, to let him press some of his weight on him if he so desires, he doesn't care. Silver eyelashes caress the pallor of his skin to open a tad, to observe and take in the beauty of this man that would make anyone doubt if he's even human. Emerald eyes meet deep sapphires and for a moment, al-Háitham finds himself mesmerised. Only now he registers the small starry dots in the depths of his irises, enhancing the beauty of his unique star-shaped pupils.

To Dáinsleif's moan, a hum of his own follows in a non-verbal communication to let him know that the pleasure is mutual before his eyes close again. He beckons the knight's tongue in his mouth to taste him, too, to let his imagination fly and dictate his movements in his learning experience if he so wishes. It sends tingles down his spine, it makes him crave for more. A voice in his head, apparently, thinks it adequate.

Isn't it lovely to be this united with him? Now, let yourself feel. Free yourself from all the restraints and merge with the desire in your body. That way you and your beloved will stay together, he will have a reason to stay by your side forever.

...

Wrong.

Emerald eyes open once again, this time to not let himself give in to the moment. What was...? So his lips separate from Dáinsleif, albeit he makes no move to imply rejection or distaste. Al-Háitham keeps their foreheads together, feeling the blond's breath hit his face as it must his own to Dáinsleif. His heart trembles, cowers in fear. Nothing like the vigorous beating from earlier with newfound strength to keep himself awake. That was close. Could it be that this is the whispers of the abyss as he named it? "Tell me..." He breaks the silence after a moment of pause, his voice but a whisper. "Is among the symptoms the possibility of magnifying one's feelings? Something akin to make it easier to give in to temptation?"

Temptation being so bold with Dáinsleif and kissing him, but he doesn't dare to say so. He doesn't want to call Dáinsleif a temptation, he doesn't have any reason to take responsibility over some infatuation of his in the spur of the moment.

[reginrokkr]

For someone who had no desire to act on his advantage as a celestial creature in grounds where faith lacks, it's not without reason that al-Háitham would have preferred to remain in silence and not share that fact about himself. There was no way to know the outcome of that, even less in a land he doesn't know and where Dáinsleif himself knows for a fact how irascible people can be. Perhaps he would've done the same were he in the same position as the Grand Sekretar, he doesn't know. What is known is that he cannot hold it against him for that— in the end, he knew since the very beginning what he is. He could not do anything to prevent what happened to him, as he has no power over him.

It is best to leave things in the past and work with what one has towards the betterment of their future, is this wayward seraph's mindset. To al-Háitham's fortune, the prognosis looks positive and even more it will be if he manages to remove all trace of abyssal presence within him.

The small jest makes Dáinsleif's lips curl in a soft smile, a soundless chuckle emerges from the exhale of his nose as his head shakes. ❝It would seem that you're in good spirits, all things considered. That is good.❞ Better than he expected, actually. It means that some of his strength is coming back to him, that he is reclaiming back his sense of self even if the abyssal presence is persistent in removing that from everyone until nothing but a husk of what they once were remains. Seeing him like this is the best reward he can receive as a perpetrator of the purification process.

❝Irminsul, yes. It had spoken to me and it knows about your ailment in your attempt to protect it.❞ He clarifies. Given the circumstances it has gone through in the past and its renewed activity with humans, it is a rarity in itself to see it be so responsive. Perhaps it always was, but it had to be careful to not be taken advantage of.

Dáinsleif takes notice of the scholar's intention to reach out to him and, for the first time, he deigns himself to stand from his chair and sit on the bedside to make it easier for him. Azure, stellar pupils widen slightly when he finally registers why al-Háitham wanted to reach out to him as soon as he's met with the warmth of his hand. It makes his heart flutter within the confines of his chest, his exhale to tremble as it emerges from parted lips. Why does he feel so vulnerable under his touch? No, perhaps that is not the most suitable question— why does it make him feel like this?

The Twilight Sword is no ignorant to gentle touches, though most of the times he tends to avoid it. The act of courting is no stranger to him, either, being the oft times the objective of many. He is also aware of the times that many would use that to their advantage to boast about being on intimate terms with the Bough Keeper and captain knight of the Black Serpent Knights, reason why he always maintained his space from any kind of physical contact that is beyond the friendly or professional realm.

Perhaps that is the reason why his senses feel so overwhelming when al-Háitham cups his cheek with as much tenderness as he uses, when the soft rub of his thumb under his eye draws his attention to look down, then back into emerald irises. Moon-kissed skin feels an increase in warmth, it tingles with the quiescent wish to be touched. So this is what it means to be touch-starved... The mere thought suffices to feel gentle heat rush to his cheeks in embarrassment, not due to al-Háitham's act in itself but his own vulnerability and newly discovered craving. Perhaps he shouldn't be so strict on himself, to be more active in seeking sporadic companions that will keep their lips tight— as difficult as that may be to encounter.

To al-Háitham's question, Dáinsleif nods his head and he almost curses his lack of awareness that it would cause friction against his hand and with that, the touch starvation would increase. ❝Human quality knows not of believers or not, of celestial beings or otherwise.❞ That is the truth of his heart, hidden from everyone lest people lose trust in him. Khaenri'ah is in a bad state as it is, with the Regent trying the damnedest to give it life anew after late King Irmin's passing. ❝Worth it, it is. More problematic, also yes.❞ Dáinsleif has to fight every urge in him to tilt his head against the touch. The more he feels, the more he wants. It scares him. ❝I like exchanging our different views of this world, to have my beliefs challenged. It is new and refreshing, something I hardly can do with others here.❞

Since the very beginning when an air of hostility permeated lord Dáinsleif's office at the Black Serpent Knight HQs, al-Háitham knew that his scrutiny was for a reason. Whatever lingering thoughts he had at the time were pushed away like a mere happenstance at the notion that Halfdan would be the knight guarding him, completely oblivious to the fact that the Twilight Residence is, in truth, Dáinsleif's mansion. Twilight Residence for the Twilight Sword, he felt obscenely dense for not realising it sooner. Halfdan had already talked about his generosity in offering him that place to stay in, the clues were there.

As soon as he saw lord Dáinsleif in the kitchen soon after he was done cooking himself some dinner, he knew: it is no coincidence that a knight of his caliber would watch over him. And truth to be said, it stands to reason that he would deem necessary to have an eye on him as much as he could. He hasn't been the most transparent even when he was given the chance to be twice, perhaps Dáinsleif was not entirely either. Both had something to hide from the other, except the Bough Keeper had the upper hand since the first moment he set foot in his office.

"In my defence, I could not trust that revealing my identity in full would make things any better for me." He shakes his head slightly to give weight to his words. Despite Dáinsleif's well-placed thoughts that it was reckless of him to act the way he did and thus jeopardising his safety, to clamour to the winds in a faithless kingdom that he is not only a celestial being, but the Dendro Archon's familiar would not feel any different than a spit on the face. "The only chance I stood is to stay silent until it was time to return, I never had any intention to take advantage of your hospitality. Not yours or the Khaenri'ahns for receiving me."

