cashewlater | for @citer

[ he has, in fact, been dolled up before. you don't get very far as a valuka shuna without understanding the value of your own beauty. it's the very first lesson that tighnari learned as a pup in his mother's lap, hugging his tail while he listened to soft, sombre timbers of her voice relaying stories of a bygone past and a history as old as the eternal oasis was young: that with acknowledging your shackles come freedom. an older tighnari, alone and shackled within the decadent cage of the sanctuary of surasthana, remembered those lessons, and made effors to test out the length of his chain. a seven-year-old valuka shuna could only make his way to the very fringes of the beautiful, curved brass bars with its inlaid flowers and kalpana lotus vines. his chain only afforded so much slack. but a seventeen-year-old valuka shuna, one who knows the poisonous properties of every genus of plant tracing back to the age of stone, and who sharpened his mind against the grindstone of liyue's finest doctors on loan to the sages for a joint project on herbal treatments for eleazar, added enough links to his chain that allows him free roam of a corner of akademiya's campuses, of greenhouses laden with padisarahs blooming in the soft vissudha loam and trees laden with heavy knots of fragrant tamarind. he hasn't forgotten, nor forgiven, the weight of the golden collar heavy against the sharp jut of his collarbones, but when you've been collared long enough, you learn to use the weight of it for other things: doors to be opened, books to be loaned, favours to ask for and to collect on. a future bargained for with the tightest of margins underneath the ever-roaming gazes of the sages.

there will be, one day, he knows, a day where the leash draws taut. that day came a month ago, when word of the newest general mahamatra appointment reaches the valuka shuna houses. tighnari was called in from the greenhouses. they dug the mud out from between his nailbeds, wrestled stray leaves and petals from his hair, scrubbed the dirt from his bare feet, and lathered scented oils in the fur of his long, trailing tail. one day, his akademiya-issue robes were removed, replaced with silks from wild liyuen silkflowers imported from stone gate, dyed with mulberry harvest from the valleys of raiden shogun's domain. his dissection forceps and sample tubes were replaced by delicate things wrought in gold and silver, emeralds matched to the colour of his fur and the singular, spring-green strand of his hair. starsilver was bent and pressed and refined into pale, moonlight rings of glinting silver, pressed into the supple perk of his breasts. but he kept his books. they didn't take those away. he'd argued, and received acknowledgement, from the scribe of the akademiya that his materials were borrowed under good faith using the appropriate credentials and paperwork, and they were only to be returned on the date of expiry. the shelves within his cage burgeoned with them. he didn't know if he could take them with him, but if nothing else, this cage will remain here long after he's gone - he will make do, figure something out, or another valuka shuna would take up the mysteries of botany. there weren't a lot of them, but there will be more.

there always is. there always will be. but tighnari, a valuka shuna from a long line of valuka shuna, loyal in their services and bonded to their caste until death, knows with a certainty that it does not matter where he ends up, so long as he knows the weight of his collar and the length of his chain. this is a brief change, an adjustment in the order of things, but he is oak, and he is root, and the roots of trees are known to worm its way through stone, given time and opportunity. he misses his fieldkit, but objects can be replaced. your mind couldn't.

that does not mean, however, that he needs to stand for nonsense. he's not to attend the ceremony. the valuka shuna are not for the public to consume with their eyes. legends cease to be so if everyone were to see said legends running around with leaves in their hair. but the quarters that they've prepared for the general mahamatra go beyond ridiculous. thirty minutes into his wait, tighnari can no longer stand for it. he hitches up the sheer silks of his tonbai torki, ties it high up against the jut of a hipbone in a way that would have the women of his wardrobe go faint with the indecency of it, and knots his sleeves the way a common deckhand would just to get it all out of the way.

and so that's how cyno would find him: ears perked and fierce, a scandalous, silk-clad thing dragging the gigantic pot of a redcrest cactus ripe with henna berries over from its honour guard by the door all the way over to the decorative balcony across the room. the opening of the door coincides with the kick tighnari offers the wrought terrace doors, the thing shuddering under the force of it as the clattering noise reverberates through the high-vaulted ceilings all the way to where the general mahamatra stands, at ceremony, in his own bedroom. the terrace doors swing open with the furtive sheepishness of a child judged. tighnari straightens up, and finally deigns to spare the owner of the room a glance.

he shoves at the pot, and it moves another inch towards the light. ]

Oh, you're done? [ and then, with a quirk of his painted eyebrows: ] Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to lend me a hand? This redcrest cactus doesn't thrive in shade. Whoever decided to have it stand by the door had no training in basic botany. If this is the quality of education the Akademiya expects from its graduates, you should worry about the future of this country.

