Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

By the time his dear friends had gotten through to his thick bull-headed brain, it was nearing sunset. Kasala had graciously informed that Nimmi would be staying at her father's place for the night and that it would be prudent for him to get the show on the road, as Rukhadevata would have said. While Deshret was lectured, pestered, harangued, and instructed on his less-than-excellent communication skills, under duress, he will still choose to say what he wants to Nimmi based on the milestone in their relationship.

In other words, Deshret took what his friends had said under advisement, but ultimately will play it by ear.

Firstly, he doesn't know how Nimmi is going to respond.

Kasala had been purposefully vague about her condition, using elusive descriptors such as disappointed, upset, and troubled. Rukhadevata had been the only one to shed light and purposefully invoke guilt in the end.

Nimmi had cried.

Gods, he rubs the back of his neck, he feels wretched—which is why he had been so eager to—to do something.

Naat Village is southeast of the Sobek Oasis, right off the main path to the Hypostyle Desert. It's not a bustling town like Asdaz Court or even Wazir Village; it's a merchant village focused primarily on agriculture and hardware. Deshret nods his head at some citizens as he walks through the village, turning left near the fountain, and comes across the bakery.

Nazat's Bread Shop.

Unlike most establishments, where the owner's home is within the vicinity of the main street, Nazat's Bread Shop is attached to their home, and from the window, Deshret can see an older man measuring a white powder, while another lies asleep in the sitting room, papers scattered everywhere.

He suddenly remembers that not once has Nimmi or Kasala mentioned her mother.

Deshret straightens his shoulders and knocks on the door.

After a few moments, a tall and burly man, dusted with flour on his apron and side of his face, opens the door. He stares at Deshret for a moment, unable to believe his eyes, before gaping, "M-My lord? Is something—has something happened?"

"Uncle Anwar, yes?" Deshret asks calmly and smiles placidly, as if the faint threads of human anxiety have not crawled into the cavity of his chest. "Kasala has told me much about you. I believed it to be prudent to visit the family closest to two of my most valued people."

"O-Of course," he replies, befuddled, and clears his throat. "Please, come in, and mind the mess, my lord. I was prepping proofs for tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Nimmi told me you are a baker," Deshret nods his head and walks through the front door. His eyes catalogue each part of the home, a roaring hearth, mounds of dough on a large counter, and the smell of salt wafting through the air. It's small and cozy, the kitchen leading to what looked like a sitting room, and—

—and Nimmi sleeping on the sofa with papers scattered around her.

His eyes soften.

"Sprout?" Anwar blinks and looks at his daughter, dozing off on the chaise with a blanket wrapped around her. "I...was not aware you knew my daughter."

Deshret's lips twitch upwards at the pet name, but he doesn't relay much expression other than the glimmer in his eyes. He clears his throat and holds up a paper bag, "It is a recent development. Nimmi has told me that besides baking, you are someone who likes to experiment with different flavorings. And so, I brought some ingredients that are native to the rainforest that you can test with, if you wish to do so."

"That's very thoughtful, thank you, my lord," Anwar replies, stunned by the gesture, and accepts the parcel, but this is when he notices how the Scarlet King ever-so-often glances at Nimmi. He doesn't think that he's aware that he's doing so.

"Please, call me Deshret," he waves off his thanks and holds a wooden box. "I brought this for Nimmi, but it might be prudent...for her to open this when she awakens."

The baker stares at the king with a bewildered expression, shocked that he would allow such a commoner to use his Goetic name, but then he sees the reverence he looks at the wooden box and how well-crafted it is, and states, "You're in love with my daughter."

Deshret actually freezes, not knowing how to respond to such a deduction, and he looks upwards to see Anwar furrow his brows at his conclusion. He answers carefully, "I am very close to, yes."

Anwar nods, trying to swallow back the shock before he can choke, "I see." He clears his throat and grabs an apron. "Very well, if you wish to be my son-in-law, it is imperative that I vet you as a suitor." He hands him the apron with a challenge in his quirked brow, "While I am very well aware that you are the king of this nation, it is my right as Nimmi's father that I ensure her happiness or future happiness, regardless of how much power this person may have."

"I—" he accepts the apron, befuddled, shocked, and amused at the turn of events. He can see Nimmi in him now that he's said this. He huffs a breath and slides on the apron, "I understand."

"Good," Anwar grins and grabs the bucket of flour from the pantry. "This is Nimmi's favorite type of bread. She doesn't like her loaves to be crusty or too soft, so we have to divide the milk bread into multiple circles before adding the topping and then putting them to bake. We must be careful to add adequate oil." He hands the king a metal scraper. "Now tell me, Deshret, how did you meet my daughter?"

—

Nimmi wakes up with a yawn. The smell of yeast, sugar, and currants wafts through the air. She wipes the side of her face and shuffles the papers next to her on the table. She rubs the side of her eyes before getting up and walking to the kitchen. She crawls onto the chair in front of the counter and asks sleepily, "Baba, is the bread done? I think I'm almost done with my sketches."

"Should be out of the oven in a few minutes, sprout," Anwar sounds almost like he's laughing, which is so confusing to her.

Nimmi blinks her eyes blearily and nearly breaks her brain in half when she sees Deshret sitting next to her with an apron, flour smudged on his cheek. She stares at him in disbelief and then at her father, who watches with a pointed expression. She opens her mouth and then closes it, "Um..."

"Nimmi, do you have something to tell me?" Anwar asks coolly.

Nimmi panics and looks at Deshret, who remains impassive. How was she to know what he said? She stutters, "N-No?"

"Really?" he says calmly, far too calmly, and wipes the counter with a damp rag. "So, you were not going to tell me that you were doing commissions for the king?"

Her shoulders droop in relief, and she hears the low chuckle from the king beside her. The bastard, she thinks, irritated. She looks at him with a scowl before turning back to her father, "It was a recent thing, Baba. I meant to tell you later..."

"Did you?" Anwar raises a brow.

Nimmi pouts and whines, "Baba, you know I've been sketching for hours, and I was going to tell you about it when I had a prototype."

"Alright, enough whining, sprout—you would think you would grow out of that now that the years have passed," he laughs loudly at her mortified expression.

"Baba," she hisses, embarrassed that he was using her pet name in front of the king.

"No need to feel embarrassed, my little sprout," Anwar says good-naturedly, relishing in her flustered expression. "I've already told Deshret numerous stories while you were taking a catnap."

"You told..." Nimmi could hardly get the words out, stupefied by the familiarity he had with the king and the mere panic at just what her father had boasted to him. She groans and hides her face behind her hands—Gods, just kill her at this point.

"It is alright, Nimmi," Deshret says amusedly from her side and grabs her hands that cover her face. "I enjoyed hearing stories of your youth."

She can't look at him—the mortification, sadness, and distress are evident on her face. She pointedly looks away from him, "You have flour on your face."

"I do not," he says with an amused drawl.

"You do actually," Anwar adds helpfully and points to his cheek. "Though not many can tell with the silver of his hair."

"His hair is gray, Baba."

"I do not have gray hair," Deshret says, offended, and hastily wipes the side of his face.

Nimmi giggles under her breath, and her breath hitches when warm gold eyes catch her claret ones. Deshret can physically see herself pull back from the comfortable haze, her eyes sharpening, small falling as she turns back in her chair—a fraction smaller than before.

Anwar watches this with a shrewd expression, "Deshret here was helping me stock up for tomorrow's orders."

Nimmi blinks, "What? Bake—you made the king bake?"

"Of course," he says as if he hadn't ordered the king himself, and puts a plethora of jars of jam on the table in front of them. "It was a bonding experience."

She makes a noise of confusion—frightened confusion. She furrows her brows and says softly, "I don't understand."

The buzzing of the timer goes off, and Anwar rubs his hands together, pulling a hand towel from the side of the counter. He hands it to the Scarlet King, "Alright, Deshret, this is your batch. Let's see how well you have done."

Deshret accepts the hand towel and quickly pulls out a tin of bread from the oven. Anwar makes a pleased sound as he places it back on the counter and praises lightly, "Well done. It has a good enough crust; did you use butter for the top?"

"A bit," Deshret answers proudly and swings the towel over his shoulder. Nimmi frowns inwardly at how attractive he is. He quickly flips over the bread to pull it out of the tin. "I found that a bit of water helps emulsify the area."

"That it does, generally we use spray bottles to help with the moisture," Anwar explains, and helps him put the bread in its correct position. "But milk bread tends to have more of a liquid base than syrup consistency. Remember when we poured in the thickened cream?"

"Which thinned with the eggs and yeast," Deshret nods in realization and takes a seat next to Nimmi, who had gotten up to make a tray of tea. "Would fruit ruin its texture?"

"In my experience, not really. Berries have less water than, say, a pear or coconut, but it's still mixable. If we use almonds or glabrous beans, which dry out the liquid, it will not rise properly."

"Even with the yeast?" he makes a sound of surprise. "How interesting."

Nimmi pinches the bridge of her nose, unable to process this conversation. Is it a conversation when her father and ex-lover are getting along? This ex-lover is also the king, which is frightening when she thinks of the possibilities. She groans under her breath, "What is happening?"

"Baking is a science, Nimmi," Deshret says matter-of-factly. "Not necessarily a biology, but it resembles alchemy in the way of transformation. I have never dabbled extensively in the art, though I have thought of it."

She looks at him with mild disbelief.

"You should visit more often, Deshret," Anwar says pleasantly. "I can show you all of Nimmi's favorites. She doesn't eat much, not as much as I would hope, but she does love her snacks."

"Baba, why are you making fun of me?" Nimmi pouts and grabs the pot of tea from the side.

"Oh, are you telling me that I cannot tease my favorite daughter?"

"I am your only daughter."

"Exactly," he says arrogantly.

Nimmi smiles to herself, and just as she was about to pour them a cup of tea, Deshret grabs the teapot. She blinks as Deshret makes her a cup and a reminder of a faint memory, of the first time they met. He pours her a cup of tea and adds a splash of milk before setting it in front of her. Before he can look upwards to ask for Anwar's preference. Her father speaks up and wipes his hands wet a wet towel. "Well, children—I have some errands to run, so please do not eat all of the bread, Nimmi. I would like to eat toast tomorrow morning."

"What? Baba, it is late," Nimmi exclaims, outraged and crosses her arms underneath her chest, unamused. "Just where do you think you are going?"

"Oh, hush, sprout," he waves it off. "I am not going far."

"You are not leaving the house this late at night," she stands up abruptly and puts her hands on her hips. "I forbid it."

"You forbid it?" her father raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

Deshret tries to intervene, "Nimmi, perhaps—"

She glares, "It is dangerous, and you are not exactly young anymore."

Anwar scoffs and sticks his nose in the air, "I am still young enough to hide my blackberry currant jam from you." She gasps dramatically. He gives a small smile, "Nimmi, I'm just going next door. Uncle Sev wanted some supplies, and there was a bowl of fish head soup with my name on it. You know how he likes to make enough for a village and then some."

Nimmi eyes him suspiciously and then sighs in defeat, "Fine, but you are not allowed to have any baklava!"

Anwar removes his apron and places it on a hook. He retorts without any real heat, "One piece of baklava is not going to kill me."

"Yes, it will!"

He chuckles and drops a kiss on her head before grabbing a bag of what sounds like clear jars. He gives Deshret a look and nods, "Take care of my girl for me, Deshret."

Deshret nods solemnly, "I will."

Nimmi suddenly realizes that she will be alone with the king, in her father's house, with absolutely no witnesses, but bread and jam.

—

The sound of the clock ticking echoes throughout the room. Nimmi swallows thickly and turns around to see Deshret setting up a tea station on the coffee table near the sofa. Deshret looks up and clears his throat, "I thought you would be more comfortable...in the sitting area."

Nimmi smiles tightly, but agrees, nonetheless. She grabs her papers from the sofa in an attempt to tidy up, using her hands to distract herself from the lump growing in her throat and the nerves that nick her fingers. Eventually, there is nothing else for her to do, so she takes a seat on the sofa, and Deshret hands her a cup of tea.

She takes a sip; he warmed it back up for her.

Her eyes water.

Gods, he's so thoughtful; he's going to break her heart.

"Your father is very constructive when baking," Deshret says after a moment and cuts a slice of bread—the smell of honey and wheat steaming in white ribbons.

Nimmi chuckles despite herself, "That is one way of putting it. He's very...methodical."

"You get that from him," he says lightly and puts a slice on her plate. "Your...engineering skills."

"I suppose you can say that," she agrees and takes another sip of tea. "When I was a child and helped out in the kitchen—he used to get upset with me when I didn't fill the measuring cup all the way to the top or when I packed a cup to the brim. But then he will make a stew or rice or soup and tell me to measure with my heart. He is still so very contrary."

"I can tell," Deshret smiles half-heartedly and cuts himself a slice. "He made sure I greased the tin, kneaded the dough until it called out to me, and then dressed it generously."

"I apologize if he overstepped," Nimmi says suddenly and puts her tea down. "He's very friendly, my father and sometimes—"

He stops her, "Nimmi, please." She falls silent. He looks at her with warm gold eyes, "He is your father. How could I not be charmed by him?"

She parts her lips, but no sound comes out.