"Alas..." Al-Háitham sighs at the reminder of what had happened in the prelude of disaster, when he spotted those Purpureum Astrum members scheming something. Nothing but his instincts to testify that they weren't up to no good he had, until he could verify it himself. That is when everything went downhill. "Who would've expected that your instincts would beget an actual bad omen?" A shrug of his shoulders punctuate there was no other choice, his toneless voice emit a spark of jest he didn't know could elicit in a moment like this, in this conversation. Somehow it feels easier, to talk like this with lord Dáinsleif.

Isn't it lovely? To open yourself to him like this, ridding yourself of all shackles of self-restraint you must have at all times with that god of yours.

Yes. Yes, it is. Though al-Háitham doesn't pay attention to the fact that a discordant voice that doesn't match lord Dáinsleif's resonates in his mind, he finds agreeing with that notion. It's like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders and allows him to breathe. With truths bared open for display between the two of them when everything has been revealed. It feels like beginning on a clean slate with the baggage of mutual trust built. Like this, he feels at ease. Like he can finally be completely honest as he always is, in truth. With lord Dáinsleif, he knows he can be. It's safe. A pity that such undesirable event had to take place in order to reach to this point of confidence.

The continuation of his explanation makes all the sense in the world. His will to act as a protector too was never one-faced. Seeing him right here, by his side, proves as much that he wishes genuinely to see for his safety until it is time to return to Sumeru. He doesn't have any reason to trouble himself for him, for most of the part, he has gotten himself into this, after all.

"Irminsul?" Al-Háitham snaps out of his reverie and follows his gaze after the knight to see a peculiar flower inside a glass dome. Emerald eyes soften at the prospect that the sacred tree acknowledges his wish to protect it and gave him that flower. In retrospective, he wonders if it, alongside lord Dáinsleif's efforts to bring him back to health, helped with the nightmares. This one wasn't near as bad as the first one was. His chest fills with pride and honour. The blond continues speaking and his eyes look back at him after some more seconds of silent adoration of the flower. "That is correct. For having lost faith in the gods, Khaenri'ah still has a faith in something. Otherwise the ceremony wouldn't have existed, I presume."

How very curious, the way human mind works.

The next thing lord Dáinsleif says leaves him speechless, a rarity in him of all people whose wit is endless and ready to be implemented in a response. Al-Háitham finds that this time... he doesn't have anything to say. He is truly a good man, Dáinsleif. Despite all the trouble he would go through were others find out everything he is doing for not only an outsider, but a believer... he's still there, doing the damnedest as if it were his fault that he was rendered afflicted by the abyssal presence.

Untouchable is no longer a descriptor you would use for him, is it? In all his fairness and ethereal appearance, he is as reachable as the next person is. What is stopping you from reaching out to him, to see for yourself how palpable he is? Would your heart not be at ease if you did? Why lengthen your torment more when he is right here, at arm's reach?

Al-Háitham thinks nothing of the voice as he reaches out his hand —one thing he does realise is that it no longer trembles from the exertion, however small it is, albeit it's still heavy— to cup the side of Dáinsleif's face. So warm and smooth. Barely now he registers the bags under his eyes, the fine lines that denote exhaustion. It must've been long enough since the last time you rested, hasn't it? All for my fault... His thumb runs over one of the under eye lines with enviable care, taking time to admire how the blond's sapphire eyes shine like two gems. "...Even if I am a believer? Is it worth it?" Is it worth all the trouble for the opposite of who you coexist with in your daily life? Worthier than siding with your people and seek profit from Sumeru someway in exchange of his repatriation?

[reginrokkr]

Dáinsleif finds relief in the scholar's obedience to rest as he is told. It is with no other intent in mind than veiling for what is in his best interest, after all, and he certainly needs to replenish his energy. For his energy plays a primordial role in the purification's acceleration. He has said earlier that allogenes count with a weak protection against the abyssal presence and he was right. It's from that same protection that he will be able to draw more strength from their united power to get rid of the malady to completion.

A soft shake of his head preludes the heaving of a sigh past roseate lips before the seraph straightens his back with a furrow in his eye. The time has come to resume the purification. Porcelain hands rise to embed themselves in sapphire flames prior to put them atop al-Háitham's chest. Albescent lashes flutter close in concentration to trace back the scales that lead him to the void energy within his body.

Persistent concentration leads him back to the locked Dendro energy whose shackles were half-way through liberation. That is what Dáinsleif has been spending his energy earlier, in releasing that element so it can serve as an aid to himself an al-Háitham. Celestial flames intertwine with purple-black ooze, undoing it slowly and cremating it to oblivion in order to reach out to the Dendro element, so intrinsically tied to his soul. Were he opt to leave out his own strength, the purification process would be all the more painful— for he cannot oversee the scribe's own heavenly might that would clash with the dark void and would undoubtedly harm him in the process.

The final chains of poison are undone at long last, thus Dendro is released and rushes everywhere back on his body and part of it presses forth to meet with sapphire Ether in between. White-golden energy surges from the very core of al-Háitham's element to unite with the other two colors, one soul touches the other in an intimate connection meant to achieve the purification and healing of his body.

So they do in conjunction with one another, permeating nervous system and cardiovascular systems alike to fight back all deathly residue of the void. Eliminating it is harder than permeating one's being, but it is possible. Al-Háitham stands a great chance to survival first and foremost— it hasn't been that long since the abyssal presence entered his body, even less start to erode his mind, soul and organs. The prognosis is positive, albeit Dáinsleif cannot afford to give him hope when anything can happen at this moment. It will be known once al-Háitham's body is clean and the recovering process begins.

Exhaustion commences to weigh heavily on bone and flesh. Dáinsleif has lost all sense of time long ago, albeit he can tell that it must've been several hours since the purification has begun judging by the dying light outside the windows. He should take a break, too, lest he exerts himself too much and later he's unable to continue with the scribe's healing process— but he presses on. It is not time to rest until every bit of abyssal presence is gone. Not when he's so close and he counts with al-Háitham's own willpower, unbeknownst of him.

Icy sapphires move to look at his face, scrunched up and silver brows furrowed in a frown as his head shakes gently on the pillow. The sight makes Dáinsleif pause, his eyes soften with shared empathy when realization dawns on him that he must be having another nightmare. At least it doesn't seem as violent and intense as it was before— that is sign of improvement. Good. Irminsul's words before he left the ceremonial site reverberate within the confines of his mind again, making his eyes widen at the reminder that in all its grace it gifted al-Háitham a Lyratum flower. Dáinsleif ceases his Ether transferral to dig in the lapel of his coat anew, his eyes descent upon the white-blue flower on his hand.