[ cyno was born in the desert. he is a simple man, of simple means, unused to and uninterested in the pomp and glamour that the higher echelons of society have on offer, and the fact that cyno has risen to the position of general mahamatra is due only to his tenacity and strength, his dedication and purpose. there were many who opposed his appointment - to think, that an orphaned desert dweller with questionable abilities could possibly hold such a powerful position was ludicrous. yet cyno earned it all the same. taj had trained him well, and without prejudice, and with cyrus as his benefactor, even the noisiest of naysayers was silenced. and so he took up his mantle.

.. and all that came with it.

cyno, of course, is also uninterested in the privileges of his rank. he wants to do his job, to work, to protect sumeru and its peoples, he has no need of a gilded mansion and sprawling gardens, of tapestries and silver forks. he certainly has no need of a concubine, the presence of which he has learned of all of ten minutes ago. only after being officially promoted was cyno told the full truth of the gifts afforded to him. he'd heard the stories, of course, about the valuka shuna, deshret's familiars and beloved by the dendro god, but they are just that - stories. legends. that it could possibly be true that the generals of sumeru were to be given what amounted to a beautiful pleasure slave.. well, it had seemed absurd.

yet here he is. here they are, and cyno is stone silent.

for several moments, he does not know what to make of the vision in front of him, wrapped in lovely silks, dragging a heavy pot across cyno's new balcony. he's real. the ears, the tail, his bi-colored eyes.. they'd told him what to expect, and yet seeing him with his own two eyes is another matter entirely. he's snapped from his reverie by the valuka shuna's curt voice. ]

I -

[ cyno is taciturn by nature, and more than a little awkward, surprising those few who dare to grow close to him, but in the moment he's entirely tongue tied. legends spoke of the valuka shuna as gentle, playful, demure, but the specimen before him seems anything but. after a tense few seconds of silence, cyno.. smiles, and it is a muted, quiet thing, but a smile nonetheless.

he starts forward, his ceremonial shendyt dragging on the floor behind him. like tighnari, he's been overdressed, his long hair plaited with rings of gold, his usual jackal-eared helm replaced with another. he feels suffocated by fabric, laden with jewelry, his scarlet eyes lined in kohl and shining gold, his nails painted a deep black. it's not his customary style, but he'd had an impression to make, and the sages naturally insisted upon high ceremony. thanks to taj's gentle coaxing, cyno had cooperated.

nevertheless, he approaches, leaning to grasp the edges of the pot, long, lean muscles tight beneath bronze skin as cyno hauls it effortlessly. ]

Where would you like it?

[ expectations come from pre-assessed facts. tighnari isn't blind; the general mahamatra and his tale of single-handedly tromping through a desert to round up three hundred eremite scoundrels is one that they have already pressed into poem and song, a fun bit of entertainment in shisha parlours and during festivals. or so tighnari has heard. they've published the poem recently, bound by sumpterbeast hide, and he'd borrowed it from the house of daena when the rest of the akademiya got tired of hearing of the same story over and over again. it had painted a certain image of a man so set on bringing justice to the world that the song itself had forgotten that there was, in fact, a man behind the justice.

he'd wondered. he hadn't thought particularly hard about it. he hadn't thought about it at all, actually, until an amurta herbad within hearing mentioned about a potential case to do with the breach of doctrine, and tighnari hadn't been able to let it go.

expectations, then, come from fact. he wouldn't make the mistake of assumption without cause. the fact that the general mahamatra does not, in fact, take out his whip and teach him the ways that a valuka shuna should or should not act within the gilded halls of his palace is a risk calculated right. but the perk of tighnari's ears betray surprise when he finds help at his side, a pair of strong, lean arms to heft the pot over the threshold of the terrace doors and out into the open air. ]

The corner of the terrace will do. [ he says, the assessment coming quick at the heels of a glance across the stone and marble on display. it would be in direct line of the sun, and it would also be easy to drain, should there be rainfall this time of year. his gaze catches the tailend of the general mahamatra's regalia, dragged over the terrace like a bride's trailing veil, and then, making a proper judgment of it, perks his tail as he turns back to jab a finger back inside. ]

There's another pot of it next to the door. [ he explains, ] I'll get that one. There's another that some visionary beyond compare thought fit to put in your bathroom. Unless you'd like to have the scent of rotted henna berries accompany your business, General Mahamatra, I suggest that you move that one. Onto the balcony will do.