Deshret clears his throat and hesitates around the glass jars, "Now, I am not too sure about these preserves your father left out...but how do you..." He clears his throat, "Which do you prefer?"

Nimmi thinks that it's so difficult to live in a place where someone sees her. She is more than sure that Deshret has had toast, but he wants to know what she likes, how she likes things done—how he can fit her in a place where she can belong. If she belongs.

"Well," Nimmi starts off, trying to rid herself of the emotion at the back of her throat. She grabs a knife, "I like to use butter first, especially when the bread is hot, and then I use jam. Sometimes when the bread is just warm enough, it cools quickly as well, and the jam almost crystallizes."

"I see," he says softly and follows her lead. "Which preserves are these?"

"The red is rattanberry, it is the least sweet. The amber is apple with ginger. The violet-colored one is padisarah, sunsettias, and honey. This black one is my favorite, it's black currant and cardamom," she explains and makes herself a bite, but instead of eating it, she puts it on his plate and makes another.

She doesn't look at him, her anxiety flaring at the edges, and the need to use her fingers to do something other than twiddle in her lap is enough of an excuse. She carefully swipes the softened butter over her slice of toast and then slathers a bit of the jam over it. He grumbles, "Perhaps I should use less butter next time. It's a touch salty."

Nimmi looks at him with confusion, but tries the toast, nonetheless. It's good, crackly at the crust, flaky to the touch, and warm with notes of honey and wheat. She hums, "Just use unsalted butter for this bread then, with some jam, and goat's cheese."

"Is it adequate?"

She rolls her eyes and replies, with a slip of the tongue, "It's good, Desh—my lord."

"Abhi," Deshret says, startles, abruptly. He flickers his gaze over to her, upset. He puts his plate down and wipes his hands before putting a hand on her knee. "You know that is not what you call me."

Nimmi swallows and fidgets. She whispers, "Deshret, what are you doing here?"

Al-Ahmar inhales deeply; he cannot abide by this—whatever this fragile space is. Rukhadevata called it miscommunication; he calls it clarity. What comes out instead of what he meant to say is, "I came to give you something."

She blinks, not expecting that answer, and turns to look at him. He reaches behind him to grab a wooden box and hands it to her. Furrowing her brows, she slowly takes the box and places it on her lap. It's made with athel wood, judging from the coloring, and carved with expert craftsmanship. It's beautiful, she thinks, the curves are sanded to a velvet, and the glossy exterior of the wood tells her it's been stained multiple times.

Nimmi unlatches the lock and opens it. Numerous, bright, glimmering crystals stare back at her. She exclaims in surprise, "Agate pieces? These are amethyst, lazurite..."

"I know that you need gemstones and earthly crystals to complete your commissions," Deshret explains. "With how expensive these stones are and how difficult they are to acquire, I went through the back channels to get you enough product for a few weapons, judging by the sizing."

"Thank you," Nimmi replies gratefully and runs a finger over the edge of the box. "This is very useful."

He leans closer, his moonlit hair brushing over her elbow and forearm. He pulls out a latch from the top part of the box and pulls out a silk parcel. He places it on top of the mound of jewels and murmurs, "This. This is for you."

She stares at the silk parcel before glancing at him with a puzzled look and pulls the string open.

A pair of ruby earrings, studs, with gold spindling the circumference in the shape of a sun, falls into her hands. Nimmi stares at the jewelry with awe, shock, and something contemplative. She doesn't think Deshret is trying to...disrespect her, by buying and gifting her this, but does he normally give gifts to his lovers? Or paramours after a tryst?

"I noticed that you do not wear any jewelry," Deshret says when she remains quiet. "Kasala tells me that you actually do like jewelry...and something about a fish. I forget. I understand that it's not very practical to wear such items when you have such a demanding and dangerous occupation, but I thought earrings would be a good compromise."

"They are beautiful," Nimmi says softly and brushes the diamonds at the sides of the spindles.

"I am pleased that you like them," he replies gently. "Do you have your ears pierced?"

"I do," she clears her throat. "I haven't worn jewelry in a very long time."

"Would you mind telling me why?"

Nimmi thins her lips, "When I was little, my father took me to lessons at the community center north of here. During that time, my mother was killed during a home invasion. They stole all her jewelry and...I haven't worn any since." She inhales and puts the box on the table, "Jewelry in my family has always been passed down. They were gifted or commissioned, usually from a family member, brother, uncle, husband—whoever. Since my...since she died, I have not received any. My father gifted me an anklet from her when I turned sixteen," she states tiredly. "It was the only thing...found on her after."

"Oh, Nimmi," Deshret breathes out, anguished by her loss, and cups her face. She looks up at him, perturbed, wary, and a bit embarrassed—why? He does not know. He pecks the side of her face and says, "Then, you can think of this as one of your engagement presents."

Nimmi freezes every muscle in her body at the declaration. She stares at him incredulously, unable to comprehend what he just said. The room falls into a heavy silence as the weight of his words hangs in suspense. She furrows her brows while pulling away from him slowly, and opens her mouth before snapping it shut. She blurts out, "I am not pregnant."

Deshret blinks, "I am aware...Rukhadevata tells me she supplied you with a box of contraceptives."

"I don't understand," she closes her eyes shut in confusion, puts the box back on the table, and then opens her eyes back to refocus on the teacup in front of her. "We are not engaged."

"That is actually what I wanted to talk to your father about," he admits after a moment.

Nimmi snaps her head to look at him in disbelief and stands up suddenly, "You—! Just because we had sex does not mean we need to get married."

Deshret reels back as if she had slapped him and retorts, "That is not—! Did you think I would only ask for your hand if you were with child?"

"I don't know," she exclaims, exasperated. "Do you normally gift your paramours’ jewels?"

"Do not," he hisses, infuriated, and stands up too. "Do not call yourself that when you know you are far more to me than that. Don't you dare cheapen my feelings for you."

"What am I supposed to think? You bring me jewels, tell me we are engaged, but I am not pregnant, so you have no obligation or duty to me. Just because we had sex does not mean we are tied together or—or that you have some type of claim on me." Nimmi swallows thickly and replies wearily, "I do not understand what you want from me. You have the Lord of Flowers, who is beautiful and intelligent, you do not need to sully—"

"Nimmi," Deshret is suddenly in front of her and cups her face. He exhales with closed eyes, "I hate that Rukha was right."

"What?" she asks with trembling lips.

"My little abhi," he strokes the side of her cheek with his thumb and smiles half-heartedly. "I only want you."

Nimmi stares at him with glistening eyes, unable to comprehend.

"Listen to me," Deshret says softly. "Nabu and I are not lovers—we are dear friends, nothing more."

She falters in confusion, "You are not...attached to the Lord of Flowers?"

He shakes his head and sighs, "I wish I knew who started such a foolish rumor, but it is not true, Nimmi. I would like to think that my character and honor speak for themselves, especially since the other two Gods who rule beside me are women."

Nimmi looks away.

"I would never disrespect you or treat you like that. I am aware that there are courtesans and tawaifs in Sumeru, but I have not indulged in such behavior in centuries, and I most certainly would not have treated them so...horridly. For one, Nabu and Rukhadevata would have skinned me alive, and second, those women gifted themselves to me, and that is precious in its own right," Deshret lifts her chin to look at him. "But you...you are different, and I want everything from you."

The knot that tightened in her chest loosened; Kasala had thought she was being silly with her hypotheses, and perhaps she had been, but that did not mean he was off the hook.

"What does that mean?" Nimmi asks after a long moment. She clarifies, "Everything?"

"I am a greedy man, Nimmi. I am not the benevolent God that everyone thinks I am. I hunger, I yearn, I need, I want, and I want," Deshret starts darkly, heatedly. "I want your gaze, your breaths, your smiles, your laughter, the sound you snuffle just before you awaken from slumber. I want your hands on my face, I want you to eat proper meals, I want you to lie beside me when I rest my head, I want to see you scold Kasala for not drinking his water, I want to kiss you when you are least expecting it, I want to taste you when you are cross with me, I want your words, your thoughts. I want you, Nimmi."

Her heart is about to beat out of her chest.

This was...too much.

Too much.

Too fast.

"And you think asking my father for his blessing because you damn well should have asked me for my hand in marriage is the way to do it?" Nimmi looks less upset and more annoyed. "That getting married is the answer to," she waves her hand. "All this?"

It is Deshret's turn to look confused, and he frowns, "...is this not what you desire?"

That is a trick question, she thinks with alarm.

"Deshret, you do not know me," Nimmi hates that she has to be the voice of reason. "It has been less than a week and we—" She shakes her head, "This is too fast. I mean, you have not courted me!"

Deshret absorbs the information rapidly, analyzing each word before supplying possible routes. He works it out slowly, "So, if we court, then you would marry me?"

It's a trap.

She scowls at him and stomps away from him to take a sip of her tea. He is being purposefully obtuse, she knows it. She puts her tea down. It did not calm her.

She whirls around and puts her hands on her hips, "You want to marry me, is what you're telling me, but you have not courted me as a suitor. You have not taken me on an outing, no dinners or picnics. You have not celebrated any events with me. You ask my father for my hand, for his blessing, but not me. You gifted me a pair of earrings just now as an engagement present, but have not given me any courtship gifts. You didn't even propose to me—not with bridal jewelry, nor did you get on your knee. Why would I have said yes?"

Deshret thinks with a grimace, Rukhadevata and Nabu would have laughed themselves hoarse if they saw how Nimmi tore his proposition to pieces. But he is the God of War and Order, and if there is one thing he knows how to do and how to do well, it's lay siege.

"We did this completely back to front," Nimmi finishes tiredly.

"Maybe doing things back to front is how we are supposed to do this," his eyes glint knowingly.

She gapes at him and then sputters, "Are you seriously—? This is not a laughing matter!"

"You are smiling, abhi," Deshret replies amusedly.

"I am not," her mouth twitches; damn, maybe she is.

He smiles at her knowingly and crosses his arms underneath his chest, "Very well, six months of courtship, and then we shall be married."

"Six months?" Nimmi squeaks and then demands. "Absolutely not! Two years."

"One year," Deshret negotiates firmly.

She chews her bottom lip, "One year and then another year for an engagement."

"Done," he replies with a smirk. "Though I highly doubt that you will need longer than six months to accept my suit."

"And why is that?" Nimmi snaps back, already annoyed.

"Because I intend to have you, Nimmi," Deshret declares and slowly walks toward her. "I will occupy your every thought, your every breath, every corner of your heart until you are just as affected as I, because you have me ensorcelled, abhi. As the God of War and Order, there is no battle I have lost, and I do not intend to start now."

The trap snaps shut.

She is this close to hyperventilating. She had never imagined, would have never imagined, how bloody romantic the Lord of the Red Sands could be, because she's so desperately close to falling into his arms at this moment in time. She can finally see the mania, the madness, the obsession, the desire—they were said to be rumors, how his madness translated into unflinching, unapologetic ambition—etched in his golden eyes, and she should be terrified.

But she wonders if he sees the same wild look of want reflected in her eyes.

Because Nimmi has never wanted someone the way she wants Deshret.

"And if you decide that you do not want this?" Nimmi whispers, frightened. "That you do not want me?"

"Do you believe me to be a person so feeble in my faith, in my convictions?" Deshret puts his hands on her shoulders. "That I am so weak that my ambitions would falter?"

Nimmi looks at him with wide, claret eyes, a pout unwilling on her face.

"I want you, Nimmi," he says softly, fingers curling around her arms, and he rests his forehead against hers. "It will be you or no one at all."

Her fingers grasp his breastplate in response.

"And you?" Deshret asks almost hesitantly, his gold eyes searching hers. "What are your thoughts?"

Nimmi licks her lips nervously, "I-I have never wanted anyone like I want you."

He smiles warmly at that, "Truly?"

"Yes," she whispers. "It's a bit frightening. The last time I had...a relationship like this, it went to hell, and I'm so afraid that if this goes wrong—I will not recover."

"Kasala told me," Deshret confesses and cradles her close. "Take refuge in this, abhi, there is no one like me, and I would rather die than let you be hurt. I almost have."

Nimmi slaps his chest without thinking and narrows her eyes, "That was not funny."

He chuckles, "But it is true."

"I do not want to think of you hurt."

"Then think of us happy," Deshret says simply.

Then he kisses her.

—

"Mm," Nimmi moans softly when Deshret sucks another bruise into her throat, and peppers kisses back up her jaw, then her cheek. "You will scandalize my father."

"Unlikely," Deshret counters with a gentle suck under her ear. "He's given me permission to keep you happy."

"And you think this makes me happy?" she whimpers when he nips the side of her mouth.

He laughs into her ear, "You are pink, abhi."

"It's warm," she protests, but she's sure her cheeks are permanently stained red, and turns around so her chin rests in the dip of his sternum. "Why do you call me that?"

"Abhi?" he asks with a blink.

"Kasala told me what it means," Nimmi replies shyly and ducks her face into his breast. "I am not so familiar with the Deshret script as opposed to the Sumerian dialect."

"Ah," Deshret understands and falls silent. He furrows snowy brows in thought and brushes his fingers over her cheekbone, "I adore you, Nimmi." Her breath hitches at the confession and he continues, "And this need, this want, this desire I have for you is almost crippling. It is a madness, because I want you against all rational thought. Abhi, because you are my most desired treasure, my most precious person, and the Scarlet King's favorite."