An idea sparks within his mind and so he stands from his chair, a soft grunt abandons his lips at the pain of his derrière for sitting too long on a hard surface and so he smoothes a hand there to alleviate it some before moving to leave the room. The walk will do him some good too to stretch his legs. He pauses by the kitchen first to drink a glass of water, then he goes to the living room to fetch a glass dome he remembers seeing earlier. Every time the Inteyvat season returns, he always plucks one and puts it inside to have one at home for as long as its season lasts until it withers. Dáinsleif takes the empty glass dome and returns to al-Háitham's room. He opens the dome while he takes a sit once again and introduces the Lyratum within, then he encapsulates the pale flower with the dome. A satisfied nod is given after a glance to see if the flower remains in place before placing the entire dome atop the nightstand, close to him so it may guard his slumber.

So the small break ends and Dáinsleif resumes the purification, feeling more refreshened after stretching his legs some and having some water to quench his thirst. He ignores how much longer has it been —nor he bothered to look at the clock while he walked around the house, either— nor when al-Háitham has awakened exactly until he hears his voice and he perks as a reaction. Glacial sapphires look at him and blink once, twice to process the question as the Grand Sekretar elaborates his logic.

❝There is a reason why I assigned you the Twilight Residence as your place to live for as long as your stay lasts in Khaenri'ah.❞ He starts, hands retreating from his chest to rest on his lap. ❝As there is a reason for me to act as your main custodian. Since I knew from the very beginning about your roots, I anticipated the possibility that you may act on it with hostility against the kingdom. It was mandatory to have you in check.❞

Dáinsleif's motives to go out of his way to do this himself aren't entirely pure, they never were. As al-Háitham's intentions were never transparent, either. He had to make sure to stay vigilant of any sign that could denote an ulterior motive that could bring more harm than good to accede with this cultural exchange betwixt nations. ❝The other way around goes, too. If you remember what I said earlier, your condition as a celestial creature makes you more vulnerable to the abyssal presence and as in any country, not everyone in Khaenri'ah are white doves, either. Were anyone seek you harm and immediacy of reaction were impossible, the outcome may have been much different. Not all doctors have the means to treat effectively the illness by its root.❞

Does this answer the Grand Scribe's question? He's unsure, notwithstanding, it feels somehow incomplete. Why is he doing this could entail so much—

A shrug of his shoulders is given after a moment's consideration. ❝All in all, you never acted on your privilege as a celestial envoy. Your interest for Khaenri'ahn culture is genuine, be it for your own academic pursuit or as a means to share cultural aspects with other nations. Besides...❞ Azure eyes wander towards the Lyratum within the glass dome, a nod of his chin to indicate him to look at it is given. ❝Irminsul acknowledges your earnest intention to protect it, as do I. Khaenri'ah and celestial beings may be at odds, but...❞ Albescent lashes flutter to a brief close, before they open to reveal narrowed, celestial sapphires. ❝It would be hypocrite of me to not believe that part of your kind cannot be genuine and seek no harm to mankind. Irminsul, too, is of divine origins... after all.❞

Every small knowledge is key to have a bigger perspective even to that which one attests to have no wisdom about at all. Although al-Háitham couldn't admit to be as knowledgeable as he would like in this aspect that looks so intrinsic to Khaenri'ah, he is not completely ignorant. What lord Dáinsleif says are strokes of aquarelle that fill an incomplete painting. Given his position as Garuda, he knows about the endeavours of other gods once the dust of the Archon War has settled. Divine beings who refused to linger under the order of the Seven flew to the Dark Sea, where it is said that some already passed away— many others have lost themselves and the only culprit to blame is the abyssal influence in this world.

As such, al-Háitham was also cognisant of the fact that creatures of celestial origins are more vulnerable to the abyss. Boundless as their war against the darkness of this world may be and immense as their power may be, not even gods are exempt from falling to the void's clutches. It must be the reason why lord Dáinsleif not only insisted once that he is clear with him, but twice even if he had already known before he set foot on his office at the Black Serpent Knights HQs. Thinking in retrospective, this must also be one of the reasons he wished to apply the genic treatment to him. Were he refuse, who knows if he would still be alive at this point.

They haven't started with good footing and it is only himself to blame for his lack of trust to be completely transparent with lord Dáinsleif even when he showed that he is filled with genuine and earnest intentions. Al-Háitham hopes that it gets better from now on if he will live to see it— he truly does. Specially now that he has noticed that the blond is not mad for interrupting the ceremony.

Blame it to his lack of rest, his current condition or both (he has lost track of time during his sleep, but it feels like he hasn't slept one bit, nonetheless), the scribe fights the urge to close his eyes and go to sleep again. Despite the countless horrors he has dreamt of that suffice to create an irrational fear to sleep again. Lord Dáinsleif's explanation is fascinating and as someone who is afflicted by this malady, it's in his best interest to learn as much about this disorder as possible. "Understood." Is the only thing he can muster to say that encompasses so much in so little. Otherwise lightweight eyelids feel heavier and heavier as he falls asleep at long last, a sliver of thought crosses his mind before all consciousness fades away.

Will you be there when I wake up? Dáinsleif...

Will you be there when I wake up, grandma? Is what he used to ask when he was little. Brilliant as he was, al-Háitham was not without his bouts of fear as any little kid of his age at the time would be. The truth is, for as long as his family was alive, he never lacked a single thing. Not the love of a mother and a father he adored and respected until they passed away prematurely, not the love of his grandfather who was loyal to King Deshret and his loyalty was repaid on his own person. Not of his grandmother's, specially, who was the one who spent most of the time with him.

Comfort and relief born from tender memories are blown by the abyssal wind away. Once again does al-Háitham find himself on the sidelines of the Inteyvat field and those purple-black lines start to follow him. With no direction in mind he runs away within the darkness— at least this time he can move. His chest feels heavy, his mind is filled with whispers that threaten to claw their way out of his brain as if they had a life of their own, telling him to give in. Telling him to find the repose he needs. It knows about his exhaustion.

But he persists. He persists, and persists, and persists until the first outline of an Irminsul branch in the starless sky peeks in. That should be his safe haven— it is for the entirety of this world, there is no reason why it wouldn't welcome him too. The more he runs, the heavier his legs feel. But he presses on, the Holy Tree is right there in sight, its base so palpable and close. His hand stretches out towards its sacrosanct being, albeit black roots cover his body and they extend to his arm. Verdant energy emerges from him in a burst that gives him freedom from the clutches of darkness to continue forward.

He's close. So damn close.

Irminsul's pallor is at his fingertips' reach, but the ground under his feet crumbles and he falls. He falls, falls and falls in a sea of darkness where he has no strength to escape from even if he tried. Irminsul's light dwindles the deeper he falls and he closes his eyes, defeated. This is as far as I can reach... Al-Háitham had no intention to open his eyes anew, for he knew the next thing that would follow for him, until a strong light can be felt even through closed lids. His eyes open to see a four-pointed star in the distance that turns into eight points due to the beams of light it emits— ultimately, its light engulfs all the darkness and reaches to him to swallow him whole, too. Silver lashes close, a tear streams down the corner of his eye.