[ before earning his sharp new position, cyno had been a matra for many, many years. he's quite used to following orders without question, without argument, and despite the fact that he's now the one to be giving commands, he is not rankled by the fox's pointed demands. without another word, he carries the hefty pot to the corner of the terrace, and sets it gently down. ]

Cyno.

[ he says, as he straightens again, the gold bands in his hair jingling against one another, catching in the slanting, early-evening light. while his expression is stony, amusement flashes in his eyes. ]

My name is Cyno.

[ and he's brushing past his beautiful new acquisition, moving back into his chambers and toward the en suite washroom, presumably to fetch the pot. ]

[ cyno. his ears prick. perhaps, he thinks, expectations can be surmounted after all. he watches the general mahamatra's retreating back, the set of his helmet against the stiff, sun-kissed span of his shoulders. he walks like a man used to carving through sandstorms, expecting the very wind to part for his path. the glint of jewel and gold alike catches the slant of the sun, and tighnari thinks back to that moment on the balcony when he had paused, and looked at him.

orange eyes, like spessartite garnet mined from the depths of liyue's bountiful chasm. no less beautiful, yet no less dangerous to source, or so he's heard from kshahrewar driyoshes within hearing. he had, he thought, been smiling.

together, tighnari and cyno move three redcrest cactus pots out into their new home on the balcony. the large, dirt-green pitch-fork-shaped plants look evidently out of place surrounded by kalpana lotus vines and the gentle sway of padisarahs, and they do something terrible to the view of the skyline. but tighnari's eyes glint in something like satisfaction looking at them; at the very least, if this is to be his world from now onwards, he has molded a small piece of it to his satisfaction.

he looks back to cyno. ]

I am Tighnari. I appreciate being called your Valuka Shuna concubine as much as you seem to appreciate being called General Mahamatra. Shall we agree to call each other by name?

[ the work is simple, quick. cyno is not a tall man, but he is certainly strong, well-muscled, compact, and the heavy pots are easily lifted and arranged to tighnari's satisfaction. still, the sun hangs low and heavy on the horizon by the time they've completed their task to the proper specifications. and all of this manual labor in their elegant clothing.. ]

Tighnari.

[ he moves the word across his tongue, cyno's sharp scarlet eyes thoughtful. a good name. delicate, but strong. it suits its bearer well, he thinks. with a brief glance cast toward the towering cacti, cyno turns to face him fully. his gaze is even, but sharp-edged, settling onto tighnari's face, and taking his measure. there are many who would shy away from the weight of the general mahamatra's eyes on them, for the songs that tell of his razor focus, his ability to take a person apart with his gaze. cyno would not be where he is were he not perceptive, capable of reading others easily, and ferreting out lies.

tighnari, he thinks, is marvelous. ]

By name it is. I learned of your existence an hour ago.

[ he seems pleased, he thinks. the weight of cyno's gaze is like that of a desert storm - or so tighnari's heard. but based on his understanding of the world, he'd analogise it to that of the heat of the sun. plants thrive under such gazes, but only in amounts that they can tolerate. he knows people fear the general mahamatra. he thinks that they don't differentiate their fear based on the position, or based on the man. but cyno is up to his elbows in dirt, and his first task of the day after standing upright at his own promotion ceremony is to move around redcrest cactus pots. people ought to fear him, tighnari thinks, but not for the reasons they think they ought to.

still, he nods, because it doesn't surprise him that this is the case. he gestures for cyno to follow him into the suite once more, as comfortable in unfamiliar territory as lesser men would be in familiar ones, letting the knotted swathe of his dress down as he does so. it trails along the floor as his bare, painted feet glide against marble. ]

You have questions, then. Come, I'll answer them. Have you anything to eat today? I know those ceremonies go on for far too long, and the catering wasn't done with you in mind.