Her face is warm; she can feel it getting warmer, but she rises to the occasion. She must, or Deshret will accidentally let her combust. She wrinkles her nose and puts her hands underneath her chin, her arms flat against his chest, "Actually, you are wrong."

"Am I?" he asks lightly, blunt nails rake up her bare back, and she shudders at the sensation, arching.

He grins.

"Yes," Nimmi tries to focus and huffs. "You see, I do not belong to this—Scarlet King."

The smile on his face falters at that, "What?"

"No, no," she shakes his head, just barely hiding a laugh. She leans in closer, "You see, I belong to Deshret."

Gold eyes widen.

"Yes, I belong to this man named Deshret," Nimmi continues smugly and lifts her chin. "I know naught of this Scarlet King, only Deshret."

Deshret looks at her with soft gold eyes, his fingers pause their trek down her cheek and to the side of her jaw. There has never been much of a distinction between those titles: the Scarlet King, Lord of the Red Sands, Lord of the Blazing Sun, and Deshret. Many fear him as they love him, for his power and awesome strength are what keep the desert so prosperous, but they do not know him. Not like Rukhadevata or Nabu has—perhaps even Hermanubis and Kasala.

But Nimmi wants him, without his titles, his riches, and his responsibility.

Just him.

Deshret grasps the back of her neck to pull her down for a kiss, and she hums into his mouth when his fingers squeeze the tense muscle there. She giggles lightly when his fingers trace her ribs, and he shuffles backwards when her tongue traces his upper lip and shuffles into a paper—judging from the crumpling sound. She pulls back with red lips to grab the paper from behind his head and states breathily, "My sketches."

"I was not aware that you draw," Deshret mumbles into her chest when she stretches, and she yips when he nips a little too close to her erect peak.

She glares down at him.

He smirks, like a cat resting in the sun.

"I have to be able to sketch to start building prototypes," Nimmi pulls back and holds a handful of sheafs.

"May I see?"

She parts her mouth in surprise, but hands him some of the papers. Deshret sits up on the sofa and adjusts Nimmi so she's resting on his chest. She pulls some papers from the side of the table. She nestles lower down his chest and rests the back of her head against his heart, flipping through the pages.

"These are sketches of the polearm?" Deshret asks after a moment with raised brows at the sight of the drawings and flips through them.

"Mm," Nimmi answers and combs through the stack. "I noticed that your original polearm has a curved tip rather than a pointed one. I assume it's to get a wider range of motion, whereas a sharpened blade has less control once impaled."

"Yes," he presses a kiss to the back of her neck in approval. "Electro or pyro are the elements I prefer when attacking, geo is used as a buffer or in between both attacks to maximize efficiency."

"A crystallization buffer," she makes a note of that on one of the papers.

Deshret flips through the pages when he comes across a sketch of him, and his breath catches in his throat. There are numerous sketches of him, one holding a polearm, one of him lunging, another of him smiling, one raising his face up to the sky, and another of him looking down at his hands. These sketches are...deferential, if he has to describe them. They capture the light in his eyes, the subtle micro-expressions, and the faint lines of his body in each move.

Beautiful.

"Deshret?" Nimmi looks upwards and wiggles up to see, "What are you looking at—ah!"

She snatches the papers away from him, mortified.

"Nimmi," Deshret scolds, surprised at her. "I was studying those."

"You can't look at these!" she flushes and tries to inch away from him, but his arms are steel bands around her waist. "They are terrible!"

"They are wonderful!" he says, offended, and pulls her higher up his chest. "Give them here!"

"Absolutely not," Nimmi cries out and shuffles the paper in between her own stack. "Those are unfinished sketches...they are not my best."

"Are you mad?" Deshret scoffs and turns her halfway so he can look at her face. "Do you know how it feels to see how you look at me through your own eyes? To feel so—they are beautiful, Nimmi. I knew you were talented, of course, but these...I can feel your heart in them."

She shifts, flushed, embarrassed, and shy, "I just needed you as a model—for the weapon."

"And I suppose that side profile of me smiling down at something is for science?" he teases lightly.

"Stop being mean to me!" Nimmi pouts and looks away.

Deshret laughs lightly and kisses her mortification away.

—

"Are you staying the night here?" Deshret strokes the side of her head.

Nimmi nods, "Yes, I will go back to my place in the morning. I need to head to the Akademiya for some research after."

He purses his lips and nods, "Keep yourself free midday, I will come and get you for lunch."

She raises her brows, "Oh? Are we going on an outing?"

"Yes," Deshret smiles. "Our first—what do the younger generations call it? A date?"

Nimmi rolls her eyes, "You say your hair is not gray, but sometimes I wonder if you are aware of how ancestral you sound."

He gapes for a moment, a slight, a tease, and a gentle poke takes him aback for a moment. He tuts, "Impertinent."

"I have a feeling that you like that," she giggles and looks up at him with claret eyes.

Deshret's mouth twitches, but he leans down to kiss her on the nose and whispers amusedly, "Perhaps."

"Should I bring anything?"

"Just yourself," he says softly. "Kasala will inform you of the details tomorrow. I am sure he is itching for information."

"He means well," Nimmi huffs. "Even if he's a meddlesome little beetle."

Deshret laughs into her hair, "Rukhadevata is of a similar nature."

"It cannot be good form to insult the Dendro Archon like that?"

He responds defensively, "She has called me everything under the sun."

She laughs and rests her face against his chest, exhausted, but happy that she has the clarity that she so desperately desired but didn't realize she needed. "If you get everything from me," Nimmi says softly. "Then what do I get in return?"

"All of me," Deshret says immediately and strokes the side of her neck. "And anything your heart desires."

"Anything?" she raises her brows and replies mischievously. "You may come to regret that, Scarlet King."

"Oh?" he makes an amused sound and presses his lips to her forehead. "Then I am looking forward to it."

—

"Go to bed, Rukhadevata," Deshret greets flatly and turns left to his baths.

Rukhadevata stands up abruptly from her seat on the swing, "At least tell me you fixed it."

"There was nothing to fix."

"Now, you're being purposefully obtuse," she scolds and follows him down the hall.

Deshret slams the door in her face, "Go to bed, Rukhadevata!"

Rukhadevata knocks rapidly on the doors, "Just because Kasala and Hermanubis are not here, does not mean you can't tell me the truth!"

Suddenly, Al-Ahmar opens the door, and Rukhadevata stumbles forward from the force. He glares at her, "We are having lunch tomorrow, and I shall know then."

He slams the door shut again.

"So says the love bites on your neck!" Rukhadevata huffs with a grin.

A muffled laugh tells her all is well from the baths.

—

"This is a bit..." Kasala struggles and gestures in front of him. "Scandalous, for the Akademiya, Nim."

"Who said I'm dressed like this for the Akademiya?" Nimmi quirks a brow and shows him the deep cut down her back.

It's not even a real dress, he thinks exasperated. A slip of silk, cut into three triangles – a nod to the king – in a buttery yellow with one slit high up her leg and the other flowing behind her. "I assume the triangles for his benefit."

"I want to see how well his self-control is," Nimmi says with a wicked smile.

He gapes, "You are testing my lord?"

"He said I could," she shrugs, and it's not entirely a lie. He said she could have anything she desired, and she desired to wear the most enticing pieces of fabric she had and observe his reaction. She looks over the notes she received from a colleague and jots them down on a separate piece of parchment with her sketch. "Besides, you're here to—what is it? Escort me?"

"I am to deliver you to the location," Kasala corrects and then shifts. "Did my lord apologize?"

"He did," Nimmi pauses to look up. "He was remiss that he did not declare his intentions to me, but he alluded that he did not know himself until..."

"Until you pulled away," he finishes for her and remarks with surprise. "He panicked."

"I do not know if Deshret is one to panic," she muses with furrowed brows and ignores Kasala's look of horror when she uses his name. "But I think he was rattled."

"Rattled that you did not do as he said?"

"Rattled that I was giving him space," she corrects. "Us space. Granted, most of it was me having a meltdown, but Deshret never wanted space."

He only wanted me.

"Your father was humming this morning, which is not unusual," Kasala points out as she finishes her notes. "But he told me that he had received the best news yesterday."

"Ah, that," Nimmi says dryly.

"Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to ask uncle?" he raises a brow.

"Honestly, I think you might have a stroke if I tell you."

"Now you must tell me."

Nimmi stares at him, drops her pen, and leans back in her chair with her arms crossed underneath her chest. She clucks her tongue, "Remember you asked for this," she clears her throat despite the blush crawling up her neck, and Kasala stares, "Deshret asked for my hand."

Kasala stumbles to the floor, the ground beneath him stolen. He gasps a shriek, "What?"

"That is what he asked Baba," Nimmi turns away from him. "Baba thinks he now has a son, the king no less. I told Deshret that it was proper that he ask me before he asked for my father's blessing."

"Stop, wait—hold on," he pinches the bridge of his nose because his heart cannot take this much information. He inhales loudly, "Nimmi, why the fuck didn't you tell me this earlier?"

She chuckles sheepishly, "Slipped my mind."

"It slipped yoUR—" Kasala's screech tapers into a loud whisper. He leans in closer, anxiously, "What did you tell him?"

Nimmi rolls her eyes, "I said no, obviously."

He is going to have a stroke. Kasala grabs his chest and gasps for air, "You said no?"

"Of course, I said no!" she cries out and then glances around before lowering her voice. "Are you insane? We don't even know each other! At first, I thought he only asked for my hand because he assumed I was pregnant—"

Which is a valid conclusion.

"—or that because we had sex—"

He is going to have to wash his ears out with alcohol at this point.

"—is not a good enough reason to get married," Nimmi huffs and looks up at the ceiling. "I told him that he doesn't know me. He has never courted me; he hasn't done all the things necessary to secure my hand, and well, he took that as a challenge."

Kasala sighs because, of course, he did.

"We negotiated a year of courtship plus a year of engagement before we actually get married."

Kasala stares at her, unmoored, "So, you did say yes."

"I said nothing of the sort!" Nimmi protests and looks back at him.

"But you will say yes."

She stares at him, "I...I won't say no."

"So, you, in essence, made a contract with the God of War and Order," Kasala summarizes with disbelief. "Stating that he fulfills his duties as a suitor, courtship, and went through the proper channels that you would marry him?"

"That bastard tricked me," Nimmi gasps in surprise.

"Nimmi!" he scolds in shock.

"What? I told him I demanded to be courted and proposed to, and he just—" she struggles. "He took it as a challenge, and now he's going to do it, and then I have to say yes because I implied it!"

"But you want to say yes," Kasala points out.

She snaps, "Yes, but that doesn't mean I want to make it easy for him!"

He looks up at the sky and begs for patience.

—

"Ah, Kasala, there you are," Deshret turns from underneath the banyan tree and brushes off some sand from his sash. "Did you collect Nim—"

He cuts himself off when he sees Nimmi standing beside Kasala with slits and triangles and impish cut-outs of skin. The sides of her waist were exposed, leaving a thin strip of fabric of her navel and flaring out at the slits of her skirt, and two cups hugging her breasts with useless off-shoulder ribbons. Al-Ahmar doesn't know where to look first; his mouth had dried up, and his eyes rimmed with coal flicker like two bright stars. He greets softly, "You are wearing the earrings."

"I am," Nimmi says coyly and takes a step closer to him.

Deshret wraps an arm around her waist, relishing in her soft skin before dropping a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips. He murmurs against her mouth, "You look like honey."

She giggles against his lips, "Good enough to eat?"

"Abhi," he says, delightfully aghast, and pulls back to grin darkly. "You wicked little thing."

"Nimmi, please," Kasala cuts in miserably from the back. "I am right here."

"Deshret started it," she points out and giggles again when he nips the corner of her mouth.

"At ease, Kasala," he replies with a knowing look and softens up when Nimmi rests her head against his chest.

He presses his lips to her temple, and she looks up at him. She smiles knowingly for a moment and then turns around in his arms to look at Kasala, "You know Kas, if the contract is fulfilled, you may have to start calling Deshret brother."

Kasala gapes and then stammers, "I-I could not possibly call my lord—"

"This will be a novel experience," Deshret rumbles near her ear and tightens his grip around her waist. "I have always been the younger brother. Rukhadevata and Nabu never fail to chide me as such. I have wondered what it would be like to be the older one."

"You are older than me," Nimmi points out with raised brows. "By several centuries, I presume."

He rolls his eyes, "Not like this, abhi. Perhaps, I was just waiting for you to land in Teyvat."

She smiles bashfully, "You make it seem like I am an alien."

"Not alien, just," he pauses to whisper into her ear. "Mine."

"Deshret," Nimmi scolds, although pleased. "You are traumatizing your little brother."

Kasala yelps.

"Ah, we cannot have that," Deshret's eyes twinkle. "Very well, Kasala. You must call me brother; I will not have you address me any other way."

He protests, mortified, "You are not married!"

"It's good practice," The Scarlet King shrugs.

"A bit presumptuous there, aren't you?" Nimmi scoffs.

"Presumptuous? Unlikely, I believe the term is called confident," he quirks a brow and presses a kiss underneath her ear. "I told you that it can only be you."

She huffs, but smiles mischievously, "Go on, Kasala."

Deshret looks at him patiently.