Not yet... I can't give up yet. Not like this!

Emerald eyes open wide and narrow at the blessed sight of the bedroom's ceiling. His chest rises and falls heavily after having experienced another bad dream— to his luck, this time it wasn't as horrifying as the first was. Amidst his reacquaintance with the warmth of his chambers, he feels the side of his face wet but chooses against acting on what he presumes to be a tear.

Instead, he moves his head on the pillow to see that Dáinsleif is still there, by his side. A sense of gladness fills his now calming chest upon finding out that he didn't leave his side. Did he ask him if he would be there when he wakes up? He cannot remember, the truth is it doesn't matter. Only now does he pay attention to how ethereal he looks, bathed in the sapphire aura that has become a noticeable characteristic of him. His platinum blond hair now looks whiter, perhaps as a result of the energy he emits to transfer into his body, it almost looks like it could glow. As his starry eyes did, glowing in the dim light of the nightstand lamp like two of the brightest shivada jades he has ever seen.

At this moment do Halfdan's words reverberate in the confines of his awakening mind. About the adoration-filled praises he had for the Twilight Sword. About how loved he is in Khaenri'ah even if he, too, was an outsider. Now he understands why a subordinate would show with pride so much appreciation for lord Dáinsleif. He's a good man, kind like none other he has met. His intelligence and thought-provoking philosophies of life unmatched by those wannabe scholars from the Akademiya. From this side, he looks so ethereal and beautiful— so angelic.

"Why are you doing this?" He blurts out finally, partly to reveal that he woke up and partly to hide the shame he has for idealising him so much— he hopes it's not another one of the symptoms of the abyssal presence. What he means exactly by this, regardless? Too many things to name only one. He chooses one of all of those, regardless. "Since the beginning you knew about what I am, but you never acted on it. You could've informed about this to the Regent, anything. But you never said one single thing, not even to me until that backfired horribly. Why?"

[reginrokkr]

So al-Háitham did not come completely empty-handed with his logic that he could fit right in with those Khaenri'ahns who became citizens after their faith in the divine was lost. Well-kept secrecy is one of the traits this kingdom is known for, albeit that does not mean that it lacks information of everything that stays outside the borders. The coming of people of all kinds of walks permitted the entrance of more knowledge than Khaenri'ahns by themselves could achieve in such a short time span. Dáinsleif can tell that al-Háitham had paid attention to those who used Sumeru as a crossroad to reach the reign established at the roots of Irminsul.

Alas, it was not enough.

❝It may have been enough for the rest, actually.❞ Dáinsleif accompanies gently the scribe's hand on the bed, his own hands find rest on his own lap thereafter to take some moments of repose himself before resuming the purification of his body. ❝Allogenes are easy to spot amidst a crowd. They are not the most subtle when showing off that Vision they wear.❞ Which includes al-Háitham himself, for that matter.

Long ago Dáinsleif has assumed that it is the norm to reveal to the people that they are allogenes, rare and far in between as they are. One of the reasons why he is against them is because of the sense of incompetence thrown at other people who were not "chosen" by gods and humans alike. ❝Celestial beings, however, not so much. Specially when most of them— gods and lower creatures of heavenly connection alike acquire a human appearance.❞ His head shakes slowly. ❝It is unlikely that the reason you were attacked is because they knew about your roots. But that doesn't mean your actions were any less reckless.❞

Roseate lips part to heave a sigh of his own as a hand smoothes a few strands of starlight-touched hair away from his face. At least it seems like he finally gauges the relevance of the situation and the reasons why he jeopardized his own safety. Ere long does the first spark of interest and acknowledgement over the urgent matter at hand with al-Háitham's query. One that wish as he would to answer with the most desirable response, Dáinsleif cannot. ❝To your misfortune, I'm afraid that I cannot answer that question yet. You're currently in the early stages of purification, so the outcome will depend greatly on your own improvement.❞

In the face of adversity and the unknown, it is only natural to draw a comparison betwixt illnesses in order to formulate an idea in one's mind and know what to expect. Though Dáinsleif did not know about this Eleazar illness occurring in Sumeru, he listens quietly. By the way he describes it, it's a chronic illness that reduces drastically one's lifespan. Some symptoms may intertwine as one and the same such as respiratory and motor problems, but there is a line drawn where some other signs differ vastly.

❝I cannot draw a conclusive parallelism between Eleazar and your ailment, if it's what you are trying to make me do.❞ One leg crosses over the other as another sigh abandons his lips, his aching back presses against the back of the chair. ❝The abyssal presence... it precipitates everything to death. It belongs to the Void Realm, which coexists in this world alongside the Human Realm and Light Realm. While the latter two can exist together without inherently being detrimental to one another, it is not so with the Void Realm. Its energy consumes elements and heavenly essences alike.❞

Dáinsleif gestures vaguely towards al-Háitham with a hand before his arms cross over his strong chest in quiescent thought. ❝Allogene or not, humans have a degree of elemental energy within them. It is safe to assume that being an allogene may offer a protection to some extent, nevertheless... it is tantamount to hover a sheet of paper between a punch and the objective to be punched.❞

❝On the other side, it is primordial to keep in consideration that you are a creature of celestial origins. The heavens and the abyss collide against one another, that much is true. However, just as the heavens can be extremely harmful to the abyss, so the abyss can be to the heavens. What differs you from the regular person is that you're weaker to the abyssal influence because your immunity system is naturally more vulnerable.❞

Silence falls like a blanket thereafter to let al-Háitham process what he has explained so far. Be it far from the seraph's intention to dampen his soul, notwithstanding, Dáinsleif is not one to water down occurrences of this degree of seriousness.

❝General symptoms include cardiovascular decompensation which entails into respiratory and organ failure as the worst outcomes. Headaches, nightmares, whispers of the abyss, skin irritation, body decay from the inside out or otherwise... these are among the most common of signs and symptoms one may experience if touched gravely by the abyssal presence. As for the prognosis, regardless...❞ Impassive as his porcelain features remained despite the gravity of the situation, icy sapphires soften. ❝That will depend on your willingness to collaborate with me. To share your discomfort but also your improvement if applies. It is for your sake that you must be transparent with me.❞

That's right. If he didn't have the heart to be transparent with him in the past when he was given two chances, for the betterment of his health he should from now on. So long as he doesn't attempt anything against this kingdom, it is not in Dáinsleif's interest to know that isn't to help him back to health without sequels, ideally. ❝The first step is to go back to rest. I am aware that you struggle with nightmares, but it is in your best interest. You will do yourself a bigger favor if you rest than if you don't.❞

The strain put on yet nigh unresponsive muscles is alleviated instantly when lord Dáinsleif holds his hand, giving him support to rest and stop the unnecessary physical effort. It's surprising how relieving a simple touch is, such a stark difference to the horrors he has experienced in his dreams for an undetermined amount of time. His hand is soft to the touch and warm, it grounds him to reality and gives him a respite he'd loath to admit.