[ cyno is only human. when tighnari undoes the knot of his skirts, cyno's gaze flicks downward, along his pale, shapely leg before it disappears beneath soft silks. he's never put much stock into physical appearances; cyno is attracted to strength, will, intelligence, personality, but even he can admit that tighnari is an absolute vision.. as he's meant to be, dressed so provocatively, and laden as he is with decoration. surely a great deal of thought was put into how he was to be presented to his new keeper. he is, after all, a gift, and gifts are meant to be lovely, cherished, appreciated.

still, something about it makes cyno's stomach turn. he hadn't had any desire for a sprawling palace, and he certainly didn't have need of a pet - a pet with a mind, a will, and thoughts of his own. a person. ]

A light breakfast. [ but cyno, admittedly, is often bad about feeding himself even when he isn't forced into a numbingly lengthy ceremony. ] I'll call for something to eat.

[ he feels, in fact, the press of cyno's gaze upon where his keepers had done their best to dress, paint and decorate him into something resembling the valuka shuna of old, the ones that are said to still slumber in the eternal oasis as king deshret's last gift to his beloved, the goddess of flowers, to keep her company for all eternity has left for her.

beauty is a useful tool. you need to know the value of it in order to measure the length of your chain. tighnari considers this as he sits down on one of the many plush couches artistically arranged in the room, his ears cocked. a man has needs. he knows this well. but right now, he's far more preoccupied with the knowledge that the general mahamatra is someone he now knows is prone to skipping meals. is this a typical thing, or a ceremony thing? he supposes he'll need to keep an eye out for it now that cyno is a part of his world, however large this world will be.

his ears flicker. ]

You'll be placing the order through your Akasha terminal. [ it's not a question. his eyes flicker to where the dendro-green sigil would have been, floating over cyno's ear. his own ears are bare in comparison save for its decorations; who would give terminal access to an animal? ] If you have not eaten all day, I recommend something light. You may feel the inclination to go for a heavier meal to compensate, but I can assure you that your body will appreciate it less.

What are your thoughts on roasted figs?

[ tighnari seats himself comfortably, as if he owns the very space around him, and one corner of cyno's mouth quirks, amused. he does not sit just yet, but instead removes his ceremonial helm with a soft sigh, placing it upon a marble plinth beside the terrace doors, and shaking out his long, pale hair. ]

I prefer honeyed dates, but I wouldn't say no to roasted figs.

[ and, turning again, he settles his eyes on tighnari, comfortably draped on his elegant sofa. ]

You're not what I would have expected.

[ though cyno hardly sounds perturbed, only.. curious. entertained. his eyes do not leave his companion's face even as he lifts a hand to his ear, his akasha terminal flickering, its luminescent visor curving before him. tighnari is brazen, there's no denying that; few would dare to speak to him in such a way, to be so forward, commanding, but cyno finds it refreshing to be around someone who is not afraid of him. his terrifying reputation is a boon, in many ways, but it often leaves him feeling.. lonely. ]

You'll want roasted figs, then?

[ long pale hair, tighnari thinks. like the mane of something with claws, and teeth. he'd thought that perhaps it was the press of the helmet that gave cyno that one-eyed look, but it seems that his hair simply slips into place the way a displaced river would, running headlong towards their ancestral riverbeds. it gives tighnari the sense that if eyes were the window to a man's soul, he only has but one window and one perspective to see it from. that's the problem with expectations. you build them up, and then, at some point, you brick up everything that you haven't considered. they say that the walls of king deshret's great palaces, contain skeletons within their layers, those who died to build the greatest monument to human history that side of the wall.

his tail settles by his side. not what he expected, he thinks, and snorts at that, a small, inelegant sound around the silk veneer of his veil. of course not. the valuka shuna of old, the ones that sang songs and played tricks on passersby and told riddles spanning the very heart of the world - those are dead. tighnari would know. the ones that are left are survivors. ]

Please. [ he says, with a smile, and the glint of his canines catch the torchlight with silver-like precision. ] And a tray of assorted meats.