Kasala, stuck between a rock and a hard place, looks away before flushing, embarrassed, "B-Brother."

Nimmi claps her hands and beams, "How adorable."

The Scarlet King laughs into her hair and remarks, pleased, "Though do try to say it as if you aren't embarrassed of having the king for a brother."

Kasala makes a strangled sound.

Nimmi chuckles under her breath and turns to look at Deshret, "By the way, where are we going? Kasala would not give me details, and I did not know how to prepare."

"You look beautiful," he says simply and presses a kiss to her forehead. Kasala finds himself smiling when Nimmi darts her eyes downwards in bashfulness. "But that is a secret. I am pleased to know that our little brother is true to his word."

Nimmi looks back up with narrowed eyes and accuses, "You two are going to conspire against me, I can see it now."

He laughs warmly and strokes the side of her face with gloved fingers. He says, "I thought we could have a picnic underneath the palm trees of the Asuva Oasis."

She looks at him in wonder and asks softly, "Asuva Oasis? Where is that?"

"It's an oasis I found excavating the valley south of the Lamb Devour Rock checkpoint," Deshret answers after a moment.

"So, I did not have to dress up," she sighs, exasperated at herself.

"Nimmi," he drawls out heatedly, all velvet and silk, his golden eyes darken, and he slides a hand down her back just above her bottom. "Do I sound like I am complaining?"

Kasala coughs loudly from the side, interrupting their bubble, "How exactly are we getting there, my lord? The Land of the Upper Setekh is at least an hour's ride from the village."

Nimmi exchanges a befuddled look with Deshret before turning around and asking, "What? What do you mean we?"

The High Priest points to himself and says obviously, "Chaperone."

Deshret and Nimmi inquire with disbelief, in unison, "Chaperone?"

Kasala stares at them.

"Kasala, what in Teyvat do we need a chaperone for?" Nimmi rolls her eyes. "This is not the age of the heavenly tears! Please tell me you are not going to defend my honor—that has been a lost cause since—anyway." She laughs nervously, unwilling to respond, "We have established that there are no children to be born out of wedlock, so save your mollycoddling for the elderly lady across the street."

Deshret rests his head on her shoulder in amusement and pulls her close to his chest, "I will see you later, Kasala."

Kasala blinks, "Wait, what is—"

They teleport.

—

It's nothing as she expected.

Truthfully, Nimmi did not know what to expect.

A cluster of palm trees hovers over a soft blue blanket. A tray of bread, grapes, various spreads, and smoked meat lay on a wooden board. A small salad, skewers, and crispy potato slices on the other. A bottle of chilled wine with chalices on the side of the cardamom sticks dipped in orange honey, with a bottle of water.

The oasis glimmers like starlight and pearls with lily pads and lotuses.

"I'm surprised a wild animal hadn't made off with the food," Nimmi says lightly, quietly amazed by his thoughtfulness.

"That would be the work of my wards," Deshret snaps his fingers, and a flicker of blue light shows off the blockage.

"I did not even notice the mechanism," she says with surprise and goes to touch the barrier.

Just as she moves to brush her fingers over the wards, Deshret grabs her forearm and pulls her towards him. Nimmi gasps as she tumbles into his chest and slides his hands down the curve of her hips. Deshret remarks, "Now that we do not have an audience, I can finally do what I wanted to do since I saw you."

Nimmi furrows her brows, "What—"

Deshret swallows the rest of her sentence, forcing her head back with a heavy kiss, and her knees weaken instantly. She moans into his mouth when he slides his tongue against hers and nips her bottom lip. She wraps her arms around his neck to keep closer, to steady herself, but he just pulls her tight enough to flatten her breasts against his chest. Which prompts her to pull back and inhale gustily, his mouth finds a home underneath her jaw as he peppers more kisses to the side of her face.

"Deshret," she whines when he sucks on her earlobe and vibrates in his arms.

He plants one firm kiss on her cheek before pulling back and chuckling lowly, "Apologies, abhi. You are far too delectable to neglect."

"I thought we were going to have lunch," Nimmi says, pink-cheeked and put out. She squeezes the sides of his shoulders, "Not me."

Deshret grins sharply, "I did say you looked like honey—"

Her bottom lip pushes out, "Deshret."

"Gods, alright," he presses another kiss to her mouth and exhales. "Put that lip away before I bite it. Come, let us have lunch, and then I shall have you for dessert."

"Greedy," Nimmi huffs and follows him onto the blanket.

"Always."

—

Deshret insists on feeding her from his own hand.

His excuse:

"I need to ensure you eat properly, abhi," he had explained, brushing the corner of her lips with a peach slice.

Nimmi could hardly argue back.

"I suppose my question would be, what is the difference between a king and an emperor?" Nimmi asks after finishing a chicken skewer.

Deshret is mildly concerned about her eating habits. She had only eaten a chicken skewer, a few grapes, a cracker with quite a bit of cheese, and one peach slice. He tries to coax her with a potato boat, re-heating the cheese inside the vegetable mixture, and she takes one small bite from his palm. Kasala hadn't been exaggerating, he thinks, distressed. That night in Gurabad, she must have been exhausted, which led to a proper meal, but if this is her on a day where she is relaxed...

"Deshret?" Nimmi looks at him when he doesn't answer.

"A king rules one kingdom and an emperor rules over many," Deshret answers simply.

He would have to find ways for her to snack, he resolves, steely, he refuses to have her waste away or become sick from her poor eating habits. No, he would see it that she has full meals and plenty of water. Just the thought of her falling ill because of the lack of sustenance puts a pit in his belly.

"But you rule over kingdoms," she points out.

"That may be true," he allows and leans over to hang a string of grapes over her mouth. "But I am not the sole ruler of the nation."

Nimmi eyes the grape a bite warily before nipping the one closest to her, and Deshret drops a kiss to her mouth. She chews slowly when he licks the corner of her lips and pulls back, "I do not understand. You rule over Gurabad, Ay-Khanoum, Kharuf Alsakhra, Avaru, and countless other cities. How would you not be an emperor?"

"Because I rule only over the desert," Deshret reminds her and eats the remainder of his skewer.

She twists on the blanket so the curve of her waist molds into the sand below them.

"Nabu and I rule over Ay-Khanoum jointly, and while the Jinn are solely Nabu's responsibility, the Jinn are still part of the desert," he explains.

"Deshret, you're confusing me," she retorts with a raised brow. "Would that not make...the Lord of Flowers ruler of the Desert?"

Deshret chuckles under his breath and pours them two goblets of chilled wine. He replies, "Sumeru is divided into two territories, the desert and the rainforest. Rukhadevata rules over the rainforest, and I rule over the desert. Nabu rules over the Jinn, who are born from the desert but are not human. Her divine rule is over Ay-Khanoum and part of the Hypostyle desert. I rule over the entirety of the desert, including the parts that Nabu has direct control over." He hands her a goblet and sips his own, "If I should fall, the desert would fall under Rukhadevata's jurisdiction, not Nabu."

"Because she's the Dendro Archon," Nimmi fills in the blank.

"Correct," he says proudly. "Because we rule jointly, it gives us more freedom than any other Archon or ruler to pursue our own interests."

"It doesn't sound like the Lord of Flowers has that much power over the desert," she says after a moment. "Her jurisdiction would be just over the Jinn?"

"Yes," he pauses. "Nabu was or is the sole surviving Angel, who used to live in Hyperborea with the remaining moon worshippers. Those who worshipped the moon and survived moved to what we now know as Nod-Krai. Nabu was created to serve humanity, and while she would help the people in times of need, I thought it would be more prudent that she focus on ruling over her own followers."

"You think she would resent humanity," Nimmi says with surprise and sits up to drink her wine.

Deshret purses his lips, surprised that she understood what he was saying without actually saying it, "I know she would."

Nimmi's heard the rumors, and she knows much more of their species due to her time at the Akademiya. She puts her goblet down, "Professor Silas told me that there are still survivors of the Angel race in different places of Teyvat, but not all of them retain their powers. The Lord of Flowers probably isn't aware that she isn't the only one left."

"Possibly," he offers and shrugs. "But we may never know. Nabu's trek from Hyperborea was across the water, and to my knowledge, she has not left Sumeru in search of other survivors."

She shifts and clears her throat, "I do not mean to sound indelicate—"

"Perish the thought, abhi," Deshret cuts in with a small smile and brushes the side of her face. "You are precious."

Nimmi rolls her eyes and blushes, nonetheless. She averts her gaze, "It sounds like...the Lord of Flowers' position is more...ornamental."

He blinks before pulling back and considers that for a moment.

She swallows when he doesn't say anything and backtracks, "I...do not mean to overstep, I was just unsure of how Sumeru's division of power works, a-and...I would like to know about your relationship with them. I know you said you considered them dear friends."

"Nimmi," Deshret says gently and presses a thumb over her mouth to prevent her from rambling. She looks at him with sad, claret eyes, and he tamps down the urge to kiss away her pout. "Hush, abhi. Come here."

Nimmi looks at him warily, but inches closer to him until he pulls her over him, adjusting her so her head rests in his lap. She inhales in shock when her vision changes, and Deshret hangs over her like a star—as if she has never seen such a beautiful sight. She stares at him, unable to speak.

"Alright?" he asks, stroking the curve of her cheek.

She flushes hotly and nods.

Deshret drops a kiss to her nose and finds his fingers in wild waves, "You are right to some extent. Nabu's position was offered out of our—me and Rukhadevata's—personal relationship with her. She was the sole survivor of her race –that we know of – wandering the desert, and was not human. Nabu's rule is only over those who are not human, so the Jinn," he pauses and strokes her scalp. "But I would not say her position is ornamental; she is our bridge with humanity."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Rukhadevata, more so than I, struggle to understand human emotion," Deshret explains and rubs the side of her jaw. "We were not born mortal nor a child – though I hesitate to speak so of the Dendro Archon – we descended from the Heavens above. If we were to rule over humanity, we must understand humanity, and who better to teach us than one who was created to serve humanity?"

Nimmi remains quiet as Deshret explains the complexity of the disconnect with humanity. How no God is born, understanding the intricacies of the human world. How Rukhadevata rationalizes emotions, using logic to understand relations and linear patterns. How he, himself, used to feel emotions, but never understood how to identify them or how to express them without incriminating himself.

"Emotions are...not rational," Nimmi says after a moment. "They are uniquely applicable to the user based on one's history, exposure, and comprehension, but are varied depending on societal needs. Humans are naturally afraid of what they have been longing for because the experience is new and unused."

"Are you a professor or an artisan?" he teases lightly.

"Can I not be both?" she rolls her eyes and laughs when he brushes the edge of her ear. "The best way, as a human, I can say, to understand emotions is to feel it and assign a label. For example, Kasala loves to eat potato boats. Sometimes, I leave one out because I am busy doing something, and I will come back to eat it, and the potato boat is gone. I am upset because why is he eating my food, but I feel affection for him because he has not changed his habits since he was a boy, and he must be hungry."

"You can feel two contradicting emotions at the same time?" he asks hesitantly.

"Of course," Nimmi answers and hums. "Example, how do you feel about Rukhadevata?"

Deshret pauses, "I love her, but I want to throttle her at—I see."

She laughs in amazement, "Throttle the Dendro Archon? That is against the law, my lord!"

"I am the law," he scoffs.

Nimmi laughs again.

—

"Rukha calls me her little brother," Deshret hums into her cheek, and adjusts her position on her lap so he can wrap his arms around her elbows. "She's infuriating. As the Lord of Wisdom, she is entitled to know everything, and because she knows everything, she's insufferable. She likes to point out my mistakes and then tease me for them. Then she will allude to knowing an answer but refuses to let me know the answer because I should already know the answer—that or she will want something in exchange for the information."

"She loves you," she chuckles.

He pauses, "She does? How can you tell?"

"Because she would only annoy you about those issues if she wanted you to do better," Nimmi points out. "I used to do the same thing with Kasala, and eventually he picked up on my not-too-subtle hints. You can't give everyone the answer, or they will never learn, and it sounds like the Dendro Archon wants you to be the best at whatever it is you are pursuing. So, she annoys you into doing more work; a classic sibling relationship."

"I see," Deshret says slowly and kisses her shoulder. "And I suppose her personality is grating because it is her prerogative to do so."

"Probably, and it's because she's usually always right," she huffs. "But I'm afraid that is a woman thing."

"What do you mean?"

"It's more of a saying," Nimmi replies after a moment. "Women are generally right about most things because we tend to understand subtext and subtlety; most men take things at face value."

"That is a stereotype."

"Maybe," she shrugs. "But every pearl of wisdom has its own truth."

"I have never heard that idiom before," Deshret replies, pleasantly surprised. "What text is that from?"

"It's a Nimmi original," Nimmi grins up at him. "I made it up."

He laughs, "Nimmi. You truly are something else."

She smiles up at him, cerulean eyes softening into red velvet and honey. She presses her lips to his cheek and leans back to bask in his awe. "What of Hermanubis? The Lord of Flowers? Your pillars?"

"I am afraid we do not have that much time for me to venture off into such detail," he says remorsefully. "I did not think you would want to know all of that."

"Why would I not want to know everything about you?" Nimmi frowns. "Many people know of this Scarlet King, but I want to know of Deshret." Her fingers grasp his chin and stroke the bone there, "Have I told you he asked my father for my hand without informing me?"