Weren't for the lethargic condition he is in, al-Háitham would feel his heart drop at the revelation that Dáinsleif knows about his origins as a celestial being— from his duty towards the late King Deshret to his current connection with Greater Lord Rhukkadevata. That doesn't stop emerald eyes from widening in his shock, scarlet-rimmed pupils from trembling within until his eyes narrow in acquiescence.

Everything makes sense now with this revelation. From their very first meeting when lord Dáinsleif showed himself skeptic, distant and cold— doubtful of his motives in Khaenri'ah to several weeks later when that frigidness sparked again at the notice that he withheld intentions in this kingdom from him. It's the knowledge that he lacked transparency with him that created a rift between them since the beginning, with moments of uniting bridges in between until more reasons to distrust him sprang.

"...So you knew all along." His words aren't meant to invite any more speculation on the matter or question him. They are a vocalised surrender, nothing of what he can say will subtract or add more to what he already knows.

Now, what truly catches him off guard is the subtle hints in his voice as he continues to speak. Is he upset? His lips press in a thin line as he studies his features closely, as he uses his low voice as a lifeline to keep himself conscious before the darkness of his body claims his consciousness again with nothing he can do about it in his current state. "Your guess is in a good place. There is knowledge in Sumeru about caves with Khaenri'ahn technology to guide people who had lost their faith in the gods towards this kingdom. Some come all the way from other nations to cross Sumeru for that, so the prospect that some allogenes may exist among your people is what led me to believe that I could camouflage myself amongst them."

Perhaps it did, perhaps it didn't. It is common knowledge among allogenes and common people that the elemental mastery a Vision offers is related to the Archon in question, thus it is them who grant this blessing to them. In the practise, however, al-Háitham knows it is vastly different. So little it is known about Khaenri'ah outside the borders of its kingdom and the ocean of darkness one must tread in order to reach to this oasis, yet the reign's knowledge about the outside world brims with so much wealth... it was hard to tell, even to Greater Lord Rhukkadevata, try as she might. There is too much veiled in darkness, some knowledge that comes from this bottomless abyss unfathomable.

"Apparently, that did not work."

Al-Háitham sighs in defeat as he lets his hand slip away from in between Dáinsleif's own to fall by his side, his gaze is cast away from sapphire eyes to the ceiling above. What the Bough Keeper says are factual truths without intentions to make him feel bad for not being completely sincere with him. That is besides the point, as it would for those who would stare at one's pointing finger instead at the sun they point.

As someone who has faced the horrors of an analogous darkness in the distant past, al-Háitham isn't completely well-versed in what this is or how it affects— or if it's similar at all or a different thing altogether. His knowledge on the matter cannot contest Dáinsleif's, who seems to be more concerned about it. That is what upsets him the most, is it not? "Tell me... do I stand any chance at full recovery?" This is what he should've asked first and foremost upon awakening. What the Twilight Sword denotes is his own irresponsibility for being opaque to these truths that in a greater or lesser extent must affect to the correct functioning of his body.

Truth is he knew and there was nothing he could've done to prevent it. Of course he didn't. It was his responsibility and his responsibility alone that he chose to not return to the Twilight Residence and instead, he wandered around on his own. It was him who subjected himself to the perils that were likely to occur without lord Dáinsleif or Halfdan's protection, as they were occupied with the ceremony.

His urgency to warn lord Dáinsleif about Irminsul's endangerment blinded him to possible perils in the very ceremonial site, he who knew that those members of the Purpureum Astrum were up to no good.

"In Sumeru..." He breathes, then he rises his arm up high to the best of his ability. "An illness by the name of Eleazar exists since thousands of years ago. One of its symptoms is the hardening of one's skin and the apparition of grey scales." He turns his arm to check the other side too, nothing. His arm falls to his side again on the softness of the bed. "Everyone affected by that illness has their quality of life decreased substantially. They have respiratory issues, let alone motor disorders." Al-Háitham looks at Dáinsleif after a moment of pregnant silence to let all the implications of contracting such malady settle in. "Lay it on me without sugarcoating, please. What is the prognosis? What are the symptoms, should this malady last forever?"

I may have failed in delivering transparency when I was interested the most to reveal it looking in retrospective. You're a good man... lord Dáinsleif. I know you will not lie at the detriment of my health just to make me feel better. You never did— not even now.

[reginrokkr]

Roseate lips part to heave a sigh now that he doesn't need to maintain his composure in the face of the adversity that Purpureum Astrum posed over everyone. Dáinsleif turns towards Irminsul and walks slowly towards the All-Knowing as a gloved hand digs within the trench coat's lapel to retrieve his own offering: an Inteyvat flower. Not a single year is spared without this seraph's gift to Irminsul at the end of the ceremony, far from everyone's gazes. It is not an offering as the others in order to please its magnificence and keep earning its favor, no— but a genuine gift, for Dáinsleif can always feel its presence within his being as if they are legitimately connected.

By its base Twilight lowers himself on a knee to deposit the Inteyvat with utmost care, only to stand on his feet thereafter and look upwards to its crown. Stellar pupils widen within icy sapphires as they register a small flower's descent. Dáinsleif what flower that is: a Lyratum. Only on the furthest top of withered white trees similar in Irminsul's composition these flowers bloom. Gloved hands extend in a cupping position as he patiently waits for the flower to land on his hands and, for the first time in a long time, he listens Irminsul's voice.

Here, for that celestial warrior from afar. For all the pain and suffering he will endure, and the nightmares his mind will be burdened with at the bottomless pit of the Abyss... give this flower. May he carry my timeless flower as he finds repose in convalescent slumber.

The Lyratum flower lands safely on the luminary's hands at long last, thus albescent lashes flutter to a momentary close.

So this is your wish... very well, I shall comply.

No, the likelihood that this is Irminsul's wish is low. As the Tree of Time, nothing that remains in the past, present and future escapes its eternal wisdom. The notion of al-Háitham receiving recovery aid is not a command Dáinsleif follows— it is an intention made manifest in his heart since the moment he fell to the ground as a result of that Purpureum Astrum member's macabre plan to silence him before he revealed their plans. Dáinsleif tucks the flower safely in the pocket of his lapel and bows to Irminsul. After a few seconds of courtesy, he turns on his heels and breaks into a run to catch up with Halfdan.