[ he is, after all, only an omnivore by name. ]

[ cyno's only response is a shallow nod, before his gaze at last refocuses on the flashing runes before his eyes. it takes but a thought to place the order. the assorted meats and figs that tighnari had requested, as well as a mild vegetable biryani for himself. and two namkeen lassi.

the visor soon dissipates, and cyno's tense shoulders begin to relax, though he still does not sit, but instead begins carefully removing the gold clasps and bands woven into his hair. while he enjoys a bit of flashy decoration, this is all far too much. everything he's wearing is far too much. though he appreciates the ceremonial attire of his ancestors, cyno is no priest, but a humble matra, he has no need of exorbitant regalia. ]

So. Tighnari.

[ his callused fingers work deftly, removing the clasps one by one, setting them aside in a decorative ceramic dish set upon a low adhigama wood table. ]

You're meant to belong to me, or so I'm told.

[ the general's concubine, as tighnari had so aptly mentioned. ]

I want to make something perfectly clear. I have no interest in keeping anyone. You're already quite comfortable speaking your mind, I see, but know that you have free reign here to do as you please.

[ the akasha terminal's visor flashes, once, a brilliant green that reminds tighnari of the earliest of sprouts in spring, the ones that inevitably grow into the strongest and most vivacious of blooms. 'belong to me', he says, with the casual cadence of someone commenting on the colour of the sky, or the consistency of fabric. all the while, his fingers continue to undo each and every golden clasp and jewel that the household staff must have spent painstaking hours putting them on. he can imagine their dismay already, each jeweled bauble like stars plucked from a quicksilver sky. the tangle of hair left behind his tighnari's fingers itch. ]

I appreciate that. [ he says, in turn, continuing a conversation that, if he were honest, he hadn't expected to have today. but once again it boils down to expectations - it reminds him that he, too, only knows the justice behind the man. tighnari's green gaze holds cyno's for a moment as he considers this, his years flicking from one side to another. ] Though I'm well-aware of what you mean by 'here'. Outside of this room, appearances still must be kept, is it not so? And while I can speak freely to you, that does not mean your household is a part of that qualifier. Shall I put on an act for them? I'll admit, I'm terribly poor at it.

Do as you please.

[ appearances must be kept.. the very idea is anathema to him. cyno is a straightforward, honest man, and while he has yet to buck too hard against the status quo - and while he loves sumeru deeply and fully - he does not swallow the idea of keeping up appearances well. he does not like to play pretend. ]

Put on an act, if it makes you comfortable. Don't, if you don't wish to. [ and something tells cyno that tighnari does indeed not wish to. ] What matters to me is that you're comfortable here. [ a beat. ] As comfortable as possible.

[ for in the end, tighnari is still a kept man. he's still property, however valued he might be, however much the sages might have made this seem like a privilege, a grand reward. the last of the golden adornments pulls free from his hair, and cyno next sheds his heavy mantle and ceremonial shendyt, leaving him comfortable in his shorts and bolero top, arm and leg bands. at long last he drops onto the sofa opposite tighnari, heaving a weary sigh. ]

As for when we're off the grounds.. mm. We'll play it by ear.

[ ... his ears prickle. ]

By ear. [ he says, as bone-dry as the great hypostyle desert. really.

and because he can't help it: ] Which ear? Left or right?

[ at that, a grin unfurls across cyno's face. it's the most emotive he's been since arriving in this room. in fact, with most of his fancy garb now shed, cyno is looking far more.. human indeed, less like a powerful general and more like a simple man. save, of course, for the lingering paint around his eyes. ]

Both, if I have any say in it.

[ his gaze flicks upward. ]

They're very handsome ears.

[ terrible, he thinks. but cyno's face shifts, the smile spreading across it like a newly-minted oasis, water flooding to return to its ancestral basin, and tighnari thinks - the look suits him.

it's what prompts him to snort again, entirely inelegant, as he reaches for a handtowel left on the headrest of the divan. ]

Flattery won't help you, for whatever it is you're trying to get at. [ he gestures cyno forward. ] Come here. Let me help you with the make-up. It's smearing, and you look ghastly. You know that parents often invoke your name as punishment when children don't do what they're told? This look on you won't help.

[ and just as quickly as that smile had come, it soon fades into mild bemusement when tighnari urges him closer. ]

It wasn't flattery.

[ tighnari will soon learn that cyno does not say things that he does not mean, honest, perhaps to a fault. but also obedient. after a moment's thoughtfulness, he unfolds himself from the sofa to move to tighnari's side instead, seating himself beside him. ]

And no, I wasn't aware. I hardly remember my parents.