Deshret stares at her with veneration; sometimes, he wonders what it is that she says that has him so speechless. It is not extraordinary, but there's always a simple hidden truth, one etched in sincerity and brutal honesty. She sees him not as the Lord of Sands, who has conquered kingdoms, who has offered those he acquired a better life, who has spilled blood and killed Gods. She sees him as Deshret, Deshret who installed Pillars and companion rulers so he can hide in his lab and play with primal constructs. Deshret, who eats a frightening amount of spice and pepper but abhors anything stained with sugar lest it come from the mouth he adores.

"How impudent," he says and nips her thumb. His eyes glint mischievously, "How did you respond?"

"A wager, if you can believe," she chuckles and curls into his ribcage. "He's a rather simple man."

"Is he?" Deshret raises a brow and strokes the line of her shoulder.

"Yes," Nimmi replies and brushes his bottom lip with her thumb. "But I find that quite like that in a man."

"A simple man?" he asks aghast.

She laughs, "Simple in all the ways that matter."

Absolutely not. Deshret was not a simple man. He liked opulence, gold, wealth, luxury, and efficiency. He likes order, but he also values quality over quantity and would rather wait years for things to happen in place than rush into perfection. He's very particular about things, but the ease with which he lived his life is simple.

Simple and Nimmi—she wonders how he will carve out a place in his life for her.

—

"I must wait days to see you?" Deshret repeats, outraged.

"I have to procure metals, meet with an advisor, and purchase new welding material," Nimmi replies after rolling her eyes. "You commissioned fifty weapons—I need supplies."

"Have Kasala order them," he protests and rests his forehead against hers. "Have him and a few of my High Priests fetch supplies, jewels, materials, and whatever you need."

"I have to inspect said supplies, Deshret," Nimmi answers gently and bites his bottom lip in retaliation. "Now, whose lip is posturing?"

"I am not pouting," Deshret denies without any heat and chases her mouth.

"No," she agrees falsely and laughs into his cheek. "Just brooding."

He strokes the curve of her back with gloved fingers, and she shivers into his chest. Nimmi says, "Do not fret, I will charge all expenses to the royal account and send a missive with all my thoughts."

Deshret tilts his head and smiles cheekily, "You will write me letters?"

"I meant reports," she retorts with hot cheeks.

"Letters written to me from my intended," he restates with a wider smile. "Letters written from your hand, with your thoughts, and words for me."

"You sound like a spoiled child," Nimmi replies as flat as she could, but the smile curling at her lips tells her otherwise, and she rises on her toes to give him a soft kiss. She whispers against his lips, "You better not let anyone see them."

"I shall guard them with my life," he says solemnly and sighs with exasperation when he sees Kasala resting against a date tree, eyeing them suspiciously. "Is it too late to send Kasala away? You would think that he was here to prevent me from ravishing you."

"Oh?" she brushes the rim of his ear with her lips. "Are you telling me that you plan not to ravish me among the henna berries and palm trees? How disappointing."

Deshret's hands grip her tighter, and she makes a soft sound against his throat. He growls into her ear, "You should not bait me, abhi."

"And why is that?"

"Because I win," he promises darkly and looks at her with a hint of schadenfreude in his gold eyes. "Always."

Nimmi lifts her chin and challenges with a small smile, "For now."

"For now?" he repeats in question.

"You have never played against me, Scarlet King," Nimmi promises with a sweet look. "And I always get what I want."

Deshret laughs gaily into her hair, "Oh, Nimmi. I fear you have met your match."

"Where? I don't see them."

Nimmi shrieks when Deshret suddenly dips her and swallows her shock with his mouth. She laughs airily into his mouth, but kisses him just so, palm grasping the back of his neck, thumb stroking the base of his scalp, and the taste of him tucked in the corner of her cheek. She hums against his lips and pulls back to say, "I will write to you."

"I will write back," Deshret promises and pulls her up.

"Must you eat my br-brother's face?" Kasala says with equal parts nauseous and annoyed.

"Yes," Nimmi replies out of spite, nipping the underneath of his jaw and giggles when he chases her mouth. She takes a step back, "I will see you soon."

Deshret curls his lips upwards but says nothing when she leaves with Kasala.

—

Dearest Scarlet King,

Perhaps I am complaining, but I have no other besides Kasala to air my grievances to. I went to purchase three bundles of white iron chunks, and Mr. Ahked tried to charge me a gratuity fee for ordering in bulk! I would think that ordering in bulk would call for wholesale prices, but apparently not. When he asked which account to charge it to, I mentioned that I do not think the royal accountants would think highly of such an inflation in price. It was almost comical how quickly the man changed his tune. Robbery! In broad daylight. I shall look for a new supplier, signed an extremely horrified customer.

Today, Baba decided to import corn flour from the unofficial port south of Ardavi Valley. I admit, I was confused when he substituted corn flour for long-grain rice in the kheer. Yet, I cannot find myself complaining about the texture of corn, honey, and butter, which is velvety. I wonder what would happen if Baba were to bake such a batter? I shall not give him ideas. I fear for his customers and the customers who are afflicted with elevated levels of blood sugar. Temptation and poison in one. I shudder at the thought.

Is there any chance that you can keep Kasala busy? He's been so trying with my meals! (I eat, I promise, but contaminating the metals with crumbs or liquid can prove disastrous in the welding process). I made this soup the other day, with yogurt, leeks, and this new vegetable arriving from the forest, parsnips, I believe it is called. It's stronger than a potato, but weaker than say...glabrous beans. I think it's quite delicious, though I'm sure you would drown it in harra fruit and scorpion peppers.

How has Kasala handled his assignment in the Hypostyle Desert? I remember him telling me that Hermanubis accompanied him. He will not tell me of the events in the desert. Has everything gone alright? Shall I send him to Baba for cake and tea? He worries me at times, ever since his parents died in that abyssal attack all those years ago, (he probably has not told you, but that is one of the major reasons he wanted to become a High Priest) he's been hellbent on strengthening the defenses around the villages. I admire him so, but I fear for his health, resulting in his stubbornness.

Tell me about the court. The Dendro Archon, of the Lord of Flowers, of—I suppose the squabbles in the palace. There have been rumors that two of the Pillars had gotten into a fight that destroyed part of the throne room. Is your court normally so juvenile? Or are they a special circumstance? Though, knowing your temperament, perhaps you have installed them as Pillars for your amusement. Have I hit the scorpion on the head? Will you tell me of such gossip, or shall I wonder from the stained windows, always peering in, but never welcome? That last line sounded a bit sad. Ignore that, and see that attached.

Yours,

Nimmi

Deshret's fingers slid over her name at the end of the parchment and the sketch of him she attached.

To which he wrote:

Sweetest Abhi,

Have you any idea how I have longed for such correspondence? From you? Exactly one day. You may call me a spoiled, pampered, and entitled king, but have I not earned such titles? I have told you, that I cannot imagine going a day without speaking to you, seeing you, as my day has become exceedingly dull without you in it—this letter will carry my melancholy in hopes of reuniting with you after your unneeded, unnecessary, self-imposed exile.

Shall I have a word with this Mr. Ahked? The trade and commerce of ores should be in an equilibrium, if not abundant from the new mine discovered southeast of the old Varana. Would you like to use one of my suppliers? I understand that your reception would be different from that of a royal representative, which already incenses me that such a pompous lout would treat you any differently solely because of gold, but humans are such fickle creatures. What do you think, Nimmi? I admire your dedication and meticulousness when it comes to sourcing products. I would never do you the discourtesy of sending someone to deliver your materials since your preferences with materials are so particular.

Corn flour, is that ground corn or is it dehydrated? How interesting. Rice flour is of the same concept, but how peculiar to that with corn, but it is a grain, so perhaps not so peculiar. Your father must be over the moon to experiment with such a new ingredient. Corn is not heavily imported in the desert mainly because of the moisture shift in transport. One of the ministers is conducting experiments to improve agricultural trade; I shall see how feasible his solution is. I am not too fond of sweets, baklava, and halvamazd are my least favorites, sickly they are, but I am very willing to try this—what is it, corn porridge? Or is it a pudding?

I am glad that Kasala is feeding you. I shall send him to the riverbanks to scrub the bedrock if he does not heed my orders. I wasn't aware of your culinary prowess, abhi. I shall enjoy eating from your hand. Parsnips are surprisingly not new to the desert, but they are hardly used every day by citizens. Most restaurants and eateries tend to order them in bulk. A yogurt soup sounds appetizing, is it a cooling soup resembling fatteh, or is it warm like stew from the hearth? Did you discover this by accident? Or is this a local dish? And I would not scorn you by adding extra ingredients into your culinary masterpiece, unless of course, Kasala tells me to. What other talents do you hide from me?

Ah, here is what happened. I had sent Kasala and Hermanubis to investigate the increase in abyssal activity south near the Dune of Elusion. They were not to directly interact with those creatures, but merely observe and report back to me. They had, forgive me for such bluntness, Nimmi, come across carcasses, human in nature, Hermanubis concluded. The abyssal corrosion had devolved into a rot. Similarly, to vultures feasting on their prey or a tree stump decomposing in the fertile forest. And judging from the information that you have revealed to me of Kasala's past, it seems I have erred in sending him to participate in such an assignment.

Forgive me, abhi. It seems I am failing at being an older brother. I will do better, I swear it. Kasala is particularly fond of cardamom biscuits from the teahouse in Swava City, do not tell your father, I have yet to acquire the tools necessary to handle a furious Anwar of Naat for such treason.

Where do I even begin with such anarchy? Rukha came to the palace yesterday morning pestering me about our outing. Kasala had conducted bad judgement, and told her that I had teleported without him—he had emphasized his importance of a chaperone, and Rukha decided to list the ways of how my behavior reflected of a man who is depraved, ungentlemanly, and crude. I am none of the above, merely wanton and wretched for this nymph that has been hiding under my nose.

Or is that the same?

Nabu then joined us for dinner. I was not present when Rukhadevata scolded her, but judging her sulking expression, I can only hope that she understood her follies. I learned that one of Nabu's Jinn, Liloupar, I believe her name is, has been making rounds to all settlements around the desert of Hadramaveth and has given Nabu various reports. Though she is fickle in her affections, it seems as though she has an eye on a humble shepherd, but we shall see if that union should bear fruit. I, too, have my eye on him.

If there is one thing that Rukhadevata and Nabu have in common, it is their penchant for gossip. I believe that you, as well, abhi, would get along well with them when the time comes. There are my sisters in spirit, though not in blood, if such things matter. Hermanubis, while a humble High Priest, has been my unofficial right-hand, unknown to my Pillars. Keep that secret to your chest, Nimmi, it is one of the many that I will share with you as the stars move above us. He has been collecting information, although subtly, against my Pillars; you are right on both accounts, however.

While I believe these Pillars are of the most intelligent, most cunning, and most efficient, their other attributes leave much to be desired. I do not trust them with other matters close to my chest, not as I do with Kasala or Hermanubis. The latter are more honest, authentic, sincere, and transparent when speaking to me, and I appreciate such gestures, thus rewarding them with trust. Their humanity is purer than water, and such virtues among my pillars are steeped in greed, but such is the folly of their existence.

I do not know if I find myself amused or offended that you managed to deduce of my entertainment. Their quarrels, while loud and disruptive, often fill me with such amusement. Foolishness and such expressive gestures do not always go hand in hand together, but they often create the most spectacular of shows.

But I digress.

Now, why would you say that abhi? I would faster move you into the palace, into my room, into my bed than your pretty eyes can blink. But you stress the importance of tradition and procedure, now as the God of War and Order, I can understand the appeal of due process, but I did not peg you as one who was traditional. Your occupation, hair, looks, character, and intelligence are far from conventional, but it is part of your appeal, no?

I could tell you, that you are eyes are a tantalizing shade of claret, red-wine, and crushed velvet. That your hair reminds me of a bed of roses, one tumbling after the other in a crown. I could say that your lips are two feathers intersecting against the crossway to heaven, and I could teach you to sing with just my mouth...my other thoughts are far more vulgar and depraved, as Rukhadevata would say.

But know this, abhi, you are my paradise.

Yours,

Scarlet King

His first letter had been significantly longer than Nimmi's, but to be fair, she is the one who had asked open-ended questions, and he could talk to her for hours about everything and anything. But he did not want to overwhelm her with a manuscript, especially since he rewrote this letter three times. Rukhadevata had cooed at his frantic re-reading, and he threw a glob of sand in her hair in response.

Still, Kasala had taken the letter back to Nimmi shortly after dinner.

And the next morning, the Lord of the Red Sands has a breakfast meeting with his Pillars discussing possible security measures for the Desert of Hadramaveth in regard to the abyssal lesions.

"Have you been corresponding with the new regime of Gurabad, my lord?" Sobek asked when Kasala handed him a letter and poured more pepper into his eggs. "I do believe a...change in dynasty is needed."

"And what does that have to do with the abyssal interference, Sobek?" Heryshaf scoffed from the side.

"Must we speak of a coup before I have had my second cup of coffee?" Thoth rolled his eyes. "Even my lord is beyond such cruel measures."

Deshret paid no mind and slid a dainty knife over the seal of the envelope and pulled out the parchment.