To both Halfdan's and his own luck, Dáinsleif finds him carrying the scholar nearby the entrance of his residence. Without uttering a word he places al-Háitham's other arm around his shoulders, thus catching the Black Serpent Knight's attention. A look of concern mirrors his verdant eyes as he stares at his superior, then they move to the unconscious form of the scribe. ❝He got the short end of the stick... sir al-Háitham. He may have interrupted the ceremony, but he has for a noble cause.❞ A pregnant quiescence ensues betwixt them as they continue their way towards the front gates of the Twilight Residence. Halfdan is right, there is no reason to be infuriated by his actions— even Irminsul in all its mercy was able to register as much. ❝...Yes.❞

Dáinsleif retrieves the keys to open the gates so they may enter. There is a heavy air between them, byproduct of the bitterness that caused the previous happenstance by the hand of Purpureum Astrum. ❝Do you think he will recover from this?❞ The three of them climb the stairs that will lead to al-Háitham's chambers after entering the interior of the residence. Halfdan is a good man, worrying himself even for a stranger from afar that has shown no clue to have lost faith in his patron god. He knows that the reason why he asked him to bring him to the residence is not merely because this is the chosen place for him to stay. ❝Yes.❞ He has to. ❝Help me change him in more comfortable clothes.❞

Halfdan is already gone, al-Háitham laid atop the comfort of his bed in more suitable clothes to rest without posing any inconvenience to him. Though recent events call for his own person to rest, too, Dáinsleif decides against it in favor to start the purifying process at once instead. He may have not suffered from the effects that the abyssal presence leaves behind on any living being, but he is fully cognizant of the theory: in broad strokes, it precipitates everything to death. This reason alone warrants urgency.

Reason why he settles a chair by the bedside and sits down. His gloves are promptly removed and placed on the nightstand before long fingers trace the black lines of al-Háitham's neck— probably a consequence of the injection in that same location. For better or for worse it hasn't spread as much as to reach to his heart, from what he can observe on the pale skin of his chest that is revealed, only enough to see if its intensity reaches that part.

Dáinsleif startles at the first movement, a shake of his head that must've been prompted by his touch. A round of no's follow thereafter as it does the subsequent thrashing in his slumber. The abyssal presence must've reached his subconsciousness, he must act with haste.

Firstly, a light blue-illuminated hand hovers over his forehead to appease his mind. Only when the intense thrashing subsides his hand touches his forehead to increase the magnitude of alleviation. When the lack of movement suggests that his mind has calmed down, Dáinsleif's hand retreats and both of them join to the spot over his heart. Truth be said, to have the minimum chance to touch bare skin of a good-looking man like him would send anyone's heart in a frenzy. Not Dáinsleif's, nevertheless. Ever since Halfdan assisted him in getting him undressed and in his sleeping leisurewear, watching al-Háitham's form did not transmit anything to him. For the urgency to treat him as soon as possible prevails over primal urges, specially in such moment.

All sense of time is lot to the fallen seraph, who remained unmoving from al-Háitham's side. A sweat drop from exertion caresses his temple down to his cheek as unbeknownst to Dáinsleif, the Sumerian scholar awakens from his slumber. The past couple of hours haven't been easy to him, battling in his mind the frustration that comes with the realization that his purifying capabilities dwindled— and the confusion in his pondering of when did that start to happen.

Dáinsleif snaps out of his reverie at the sound of his voice, prompting him to look at what he had expected to be al-Háitham's sleeping face. No more. Tiredness makes itself manifest in moon-kissed features at the clue of improvement if he had awakened, if he is able to form any word at all— not without hardship. Blame it to the exertion of the purification to be caught off guard by his question. Did he just awaken from what looked like a nightmare hell and what concerns him first is if he betrayed his trust?

Glacial sapphires soften as he notices the other's trembling hand reaching out to him. The etheric ceases as his hands retreat from his chest in order to hold his hand with one of his own and cup the back of his hand with the other. ❝...❞ Although seeing the man so vulnerable makes his heart quiver for him and presses him to assuage his concern, truthfully... the disappointment that came from the omission of information is higher for more reasons than one.

❝Correct. Omission is one of the many forms lies have.❞ A pause. ❝I believe that you are yet not fully aware of the dangers you are exposed to in doing so.❞ No matter how ridiculous the apprehended member of Purpureum Astrum might've been, they as a whole are far from stupid. ❝Being an allogene in a land where faith in the gods is inexistent may have a pass, so many other now non-believers have come from the nations of above the surface. Hiding the fact that your origins are celestial as al-Ahmar's once warrior as the one and only Garuda he gave life to and then Rhukkadevata's emissary... what were you thinking of?❞

This— this is what upsets Dáinsleif the most. Not because he did something to endanger the kingdom, no— he never did and based on his actions throughout the month he stayed in Khaenri'ah, he doubt he ever would. It is the fact that he as a celestial being is more prone to worse effects were he be touched by the abyssal presence. ❝How hasn't it occurred to you ever once that coming all the way down here while lacking transparency where it's due would equate to signing your own death sentence?❞ Serious as unwavering as his voice started at first, sadness weaved with his tone slips through. ❝I cannot be responsible for unfortunate experiences related to your safety if you withhold something as crucial as that.❞

Every ounce of life force in him forsakes him as his body falls limp onto the ground at slow motion. Something akin to a disruption in his nervous system must be wrong for him to not feel pain from the fall or the sting on the side of his neck any longer. All he can do is lay on the grass in a stupor, the only muscles on his body that had not abandoned him are those of his eyelids that open and close lethargic.

Voices around him are distant echoes he cannot comprehend even if he tried to pay attention, as it does the careful touch of someone that must be checking on his health. Sapphire flames turn into a bright light, forcing any sliver of consciousness left in him to fade away.

There was a moment of respite at first, of comfort even if he dares call it so. What follows next, however, is nightmare incarnate. Al-Háitham tries to call for his Dendro energy and its healing properties even if he as an allogene has none. His intent is to at least create a shield to fend off the darkness in his body as much as he can. Vines of luminous Dendro reach out for the darkness against his will and instead of making the void disappear, he feels it pull at him.

Pitch black vines surrounds and consumes the Dendro energy instead, crippling towards his being, chaining him in restrictive shackles of darkness that impede any movement. Piercing cold chains of iron shifts in form to hands, fingers digging in his flesh as if their intention is to rip him whole. He tries to shout, yet no voice comes from him. Even if he could muster all of the little strength left in his body to make his voice sound, it would be a moot point. More hands slip through his body and up to cover his mouth, to cover his eyes.

Al-Háitham is no stranger to the horrors of forbidden knowledge, the abyssal wrath and Eleazar. But this— this is like the culmination of all three would feel like accumulated in a single entity. It's merciless and unforgiving, it's cold and all-consuming, draining every shred of life force he may still have in his body.

Whatever relief he had felt earlier byproduct of the light that engulfed him abandoned him entirely, leaving him to his fortune and fate to deal with. Somewhere in the depths of this darkness he finds an odd sense of comfort in the shape of loved ones that ceased to exist. King Deshret, his grandfather and his grandmother, his parents... all of them are there. For a moment, he wonders if heaven can be found in the depths of darkness, if sweet afterlife is not without the thorny road to reach to that destination.