[ within reach, it's easy for him to lean in and wipe at the smearing paint around his eyes with the rough side of the hand towel. little by little, the orange of cyno's eyes recede without the blinding contrast of the paint - but the natural glint of it is not less pleasing, tighnari thinks, like a flower without accompaniments.

his tail settles next to them as he works. ]

Do you not? I apologise if this is a difficult topic. I'm not surprised, however; you have the look of someone from the desert, and those from the desert who live in the forest often leave much behind.

[ this close, tighnari is even more pleasing to look at. his tongue is sharp and hard, but his features are soft, delicate, and his eyes are lovely, his partial heterochromia reminding cyno of the depths of sumeru's rainforests, rich browns and greens. ]

Mm. It's fine. I hardly recall them enough to miss their presence.

[ though cyno could certainly admit that it had led to a lonely beginning of life. lost in the sands, overwhelmed by the power of hermanubis, he had been so achingly alone until cyrus had scooped him into his arms, a starving waif of a thing, with wild amber eyes and a tangled mane of unkempt hair. he's come a long way from the feral orphan he once was. ]

And I would like for us to get to know one another. So you may as well know.

[ even tighnari's scent is attractive, sweet and floral, shot through with the gentle musk of his lustrous fur. ]

But you're correct, I was born in the desert.

[ there's a story behind this, behind whatever that's reflected in the jeweled-edged eyes of a man, like that of a miniature sun. tighnari weighs the timing and the need to understand - you may as well know, he says, but he knows from experience that not everyone as amenable to being read as they seem.

he considers this. ]

What do you remember of the desert? Tell me, while I fix the terrible things you did to your hair.

Mm..

[ a thoughtful hum, and cyno's brow pinches just slightly as he searches his memory. he was very young when he was orphaned, and his recollection of his time before being taken in by cyrus is hazy, but there are choppy images floating in his mind. ]

It seemed so vast, when I was small. Bigger than it seems to be now. I lived on the outskirts of the Hypostyle Desert, near the Sobek Oasis.

[ he remains sitting still, while tighnari works, his gaze settled on his face. ]

My tribe was small, but powerful.

[ it doesn't come naturally to him, these things associated with grooming. his fingers are better suited for the sprouts in the dirt, for the petals of flowers and the thorns of cacti growing long, and proud, and tall within the greenhouses of the akademiya so far from their native homelands. much like cyno, he thinks, as he listens to cyno's recount, his fingers reaching into cyno's hair and gently teasing out the minute tangles there. spun silver through his fingers, like wayward moonlight.

it seemed so vast, he says. ]

I've been told that the Valuka Shuna were companions to large, desert dogs that roamed the region. I've never been to the desert. I've seen pictures and read descriptions, certainly, but the vastness of it has never been something I could imagine.

[ after a moment, he offers: ]

The first time I had that feeling was when I left the Sanctuary of Surasthana for the first time.

[ that tighnari has never been to the desert before is.. not terribly surprising, given how secretive the sages are about the presence of the valuka shuna in general. cyno gets the impression that they are incredibly sheltered creatures. prisoners. dusk birds in gilded cages. ]

The desert is.. harsh, but beautiful, in its way. The days are blistering hot, the nights are bone-chilling. It does not possess the lush greenery and color of the forest, but it still feels like home.

[ in some ways, at least. cyno spent much of his childhood and early adulthood in sumeru city, and the walls of the akademiya feel like home as well. he's torn between the two. though tighnari's fingers may be unused to the grooming of others, cyno finds that he does not dislike the feeling of them in his hair, working through the tangles and snarls left behind by the clasps and baubles. ]

Have you lived there your entire life?

If I had, I wouldn't know the first thing about redcrest cacti, would I? Perhaps I'd lack so much sense that your suite would be decorated with them from floor to ceiling.

[ but there's a proud tilt of his ears as he says this, as if sharing in a secret joke. ] No, I convinced them that I could be trusted to roam. The place where I best spent my time were the greenhouses of the Akademiya. There's at least hands-on learning, there. You could touch something real.

- there. [ he smoothes out the tail-end of cyno's hair. tighnari sits back to observe his handiwork, and then, satisfied, allows cyno the return of his personal space. ] Better?

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