It read:

Dearest Deshret,

Deshret sips his coffee to cover his sharp inhale.

I was pleased to receive such a thoughtful and long letter; I must confess that I sleep with this letter beside me at night. Its edges resting gently on the pillow next to me. I have realized, through this correspondence, that I miss you terribly.

Deshret's smile is proud and warm; his pillars whisper among themselves.

How wretched is that? It's been two days, and I feel as if the sun has set in a permanent fixture. It is to the defense, that if you were to appear before me, I would neglect my duties in favor of being thoroughly distracted. (That is, you, whom of which, is the distraction). Yes, I do agree you have earned your titles, though greedy, and stingy are traits that are far beneath you. I prefer the words, insatiable and possessive, less grating in other words.

Please do not subtly threaten Mr. Akhed, I do need his hand-cut ores, and remove that put-out expression on your face, I am sure you can intimidate one of your pillars if you need entertainment. Specifically, Thoth, that is the Ibis King, yes? Rumor has it he's been harassing some of the grandfathers in Veer Square for a chess match; many of those citizens are hard-working people who have retired from the field. Some have chronic pain, memory issues, and mobility issues. Baba, used to take me to the Square when I was a girl to provide sweets during teatime. Agitating those men, cannot be good for their health. If you must terrorize someone, let it be him.

Deshret's faint smile fell at her explanation, he lifted his head up to eye the Scribe with a dark look, "Do you have something to tell me, Thoth?"

Thoth flinched and glanced at his colleagues in confusion before turning to his king, "Not...that I am aware of, my lord."

"I have a report that the Ibis King was seen harassing the elderly in Veer Square," Deshret hissed with clenched teeth and narrowed his eyes. "Would you care to elucidate, or shall I ask those citizens myself?"

"Y-Your informant must be wrong!" the Ibis King quaked, unable to dig himself out of the hole. "It was merely a...request to play with the older generation in hopes of gaining wisdom, nothing so nefarious as whoever report—"

"You dare contradict me in my own kingdom!" Deshret snapped and lifted his chin. "At my own table, as we share bread and wine?"

"N-No, my lord—"

"I shall send a group of High Priests to investigate these matters," he said, looking satisfied when Thoth paled at that. "Because Ibis King, if you are so bored that you feel the need to harass the elderly, those who have faithfully served this kingdom in their age, peace, I shall find you a task that is strenuous and incommodious for you to engage in thereafter."

Beenu looked at Thoth with an aghast expression.

He replied resignedly, "If that pleases, my lord."

Deshret thinned his lips and went back to his letter.

To answer your question, it is corn that has been dried under the sun before it has been ground into a powder, then sifted through a strainer. Quite arduous for such a simple ingredient. Baba gave me some flour, and after running through a few prototypes, I baked a small cake. Even though I am not there for you to witness my folly, I have sent you a piece of cake. Kasala has it wrapped in a small cloth for your leisure. I know you said you would like to eat by my hand, and while it's not specifically my hand, perhaps this would suffice for now. If you despise such a morsel, please lie to me, I fear I may burst into tears if you do not like it.

I am an artisan, if you recall, Baba is the baker. He had hoped that I would take after him in such a skill set, but I am not sure if that is the case. Will you try it? It is best served warm with salted butter and jam, but I know that you do not favor sweets as you do spices, so I made sure this cake has less sugar so you can adjust the condiments to your preference.

Say you love it, please.

Deshret's heart can hardly take her pleading, but the sheer adoration that engulfs his chest replaces the agony of yearning. He had merely mentioned that he would love to try her cooking, he didn't expect her to make something on her busy day, and the sheer thought she put into this dish is too precious to say aloud. He cleared his throat, "A parcel, Kasala?"

"Of course, my lord," Kasala held up a small box wrapped in a blue cotton scarf and placed it in front of him. He lowered his voice, "Nim says that there is a small pot of cardamom honey in a small vial, if you do not want any preserves."

Deshret smiled widely at that and unwrapped the scarf. His Pillars watched carefully as their king became responsive to the food in front of them. Deshret opened the wooden box, and the smell of corn, salt, and vanilla wafted through the air. He pitched his voice low, "Did she make this recently?"

"This morning," Kasala said after a second and huffed. "She refused to eat the eggs this morning, and wanted something...relaxed, she says."

"Increase her water intake," Deshret added in after a moment and used pyro to warm up the cake. He glanced at the letter for instructions, "If she cares for less liquid, substitute with fruit juice or sparkling cider."

"Why did I not think of juice?" he muttered to himself.

The Scarlet King chuckled under his breath and spread a generous amount of butter on the cake, watching the pale-yellow square melt into a foamy liquid. Then he uncorked the golden liquid and poured it over the square. Quickly, greedily, he took a bite into the cake and hummed when the honey coated the back of his tongue.

It is how, Nimmi, described, comforting.

The cake was quite dry on its own, he wondered if it was because of the grainy nature of the corn, but the butter and honey soaked into the cake like a sponge. Deshret murmured, "How in Teyvat did she think I would not like this?"

"She's hard on herself," Kasala added, whether or not the king meant for him to hear. "Her perfectionism is due to her career; she refuses, in her words, to produce shoddy craftsmanship."

The Scarlet King chuckled, "Of course. I should have not expected anything less."

"Is that from the new cake shop by Fiza, my lord?" Shesepankh asked curiously.

"No," Deshret answered immediately and relayed softly. "It is from someone dear."

He sipped his coffee and went back to his letter.

I fear I am not that talented. The yogurt soup, in fact, was swallowed by Kasala when I wasn't looking. The thief. I had a portion saved for you, but Kasala looked so...haunted by that assignment. I could not find it in my heart to reprimand him. Thank you for telling me. He has a hard time speaking about that part of his life. His sense of justice can be overshadowed by his stubbornness. And you are not a terrible brother! How dare you insult the one whom I behold the most? You are simply learning, Deshret. Being a brother, sister, siblings—these are learned relations, and I expect that one who is not human could understand that there is a learning curve for such affection. Give yourself some grace, Scarlet King.

 Tell me of these abyssal lesions. Are they the same rifts that we saw near the tornado? It's horrifying to think of humans whittled down to carcasses. I suppose we can classify these abyssal creatures as scavengers then, if they feast on human flesh. It must have been strenuous on Kasala and Hermanubis. Were they (Hermanubis, perhaps since Kasala is clean) injured during this fight? Was anyone else infected by the corrosion?

I fear I cannot curate the same potion I used for you again, my depletion of fragments that I received from my professor has cut to the few. Yet, it was well used. I would use such scarce material a thousand times before I allowed any harm to befall you, not if I can help it.

Speaking of which, how are you feeling since the wound closed up? Are you in any pain? Sick? Tired? Shall I send Kasala as a messenger to the Dendro Archon to halt any future needling? I hope you are healthy, Deshret. I do not think I can bear to think of you in pain.

Be it that the Scarlet King waxes poetry of his possible intended, but to do so in a letter where it could possibly intercept is scandalous! What shall your enemies think that you are to be swayed—by? What is it that you called me? A nymph? Kasala had called me a waif, though I do think that is intended for inflicting a disparaging feeling—or annoyance. And what of you, my Scarlet King, with hair is bright as the moon, and eyes as gold as the sands. Did you know that your eyes are also red? Well, they glow red—bright and raging like pyro itself. I had noticed it a few times, but your eyes are always honey-colored with me or a smoky amber color.

I know many people say that you are impassive, indifferent, but how can that be when your eyes are so expressive, so telling? Perhaps they are not close enough to hold your face in the palm of their hands, or count the snowy lashes lined with soot, and stroke the curve of your jaw when you smile. Those are secrets, thoughts, and desires that I would like to keep for myself.

Does that make me greedy? Unfair? Wretched?

I find myself uncaring towards the answer as long as I have you in the end.

Yours,

Nimmi

Deshret, in rare matter, found himself overcome with emotion. He did not think, no, he highly doubted Nimmi would have had the bravery to say such earnest and honest words to his face. Her shyness, while adorable, often becomes a crutch when words of truth or the most desired result. And maybe it's because she had more time to think about what she wants to say, or carefully replace certain phrases with honeyed words. He did not know, but it was almost as if he could hear her speak into his ear.

Tell him her thoughts, her emotions, all of her fears into one page, but still balance the wistfulness of her tone with deliberate sincerity that rang in his pulse.

Deshret stood up, his court followed suit with the sound of squeaking chairs, and cleared his throat, "I have some urgent matters to attend to; Hermanubis will note your transgressions."

Kasala exchanged an amused look with his teacher and watched their king turn left into the study.

—

Darling Abhi,

I shan't tell you how your letter accosted me this morning and sent my Pillars into distress, nor the jealousy they felt when they eyed your honeyed cake. I fear you may be as theatrical as me, yet I despise myself for saying theatrical when I am merely embellished. Your cake was exquisite, drenched in cardamom honey and butter. I very nearly licked my fingers, but I am sure you're aware that there is one delicacy that I refuse to waste a drop of. Of course, I loved it. How can I not? It was from you.

You should not have told me that you sleep with my letter beside you, now I am imagining all the ways of you in various stages of undress, tucked underneath white sheets and soft sighs. Alas, I have no keepsake from you that I can pull out and look at when I find myself missing you. I suppose I can do the same and use the letters, but I fear I may rip them, wishing the pillow next to me is you.

Perhaps you can give me something of yours for me to keep close to my chest.

Yes, you feel the longing that I have tirelessly shouldered over the past few days, beastly, isn't it? To yearn for something, someone, so close yet so far? Abhi, I forget how life was like without you in it, how is it that you manage to bring such light and wonder into my world? Color and beauty, destruction and desire. If I am the sun, abhi, what of you? The roses in bloom, creeping through the cracks in the walls? The oasis, glittering and shimmering under the beams of fire? The clouds, drifting and watching?

No, no they are far too vast and vague to describe you, Nimmi.

You are the embers, sparking from the candlesticks, a gingerly spark of honey and fire. A mere brush against the skin, but warm enough to feel you for the rest of my days. And I want to feel you for the rest of my days, Nimmi. Right there, underneath my skin, in my blood, in my bones, and where my head rests at night.

I do not know how to give myself grace; I suspect that is a human emotion. Gods like myself, we cannot afford to make a mistake because there is a price to pay for it later. You must teach me how to give myself this grace, Nimmi. I will endeavor to do better, for you, for our little brother, for our future. My chest hurts when you say things like this to me, abhi, how am I to soothe the ache if you are not beside me? If I am beholden to you, then you must be the deity that I shall worship for eternity.

I am well, I promise. There are no symptoms, aches, or pains post-Gurabad. Even the wound has healed, as if he had never been there in the first place, and perhaps that is due to accelerated healing, but we will never know. Hermanubis and Kasala are both healthy; there have been no reports of attacks or signs of injuries resembling abyssal corrosion. However, I will not stop you from putting a thorn in Rukhadevata's side, Gods knows she's too nosy and highbrow for her own good.

I have realized quite late, that you have yet to tell me of how you created such a potion. Judging from your description, I assume it was a component given to you by your late professor. Say you will tell me more, if I can source some materials, then perhaps preventative measures can be taken.

The abyssal lesions, for lack of better wording, are the rifts where these rifthounds arrive from. Their point of origin has changed, these rifts look like they have evolved into gateways, and instead of the very few rifthounds escaping such cracks in the air—there are many. I have used the primal constructs to round them up, pushing them into a small uncontained area before I burn them into oblivion, their remains buried in the sands of time. It is a temporary solution, eventually we will need a better way of disposing of such filth from Sumeru.

I refuse to send out troops to fight these creatures without a plan in place, without weapons, without aid that could heal them should such injuries occur. This is not like previous wars where the enemy is known; this is fighting in the dark and praying that the outcome is prosperous. Once upon a time, I had no qualms about sending my people out to fight, for I knew that they desired to serve their nation, but these are my people, and why should I send them to fight a losing battle without a contingency plan in place?

Rukhadevata and the Sumeru Akademiya are working on...something, so she says. Yet it will need much time to bear fruit. Nabu is also working on a product of some sort. She calls it Khaverna, but she has yet to perfect it, so she says. Hermanubis alludes to this Khaverna being Rukhadevata's birthday present, a gift bestowed during the Sabzeruz Festival. While this is...endearing on their part, the Lord of Flowers fails to recognize the urgent nature of the Abyss.

Can we wait for Rukha's birthday if such a gift is needed in the present?

I cannot tell you how this will play out, Nimmi.

I will refrain from writing all the indecent, debauched, and daring things I should say to your description, abhi, because it might scandalize you until you burn to a crisp and I am not present to witness such a lovely blush. A nymph, I say, slight and slippery, even in between my fingers. What I would give to sleep beside you, my face buried in your neck, my leg in between yours, and my arms wrapped up all around you. Of claret, velvet, and candlelit, Nimmi, how can you see me, when others see past me?

Or is it what you say—a Nimmi original?

I find myself looking for you in the shadows of the evening and the warmth of the hearth.

Yours,

Deshret

She did not respond.

Deshret fumed.

Nimmi had sent only two letters in the past five days.

—

Deshret is agitated.