For all the pain his body is in sooth suffering, his mental strain and the uncertainty if he will make it alive, comfort is the last thing he expected to find here.

Except it is nothing but. On the exterior these are the most important people in his life that could live no more. But were he approach them, reach out for them, he soon finds out as they turn that they are completely disfigured. Oozy black tar is what their faces are from, making nigh indistinguishable to tell apart their eyes from their nose or their mouth. They call his name back, and al-Háitham takes a few steps back only to realise that he's cornered against some invisible wall that wants to keep him caged there.

No matter how strongly he wished he could close his eyes —eyes that don't see heart that doesn't feel, it is said, for once he prays that it is true—, he couldn't. Forced to watch the five individuals approach him, they reach out their claw-like hands towards him. He has to get out of here— but he can't.

He can't.

Only in the last moment does a familiar light appear into the distance, chasing away all the darkness and his family and his vision with it.

Emerald eyes shoot open wide and warmth embraces him. His gaze is met with the pallor of a ceiling and a shiver shakes his body— good, at least that is some improvement compared to the few minutes before passing out. He inspects himself to see that his arm sleeves and tank top and every other clothing accessory that may be uncomfortable were he lay on a bed are missing. Instead, he is wearing some comfortable pants and a robe he recognises as his leisurewear when he goes to sleep.

It barely dawns on him that a couple of hands touch his exposed chest, making him follow their arms until reaching to the person in question that is next to him: lord Dáinsleif. Al-Háitham blinks once, twice as he looks at him. That familiar light from before reflects on the porcelain features. It was him all along. Before he lost his consciousness, in a dream that felt too real. Languidly his eyes look back at his chest to see that his hands are bathed in light blue glow and only now he registers that this is where that warmth and relief comes from.

"I..." Only now he takes notice of how hoarse and raspy his voice sounds, likely from the time that has passed unused. The Grand Scribe coughs a couple of times, then he clears his voice a couple of times more to warm it up hoping for the best that this time he can be heard. One of his hands rise to reach out to Dáinsleif, it trembles from the strain and difficulty it supposes to him just this little action. "I betrayed your trust... didn't I?" His mind is too disoriented to berate himself for his weakness. For not asking about the condition of his health first and if it has any helping. Yes, lord Dáinsleif had warned him not to try to interfere in the ceremony. But he did this for the sake of making him aware of a reality that could've been worse weren't he warned.

Even so, his heart is heavy in his chest at the thought that Dáinsleif has given him a chance to prove that he can trust him. Not only he betrayed his trust, the ceremony was interrupted. He takes a deep breath as his eyes flutter close for a second, then they open hazily to look at him. "Of course I did. Omission must be a form of lie to you." He showed as much when he turned stone cold at him a few days before the ceremony. As for the rest that happened today... he doesn't dare to make the assumption.

[reginrokkr]

Irminsul stands as tall and proud as he remembers, basking in the silver moonlight in all its magnificence as if it has forgotten that the spiritual, holy as it is, shines with its unique light too. Or perhaps it is not so that it has forgotten about its own light as it is a matter of indulging itself in the only company it has most of the times: the moon. Slow steps lead the fallen seraph to the All-Knowing, arms spread wide in quiescent telling that he has arrived. Albescent glow accentuates to the sentience of his presence in an equally silent welcome back, inviting him to come closer.

I am back.

Uttermost silence fills the ambiance despite the amount of people that have come with him in this ceremonious day as Dáinsleif approaches Irminsul and smooths a gloved hand over its trunk. He feels its warmth beneath his palm, comforting as it's always been and as far as he remembers. His forehead is pressed gently on the tree, star-kissed lashes flutter to a close in a silent prayer.

Before you I stand in this day in search of a single answer, if you in all your benevolence and wisdom will to respond.

Though his eyes may be close, he feels Irminsul's gentle luminosity shift in intensity in silent answer, an invitation to proceed. Proceed the Bough Keeper would weren't for the fact that the loud call of his name pierces through the silence, earning a chorus of gasps and confused what are you doing here from his soldiers' end. Without turning to see with his eyes who was bold enough to interrupt the ceremony, Dáinsleif can recognize the owner of that voice— only further confirmed at Halfdan's call. ❝S-sir al-Háitham?!❞

He had warned him not to come despite his insistence. He had reasoned with him about the restrictions he has as a believer of another land when there are so many others whom had lost faith in their god that cannot come to the ceremony. And yet, he still came. Porcelain eyelids open to reveal glacial sapphires as platinum brows knit in a collected frown. This sours his mood as it bitters the trust he has deposited in him, but he persists. Irminsul will understand without uttering a single word, for it, too, is sentient to the happenings of this world.

Patience is contained under the guise of collected features as he turns on his heels to look him in the eye from the distance in time to hear him talk about Purpureum Astrum. In time to see one of its members emerge from the depths of darkness and in the blink of an eye, inject a substance that he can only recognize as dark matter of the Abyss in him. Though his features remain stone cold, tempestuous stars tremble within azure depths with controlled rage.

❝What is the meaning of this?❞ His voice echoes in the depths of the woods with authority in demand of an answer that could be mistaken for both— and they would be right, except Dáinsleif's query is directed towards the sect's member as al-Háitham is unable to respond. A subtle glance is thrown Halfdan's way, whom nods immediately and rushes at the scholar's side to aid him however he can given the circumstances.

Each step forward commands fear in the knowledgeable, not for too long as Dáinsleif pauses in short. Halt, al-Háitham said that Irminsul is in danger and he connected Purpureum Astrum to this. Why...? Before he could formulate an answer in his own head, thin hairs at the base of his nape rise as the prelude of an otherworldly sentience that comes hitting at once. Star-shaped pupils widen slightly within their spheres seconds before the entirety of Dáinsleif's body is engulfed in sapphire flames. One foot is risen to stomp on the grass and channel the Ether energy within. Glacial flames disappear for a moment, only to emerge with rage from the depths of the ground alongside purple smoke that renders everyone shocked— including the sect's member.