How can he not be, when Nimmi has yet to respond? He is aware that it has been three days and that she warned him she would be busy. But. But Kasala is the only one going and coming from Nimmi's home, giving him updates on her schedule. How she went to the south to source material from another merchant, how she inquired about soldering equipment from the east, and how she began working on a prototype. How extremely busy she is because of the time constraints given to her from her orders and bargains from her merchants.

Deshret knows she is busy.

"Gods, Deshret, you're like a needy puppy," Rukhadevata says from her swing next to the window. "I am sure Nimmi knows that you would distract her with your...wiles, hence her focus on her commissions. Surely you do not want to detract her from her work, hm?"

He hates that Rukhadevata has a point.

She always has.

So, the next five days have been an exercise in patience, even he can admit to himself that he is not handling it all that well.

His temper is short, biting, and highly unreasonable.

He has heard of the whispers, how he, the Great Scarlet King, has moments of insanity, how the abyssal corruption has infected him with madness. How his frustrations are used against the Pillars, how only the Sage Hermanubis and High Priest Kasala are the only people, sans the Gods, able to soothe his ire. He cares not for the rumors; if they fear him, very well. It does not matter.

As long as his people are safe and abide by the rules of his kingdom, he can care less whether they fear or adore him.

"Thrice be damned," Deshret hisses, frustrated. "How many casualties were in the caravan? And what did they carry?"

"Six, my lord," Heryshaf replies with a low bow. "According to the ledgers, they were carrying pharmaceutical supplies. Bandages, antiseptics, cotton, and dressings. We have dispatched a group of soldiers and High Priests to locate the caravan and its remains."

"Have I not told you, Sobek, not to allow anyone through the Passage of the Ghouls! It has been overrun by vultures and electro scorpions, I daresay abyssal creatures may be lurking in the canyon," The Lord of the Red Sands snaps, aggravated. "Now look, we had preventable casualties! Who is to collect the remains of these people, the processes for the grieving families, and the leader of the investigation? I want answers. Now."

Hermanubis grimaces as Thoth tries to placate the king with his silver tongue.

Even he, the Sages of Sages, can admit that his Lord of the Blazing Sun has been...irritable, a great contrast to his normal cool and indifferent responses. He glances at Kasala, who had been staring pointedly at a column as Deshret rips into the Pillars for their incompetence. He cannot quite blame the Scarlet King for his disgust because placing safeguards in that part of the desert is paramount to the citizens when avoiding harm or danger, and he had emphasized this during their previous meeting.

Primal constructs can only do so much in the face of abyssal creatures because corrosion does not affect those machines. Greater Lord Rukhadevata muses because it is a mechanical life form and not biological or natural. Thus, proving that abyssal creatures feed off Teyvat-made life and earthly life forces.

"—INCOMPETENT!" Deshret snarls viciously before standing up abruptly and walking over to the table to pour himself a glass of wine. "Get out of my sight! You have allowed innocent civilians and my people to die because of an oversight. Repent for your sins in the Temple of Light until I am satisfied with your penance and perhaps only then will you have the chance to make up for your uselessness."

Kasala notices Nimmi from the elevator with wide eyes and exhales in relief before motioning for her to join him. She slowly walks over to him and looks at Hermanubis, who grimaces at his King's reprimand. She nudges Kasala with her shoulder to the king, and he scowls.

The High Priest inhales slowly, "My lord—"

"Not now, Kasala," Deshret interrupts tightly and drinks his wine. "I wish to be alone."

Nimmi takes a step forward when Kasala shoots her a knowing look. She clears her throat and asks quietly, "Does that include me as well?"

Deshret snaps his head to her in shock. Gold eyes widen at the sight of her, and he drops his chalice on the table carelessly. He quickly walks toward her and breathes out, almost in awe, "Nimmi...you are here."

"Hi," Nimmi greets shyly and takes another step towards him. She glances at his Pillars at the corner of the room before asking softly, "Did I come at a bad time?"

"Never," he answers immediately and takes another step toward her. He thins his lips and replies lowly, "You have not responded to my letters."

She exhales, "I know."

"A week has passed."

"I know," she says contritely and shifts her stance. "I apologize, I did not realize how long it would take to—it's just you are very...distracting." She lowers her voice with a small blush, "I cannot have you occupy all my thoughts."

He cracks a smirk but says nothing otherwise.

Nimmi smiles uncertainly, "I have my reasons for not responding, your last letter...it was a bit frightening."

Deshret blinks, alarmed, "What? Did I say something that was—"

"And I decided that I would like to surprise you with something that you cannot eat," she interrupts and tucks a strand behind her ear.

He stares at her for a moment.

"You have a surprise for me?" Deshret asks with mild shock, almost as if he could not believe the words, but still a bit confused at the contradiction, and asks softly, "Truly?"

"Would you like me to give it to you here?"

"Whatever you wish," he says, curious and curiouser.

Nimmi glances at the Pillars, who have yet to leave the throne room, but pulls out the polearm from her magical pocket despite their audience. The Pillars burst into whispered gasps and mutterings. Deshret takes a step back in disbelief and stares wide-eyed at the weapon, "You finished—you told me that it would take you a month to finish my polearm."

"Yes, I did," Nimmi agrees and then holds out the polearm in front of him. She shrugs lightly, looking away when she explains, "After your last letter, I realized how dire the situation with abyssal creatures, and...since you were the only one fighting these creatures, I did not want you to go to battle without proper weapons. Even if it is presumptuous and maybe pedantic of me, I would like to at least...no, I need to keep you safe...even if it's just like this."

"Nimmi," Deshret says quietly, unable to formulate a proper response. He did not realize how bad that attack in the desert scared her, or how his wound worried her. She had argued with him, yelled at him, and taken control of the situation, using her anger as a driving force to action, but perhaps instead of anger, it had been done out of fear.

He had been going out of his mind that Nimmi had stopped responding to his letters. At first, he thought she must have misplaced it, but Kasala denied it. Second, he thought perhaps she regretted accepting his suit, not that he gave her much of a choice, which made him reconsider his approach. Third, perhaps she never wanted to see him again and refused to speak to him outside of her assignment. Rukhadevata had slapped him over the head, again, to talk him out of his spiral.

Had she not said you would distract her?

After all of that, Deshret wanted to confront her, to storm into her home and—and demand an explanation. Then Kasala had put his foot down, reminding him that he is to not to act so aggressively, especially with Nimmi, who has witnessed first-hand the violence of a man, and that rebuke shamed him even more so than anything the Lord of Dendro would have said. But it was Hermanubis that told him to remain patient, that if there is a lull in communication, it was probably for a good reason, using Nimmi's character as a baseline.

And so, he waited.

He waited, frustrated, aggravated, and hurt for her to respond to him. He waited and waited, his sanity deteriorating as the hours and days passed without hearing from the one person who could brighten his world. He waited and waited and waited until today.

Today, he learned that Nimmi had worked tirelessly to create a weapon for him when he regaled to her his concerns about the abyssal creatures and implied that he was the only one battling those creatures in lieu of his soldiers and High Priest, who would not withstand their power or degenerative properties. Today, he realized that she needed absolute isolation to work on his weapon, needing his polearm to be perfected in order for him to go to battle with a higher chance of success. Today, he understood that Nimmi wanted him safe, that she cared beyond words for his health and happiness, that she wanted to protect him the only way she knew how.

Today, he realized that he loves her.

"Deshret?" Nimmi asks quietly, worriedly, and offers him the polearm. "Is it...what do you think?"

"It's beautiful," Deshret murmurs with an unreadable expression, but he's only looking at her. Then, with great reluctance, he painstakingly shifts his gaze to the weapon, "Is this gold or brass?"

Nimmi, who flushed at the compliment, puts the weapon in his hands and clears her throat, "Both. I used brass as the main component before overlaying it with reinforced gold to give max duration when using pyro, electro, and geo interchangeably. The tip of the polearm has amethyst, agate, and topaz inside the blade to maximize damage. If you shift your hand downwards," she carefully grasps his hand and shifts it until it reaches the gripping range. "It has a covalent texture, allowing your gloves to adhere to the hilt better, and maximizing your grip."

"It even has my eye insignia on the blade," Deshret chuckles, eyeing the little lazuli at the top.

"I thought it was prudent," she smiles tiredly. "There are other features toward the weapon, but you would not utilize them until combat."

"A sparring session is imminent," he agrees and revels in the jet-black texture of the metal.

"Turn it over," Nimmi says quietly, blinking slowly.

Deshret glances at her curiously before flipping the polearm over to the other side. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the little sun, with an agate dotted in the middle, mirrored in the same position as his eye.

She smiles timidly when he turns to look at her and replies softly, "For when you miss me."

She remembered; he thinks.

Perhaps you can give me something of yours for me to keep close to my chest.

"You are perfect," Deshret replies just as gently, helpless to her sweetness.

Nimmi's smile brightens, and she shifts again, "Does that mean you like it?"

"Of course I do," he laughs disbelieving, offended by the suggestion, and twists his fingers until the polearm disappears into his pocket.

"That's good," she says breathily, eyes bright and shimmery, and instead of shifting position, she stumbles, eyes rolling back as she collapses in front of him.

Kasala yelps, and Hermanubis inhales sharply.

Deshret lunges forward to grab her before she can hit the floor, dread filling the pit of his belly, turning her into his chest, and his hands shake as he adjusts her to look at him. He calls out frantically, gently patting her cheek, trying to wake her, "Nimmi. Nimmi! Nimmi, answer me!"

"Sorry," Nimmi mumbles, head lolling onto his shoulder, and laxes in his arms, "...just lightheaded."

Deshret swears under his breath and tucks his other arm underneath her legs before lifting her.

"It's exhaustion, brother," Kasala murmurs to him and adjusts Nimmi's skirt. "She has hardly slept this week."

The Scarlet King exhales slowly, faintly nauseous from the wine crawling up his chest and the dread creeping out of him like warm water. She snuggles into his chest when he adjusts her position against him, making herself even smaller in his arms, and Gods, his heart squeezes now that he can touch her.

"My lord, would you like me to fetch a healer?" Sobek speaks loudly next to Kasala. "We can have one of the guards carry her into a room; such matters are beyond your—"

"If you wake her, I will remove your tongue," Deshret hisses thunderously, violently, and pulls Nimmi closer to him. He demands, "Why are you still here? Have you gone deaf? Did I not dismiss you?" He grits his teeth and looks at his High Priests, "Hermanubis, remove them. Kasala, with me."

Deshret teleports when Kasala moves to adjust her skirt.

—

It's a near thing, but Kasala does not vomit when they are back in the palace.

"Kasala," Deshret starts off tightly and heads down the hall toward the royal chambers. Kasala hesitates for the briefest moment before opening the door to the King's bedroom. "What happened?"

"To be blunt," Kasala exhales as Deshret gently puts Nimmi on his bed. "Ever since Nimmi received your last letter, she's been pouring over her schematics and working herself to the bone trying to perfect your weapon. This isn't the first time she has worked herself to exhaustion. In the Akademiya, there were a few instances where she pulled all-nighters to finish her assignments."

"I thought you were making sure she eats her meals and rests," he replies, frustrated, and removes her earrings from her lobes. "You even said that you had meals prepared for her and small snacks that the cooks here set aside for you to take."

"I did," he agrees. "But I am not with her all hours of the day, so I cannot tell you if she eats more than what I give her. I do not know what you told her, but she refused to sleep until she knew that your commission was perfect." He shifts as Deshret slips off her shoes, "I can only assume you spoke of the abyssal lesions, which you decided to handle yourself, and Nimmi wanted to protect you, so she ensured that you had the best polearm at your disposal in hopes of giving you some form of security."

Deshret falters for a moment, "I failed to realize the extent of terror after that night in Gurabad."

"Nimmi is very good at hiding her fear," Kasala says after a moment and adjusts the pillow. "No, that isn't right, she's horrible at hiding her fear, but she uses it as a weapon to curate a solution even if it there is a cost."

The Scarlet King falls silent, tucking her under the blankets and adjusting the cryo ventilator.

"Brother," Kasala starts off quietly. "She loves you."

Deshret snaps his eyes to look at him.

"Even if she doesn't know it," he continues and hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder. "She would do anything to keep you safe, because even she knows her life won't be the same without you in it, I imagine it is the same for you."

The Lord of the Red Sands chuckles tiredly, "When did you become so wise, Kasala? I should remove Thoth and install you as the new scribe."

"Gods no," Kasala says, horrified. "He'd poison me in my sleep, and Nimmi would actually kill him."

Deshret shakes his head, and his High Priests squeezes his shoulder, "Have Hermanubis cancel all my meetings for the next few days. I want to be with her until she is better."

"Well, I suppose she is your responsibility now," Kasala chuckles when Deshret shoots him a dry look. "I won't say she will not pull this stunt again; I know you do the same when you're in the lab, my lord, but at least you are mirroring each other."

"Mirrors," Deshret murmurs. "I suppose I would be a hypocrite if I scolded her."

He snorts, "Do not worry, my lord, she will feel the after-effects of her neglect when she wakes up. I will send for a hydration potion, pain potion, and muscle relaxant—she will need it."

"Thank you, little brother," he says, looking at him with warm gold eyes. "I have a room made for you three doors down from the main bathhouse."