Dáinsleif deadpans at the Purpureum Astrum man in collected rage, albeit there is a noticeable shift in the air that even the most imbecile of individuals could grasp. ❝I believe you are intelligent enough to not make me repeat myself.❞ He insists as if he hadn't just avoided a catastrophe from occurring right in the ceremonial site under Irminsul's gaze. ❝Making sure to do the work that your men cannot, as it seems.❞ The man masks his shock behind indifference as he shrugs his shoulders and looks towards al-Háitham's form on the ground. ❝He shouldn't have been here.❞

❝Neither should you.❞ Dáinsleif wastes no time to counter back as his steps come to a halt before the man. ❝Make me not repeat myself for the third time and answer the question.❞ The most concerning part wasn't al-Háitham's interference or the sect's member presence here as it was the fact that an attempt to sabotage the ceremony was made. Strong arms cross over his chest, chin risen up to look down on the Purpureum Astrum as he begins to cower. ❝L-look, it's not our fault that these ceremonies need our protection and you know that!❞

❝Protection?❞ He parrots, impassive features remain to perfect stillness with the exception of a subtle rise of an eyebrow. The man confirmed his suspicions before he had time to formulate the adequate questions. Of course they would make the damnedest to make part of the ceremony. ❝Since you refuse to speak, I will do the talking. You and your group couldn't accept that I refused your petition to make part of the ceremony despite obtaining the same result year after year.❞ His arms fall to his sides and hands clasp to his back as he walks from one side to the other as he speaks. ❝So you had schemed a plan to make yourselves be a mandatory necessity to ensure that everything in the ceremony goes smoothly.❞

Dáinsleif comes to a stop after completing his reasoning, cyan gaze falls upon the purple-clad man. ❝It is too unfortunate for you that I have the means to counter your wicked plans, is it not? That possibility went completely over your head.❞ He turns to look at him directly thereafter, icy sapphires narrowed with glacial rage that makes the sect's member weak on the knees under such ferocity by gaze alone. A couple of Black Serpent Knights step behind the man's back. ❝Save your prayers for the trial. Not even those friends of yours will be able to make you escape from this one.❞

❝B-but!❞ ❝You will ingress in prison for three counts of crimes: One, for insubordination of my orders when I rejected your petition to come to the ceremony. Two, for attempting against the safety of all these people. And three...❞ His chin rises further up to look down on him. ❝For endangering the safety of that which provides with the answer you and everyone in this kingdom needs.❞

❝Apprehend him.❞

❝You- you cannot do that!❞ The man shouts in all his despair as the Black Serpent Knights drag him out of the scenery at his command. ❝I was just trying to prevent that believer from stepping on holy grounds!❞ Dáinsleif lowers himself on one knee to inspect the scribe quickly, then his gaze turns towards Halfdan. ❝Bring him to the Twilight Residence, Halfdan, please.❞ ❝Sir.❞ His second-hand accedes at once with furrowed brows and a serious nod of his head before he positions one of al-Háitham's arms over his shoulders so he can lead him away.

❝The rest of you, the ceremony concludes here. I cannot guarantee its safety after what that member has provoked. I will issue an investigation on him and his immediate circle to see what happened.❞ ❝S-sir, with all due respect...❞ One of the men steps forward, hesitant to cut him. ❝What about Irminsul? Will it answer our prayers?❞ Glacial sapphires narrow before they look skywards where its branches stretch. ❝That remains to be seen. Now, make haste lest there is any abyssal residue that may affect your health.❞

The lack of evidence roots al-Háitham on the spot. Suffice to say he has a bad feeling about what those members of Purpureum Astrum must be scheming, about the purple lines that go towards the darkness of the forest ahead. Weren't for lord Dáinsleif's insistence that he mustn't intervene in the ceremony, this would've been enough to rush towards the ceremonial location to warn him. But like this? He has nothing to go by other than gut feeling.

This doesn't dissuade the scholar from investigating further and solidify his suspicions or scatter them, regardless. Making use of his Dendro power, he sneaks closer to the group in the blink of an eye as light would register in the ocular nerves, merely leaving behind a verdant trail that comes as fast as it goes, imperceptible to the gaze if one isn't attentive enough.

From this distance he is able to read better the swirling letters that form a secret message: operation Irminsul ceremony. The encrypted words make as much sense as they made before when he was unable to pinpoint what exactly it said from the distance: none. Al-Háitham knows that the ceremony just started, so these words are nothing but redundant to him. At the sound of their voice, he stills his breath. Their words are curt and hushed, reflecting on the spell that floats and swirls before them almost as a manner of nigh non-verbal communication that only those who are present are able to decipher.

And the truth is, the Grand Sekretar hasn't been long enough in Khaenri'ah nor he's subjected himself sufficiently to the Khaenri'ahn speech to accustom his hearing to the language, having the privilege to talk in Teyvatan with lord Dáinsleif instead. Though a moot point to do so, he holds his breath as one of them speaks, teal eyes scanning the letters that form new words. Initially nothing of what is said adds anything up to him, until the complete sentence has been formed that causes emerald eyes to shoot open as al-Háitham forms the entirety of the speech's structure in his mind.

Operation Irminsul ceremony: Minor intoxication of nearby Ley Lines provocation to make ourselves indispensable to the ceremony to alleviate the venom.

So that's what they're planning. To give the Bough Keeper a reason to hold Purpureum Astrum close during these ceremonies in case another Ley Line intoxication happens, running on the only chance that they can undo it and only them. His instincts proved him right, those purple veins rushing towards the obscure forest are the intoxication...

While eyes trail those lines, another movement catches him off guard. Those same lines ramified and are headed towards him. How? Weren't they meant to be directed towards Irminsul? Unless—

That's right, Ley Lines scatter the seven elements to every corner of this world as its sustenance. As an allogene of the Dendro element, he, too, is bound to act as a bait to this intoxication. Before long does al-Háitham emerge from his hiding spot in a trail of green directed towards the forest, catching everyone else's attention. Words he cannot understand are thrown his way, but there is no movement from what he can see from the cue of his eye. Only sinister smiles as they watch him go.

Emerald eyes glow in the dark of the forest with the elemental sight activated, letting those purple lines be his guide through the dark. Dáinsleif was right, he had every reason to be skeptical of these men. Even so... he had also been told not to step into holy grounds. Al-Háitham shakes his head as soon as a pang of guilt fills his chest. This is not time to think about that, this is objectively serious and dangerous.

His elemental sight fades away at the closest opportunity to see light in the distance— that must be the place! His speed accentuates, going ahead of the purple veins now that he has found the way, his need to warn Dáinsleif higher than paying notice to a Purpureum Astrum member emerging from the shadows not too far from him. "Lord Dáinsleif!" He ignores the gasps and subsequent whispers of those who are there in pursuit to pass a message. "Irminsul is in danger! Purpureum Astrum—"

Before he has the chance to finish speaking al-Háitham suffers the consequences of not spotting the Purpureum Astrum member earlier. He feels a sting on the side of his neck and an odd liquid entering his system via the carotid. Immediately does he release himself from the needle as he covers the spot of his neck that's been abused and stumbles a couple of steps behind. "They..." With the loss of his voice comes the complete loss of control of his body, plummeting mercilessly on the grass.

"Oops." He hears who he believes to be the Purpureum Astrum member talk, albeit mockingly. A distorted and distant echo. "That was close. Wouldn't want a believer from afar to blaspheme Irminsul with his presence." The man puts his hand to his chest and bows. "Isn't that right? Lord Dáinsleif, Bough Keeper."