Kasala blinks and slides his hand off his shoulder, "M-My lord, you do not need—"

"You are our brother," Deshret says firmly. "Family takes care of each other, no? This will be your other home. Nimmi's father also has a room here, and when he's ready to retire, he will move in."

A lump forms in the pit of the High Priest's throat, but he turns away before Deshret can see the gratitude and affection on his face.

—

Nimmi murmurs something sleepily and turns in the sheets, nuzzling closer to her pillow. Normally, she abhors the warm side of her pillow, but the room is so cool that the warmth comforts her. She opens her eyes for a moment to see a brush of silver over something tan, she yawns sleepily, and forces her eyes open. She squints and mumbles, "Deshret, what are you doing in my bed?"

Deshret tamps down on a smile, "I am not in your bed."

"Hm," she sniffs and nuzzles closer to the pillow, which she now knows is Deshret. "This must be a dream...I never let anyone in my room."

Deshret chuckles, and she shakes her head on his chest. She swats him on the stomach for ruining her pillow, and crawls over to him until she's resting over him, "M'gonna make you, my mattress."

Arms wrap around her waist, and she shifts until her hips wiggle down his abdomen, curling a leg over his hip as she rests underneath his chin. Nimmi sighs pleasantly when fingers stroke the back of her scalp, "I miss you even in my dreams."

Deshret's arms tighten around her, but he says nothing, pressing a firm kiss to her head.

Sometime in the afternoon, Nimmi begins to stir and winces when a headache blooms beneath her eyelids. She hisses under her breath as she buries her head in the nearest pillow, "Ow, ow, ow—fuck."

A hand cups the back of her neck and ushers the glass near her mouth. A voice orders, "Drink."

She drinks.

The faint aftertaste of zaytun peaches registers in the back of her mind: a hydration potion.

Another glass against her lips.

"Drink."

She drinks, and a drop escapes the corner of her lips.

Another.

"Drink."

She drinks and pushes the hand away to babble in distaste, "No more. No more. No more."

Nimmi goes back to sleep.

A few hours later, Nimmi wakes again, this time quietly, without noise, without fuss, and registers the feeling of an arm wrapped around her, a nose buried in the back of her neck, and sees the ambience illuminating the room. The candles around the room are lit, lanterns from abroad are nailed to the walls, and oil lamps hanging from the ceiling brighten the room without straining one's eye.

The gold and opulence of the room tell her that she is nowhere near Naat village. Nimmi squirms on the bed and flips over on her side. Her breath hitches. Deshret is asleep next to her, with his snowy hair sprawled everywhere and berry-stained lips parted as he breathes. Carefully, she brings the back of her fingers to rest against the slope of his cheekbone and strokes the side of his face gently.

The Scarlet King startles at that and snaps his eyes open.

Nimmi pauses mid-stroke for a moment, holding his gaze with bleary claret eyes, and continues to stroke his face.

"You are awake," Deshret murmurs gravelly.

She squeezes her thighs together at the sound of his voice, thick with sleep and lax. Like a hearth, warm and velvet, but rough and low like the proud mountains. A great offense to the women and men of Sumeru, such a desire should be locked away. She clears her throat, "Yes, you snore."

He blinks and scowls, outraged, "I do not."

Nimmi's eyes twinkle, "How would you know?"

Deshret opens his mouth and closes, unsure.

She giggles at his incomprehension.

"You tease," he accuses and grabs the hand on her face.

"Just a little," Nimmi says gently and pinches his cheek. She looks around and furrows her brows, "Am I in the palace?"

"Yes," he replies after a moment and watches her sit up, his shirt slipping off her shoulder, she takes in her surroundings. "You fainted in the throne room."

She snaps her head to look at him in disbelief and replies aghast, "Surely, not in front of everyone?"

Deshret raises a brow, an elbow digging into the mattress as he looks at her pointedly. His eyes linger on the bare skin of her shoulder before flickering back to her face and he replies sternly, "We will talk about your blatant disregard for your health later; however, I would like you to tell me how you are feeling."

Nimmi winces, already dreading reprimand, and looks away. She coughs, "I am fine. Tired and in desperate need of a shower, but I am alright."

He hums, still staring at her, "The baths are next to the cryo ventilator."

She shifts awkwardly on the bed and shuffles to the side of the bed before she actually notices. She whirls her head around and asks, bewildered, "I am not—I'm not in your room, am I?"

"Where else would you be?" Deshret questions sardonically.

"A guestroom?" Nimmi hears how redundant it sounds now that she says it aloud. She quickly amends, "I mean...no one knows I am in here, right?"

"Does it matter?"

"Does it—" she gapes and scowls. "Of course it does! Especially since you haven't told anyone, about—about what you plan to..." she snaps her mouth shut. Just what exactly is she supposed to say? They aren't engaged nor are they betrothed with a formal contract; they are courting. She pinches the bridge of her nose, "What are you going to do when the gossip takes root, and men start propositioning me because they heard I was in your bed?"

The candles and lanterns flare with pyro, a mirror of his anger.

"I will make an announcement when you are better," Deshret says tightly after a moment, only now realizing how others would perceive her, and if anyone believed that—he refused to think of the conclusion, for he's much at risk for setting his bed on fire. "Which will then follow protocol, allowing you special privileges until we are wed."

Nimmi stares at him, "Special privileges?"

"Access to the kitchens, libraries, labs, gardens, bedrooms, throne room—those types of privileges," Deshret explains and rolls over closer to her, until his waist is wrapped around the sheets. Nimmi then realizes that he is shirtless, tousled from sleep, and downright edible in front of her. She hates him. She doesn't hate him. Good Gods. He drawls out, "I did promise you anything."

Nimmi has nothing to say, unable to formulate a response worthy of wit and intelligence. She glares and shuffles to the side of the bed, gasping when she falters, all out of energy. Deshret lunges for her, a hand on her back and one on her hip as she steadies herself. He scolds her, a touch frantic, "Nimmi, please be careful. You have been asleep for over eighteen hours."

She nods tiredly, "I will be careful. My sugar is probably low."

"I will fetch some food," he pauses. "Will you be alright in the baths?"

"You have a shower?" Nimmi rolls her shoulders and rests against his hand.

"Of course."

"Then I will be right as rain," she says with false cheer. "No chance of accidentally drowning myself."

He thins his lips, displeased.

"I will leave the door open," she compromises and presses a kiss to his cheek to soothe him.

Deshret sighs with exasperation, dropping his head to the back of her neck, "Abhi, I fear you could topple kingdoms with just your eyes."

"What?"

—

There is something sensual, Deshret thinks, when Nimmi steps out of the baths with silver rivulets dripping down the back of her neck, dressed in his tunic. His tunic is made out of cotton, breathable, soft, and sheer. Part of him wonders if she's aware of how prominent her chest is in such clothing, how the fabric nearly swallows her frame, gaping down her chest and sides of her shoulders. Or perhaps, she doesn't care when she bends over to dry her feet with the towel.

Claret eyes glimmer with mischief, and Deshret knows that she's doing this on purpose.

"Feel better?" Deshret asks and heaves forward to give her a wet kiss. He ushers her to the seating area next to the balcony and helps her sit on the loveseat.

"A bit," Nimmi confesses and looks at the spread on the table. "Deshret, is it not late? Should the chefs be in the kitchen at this time?"

"I had this made earlier," he says and fixes her a plate. Chicken broth simmered without spice, but with a good number of herbs and vegetables. A skewer with crab and shrimp, and a slice of crusty bread. "I was not sure when you would wake. I wanted you to rest, so I had this put away for later. Something light and easy for you to digest. I used pyro to warm up the food."

"Oh," she says softly and begins to eat her soup. "Thank you, I wasn't aware how hungry I was."

Nimmi winces: she should not have said that, aloud.

"I noticed," he says coolly and pours her a cup of tea. "I do not have to tell you that I am disappointed that you neglected your health; I believe that is evident. You shaved a good handful of years off my life when you fainted in front of me. Kasala told me that you were eating proper meals and so on, but he did not mention your lack of sleep."

She swallows and breaks a piece of bread, warm to the touch. She starts, "I pulled a few all-nighters to get through the final rounds of your weapon. When I got your letter..." She pauses and falters, staring into her soup. "When you told me that you were the only person handling these abyssal lesions, that you were out in the desert, all alone, dealing with a threat no one else knows how to handle, it terrified me. What if something happens and no one is there to support you? What if you got hurt? What if what happened in Gurabad happens again? I don't think I could live with myself knowing that I didn't do something to help you, or at least, ease your burden."

The Scarlet King softens at her explanation; it was just as Kasala said. Nimmi’s stunt was in her own way, an attempt to protect him. A mortal thought, he is the God of War and Order, Lord of the Blazing Sun, and countless other titles—he is rather strong, he would say. He says gingerly, "Abhi, you do not need to protect me, not even at the expense of yourself."

Nimmi snaps her head to the side and glowers, "Ask the sun to explode, the oceans to dry, earth to fall, before you tell me to not worry for you—for not trying to protect the person I care about the most."

Deshret rubs her bottom lip with his thumb and murmurs, "What did I tell you about this lip, hm?"

"You are not taking me seriously," Nimmi replies, disappointed, and turns away from him to finish her soup.

"Nimmi," he says after a moment and pours her another cup of tea. "It is...unnecessary to assume that I would head into battle without a contingency plan. I am aware of your concern, and I understand that you feared for my health that night in Gurabad, but I am capable."

She forcefully puts down her spoon and turns to glare at him.

Deshret doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing.

"Let me put it like this," Nimmi says with a sharpness harsh enough to cut him. "Imagine that I would have to go to Nod-Krai, to meet with the FrostMoon Scions again. The people who had seen me bloodied, beaten, and broken, those same people who did nothing for the fear of contamination. I would have to face them alone. Because they would not receive outsiders, and I am the only one in Sumeru who has an invitation. Imagine that I am to go without any protection, without a companion, and that I am to treat them. You will have no correspondence with me, you will not hear from me, there will be no letters—nothing. You will have to live the rest of your days wondering if I am dead or alive, and you can do nothing about it."

He would absolutely detest every moment that she is away from him. He would refuse, reject, and rebuff any reason for her to leave him, to leave Sumeru without a companion or security. He would be fucking miserable if she left, if this week is any indicator of his sorrow. The constant dread and worry and concern that would cloud his vision, not knowing if she was dead in a ditch somewhere, if she was kidnapped, if she was hurt and suffering, or even lost—

"I would despise every moment that I was away from you," Deshret confesses, understanding the circumstances immediately. "Because you did the very same thing to me this week."

She grimaces—she should have been prepared for that rebuttal. She waves it off, "But you understand, right?"

"I do," he sighs tiredly. "But there is one thing you did not consider."

"Which is?" she takes a bite out of her bread.

"I am not human."

Nimmi pauses after chewing her bread.

That's right.

Deshret is a God, and she is not. Of course, he would be more durable, more powerful, more intelligent, more usable. She snaps, "You are not expendable. Not to me, never to me, so do not ever speak to me about yourself like that again."

Deshret falls silent, unable to respond to her fury, incapable of refuting her emotional comment. Nimmi cares for him, probably not in the way he does, or maybe she does. He doesn't know. He will know. He confesses to the stars, "I love you."

Nimmi stills just as she's about to pick up her cup, and she turns to look at him with dazzling claret eyes.

"I know it sounds mad," Deshret laughs quietly, and he reaches up to stroke the side of her face. "I know it's impulsive, irrational, and absolutely unreasonable, but I fear that if I do not speak these words aloud, they will swallow me alive. I apologize if it's a burden to bear."

"It is not," she protests with wet eyes.

He smiles a little brighter and leans in closer, "I promised myself I would be patient, that I would court you the way you deserved, that I would not try to win you because you are not a prize – Rukhadevata said this – but you are the prize. You are what I get at the end of this if I have successfully persuaded you to be mine. But I find myself hopeless in your presence, unable to release you from my orbit, for you have become the center of my world."

"This is..." Nimmi says thickly, a little in shock, and a little dazed. "This is much different than reading your letters."

Deshret snorts lightly, "Perhaps, is it too much abhi?"

"No," she replies immediately and leans into his hand. "No, of course not." She pauses, "I...am sorry that I am not there yet, but I am close. I promise."

"You are able to...feel such affection for me?" Deshret asks, amazed.

For a moment, Nimmi looked like she might burst into tears; instead, she steels herself and leans in closer until her forehead rests against his. She sighs into his cheek, "Oh, Deshret, do you have any idea how easy you are to love?"

He stares at her with fractionally wide gold eyes and wonders if his heart could burst with such happiness.

"You are blushing," Nimmi says with a wide smile and touches the tip of his ears. "My, my, how the tables have turned."

"I do not blush," Deshret denies immediately, the sudden heat over his face is just warmth—contentment. 

"You are," she argues back and presses a kiss to his chin. "Now that I know you are capable of such bashfulness, this is going to be fun."

"Fun?"

"Teasing the Scarlet King," Nimmi hands him her cup of tea. "After all, it is a fitting punishment for doing the same to me, no?"

"It is very difficult to tease me," Deshret points out, and he warms her tea without thinking.

"The Dendro Archon would beg to differ," she snorts lightly and giggles at his glower. She presses another kiss to his cheek, "I missed you."

Deshret softens at the confession and puts the cup of tea down to pull her into his arms, "As did I, abhi."

"As did I."