(no subject)
Her ears were dead, as was her nose, and she couldn't feel her body. Only later did she think to wonder why she had not tried to reach out with the Force. But she could taste the vague, almost coppery quality of her own saliva.
And she could see. Sylvar was in an uncertainly-lit room with a woman who seemed quite a bit taller and larger than Sylvar, whose head was not far from the ceiling and who took up what seemed like a lot of the room. Guessing from the walls, however, it didn't seem like she was huge. No, Sylvar had to be small, and the room hardly larger.
The woman looked quite a bit like Sylvar herself did, but her markings were a bit different, the lines of her jaw subtly changed, a long-healed notch cut into one of her pointed ears. She looked older, more ragged than the face Sylvar saw in reflections - there was silver creeping into her tied-back hair, she seemed tired, and there were lines in her face. The clothing that she wore had enough patches on it that she could not tell what the original material had been.
Sylvar didn't know who this was. But as she saw her, as her features and her markings registered, the plastic beads at the ends of her dreadlocks, her weathered hands, she felt a powerful wash of emotion. Was it love? It was complicated, affection and pain and trust and longing and just a trace of anger and apprehension all mixed together. If she'd felt it suddenly normally, outside of a memory, she might have felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach, her eyes might have burned and spilled over, she might have run to be alone and doubled over to keen softly so that it would not be heard. But that would happen later. This was now.
The woman - she must have been related to Sylvar, and closely. Her mother? An older sister, a mother's sister? No way of knowing - it was simpler to call her mother. Sylvar's mother worked at some kind of small, blocky stove, her mouth moving in speech. The stove was short enough that she was kneeling so that the dented, tarnished kettle steaming upon it would be close to eye level. She wasn't wearing any shoes.
It seemed that the room was no larger than the ones in Temporary Housing - no, smaller, unless there was considerably more space behind Sylvar. The room was a closet, almost. Two people the size of Sylvar's mother could not have stood shoulder-to-shoulder; they would have had to turn sideways. It was poorly lit by a glowing panel in the waterstained ceiling, and the floor, between the stuffed sacks that crowded the walls, was bare and looked like poured duracrete. Sylvar's mother knelt on what might have been a rug at one time. It was as much holes as it was cloth, but it had been folded over and over again. There were patched, fraying cloths hung on the walls, but between them Sylvar could see the bare wall surfaces, cracked and pitted. Things were fairly clean, but... shabby. Worn.
Her mother straightened slowly, as if she'd spent too long bent over, and put her hands at the small of her back, saying something. Her notched ear twitched. Sylvar turned, maybe in response to what she'd said, and she must have stood up - her perspective got somewhat higher. She went to one of the sacks and saw her hands open it and reach in to bring out three odd metal bowls, almost like large cans that had been dented and pounded back into shape, many times. She brought them to her mother, who gestured. Sylvar put two of them back atop the stack and brought the third back. Now her mother took it, turned away for a moment, and gave it back, this time with broth and some sort of thick, pale noodles inside.
Sylvar must have gone back and sat down, because her perspective lowered again. She raised the metal bowl to her face and tasted - salt. Almost overpowering spices which she could not identify. Metallic undertones. The barest trace of the ghosts of meat and vegetables, with floury bursts that might have been the noodles. Sylvar as she was in the here and now would have been reluctant to eat this, but Sylvar as a child in a memory instantly tilted her head and the bowl, ate the contents without stopping, and licked it after.
When she lowered the bowl and could once again see past it, she saw that her mother was settling herself onto another of the sacks. Just as she could see that she also held a bowl, it was raised to her face and the contents were not visible, but Sylvar had the impression that her mother had put less into her own bowl, and fewer noodles.
Then Sylvar turned her head towards the door, which she had not seen before. Chains and bolts kept it from opening wide, although it opened part way. She was peripherally aware of her mother rising to her feet. Sylvar started to rise herself but sank back down as her mother reached the door, unbolted and unchained it, and stood sideways so that a man could enter, crowding the tiny room greatly.
He also looked like Sylvar. That was her pattern of chin markings, her hair color, and although she could not see his jawline behind a beard which was arranged into many short dreadlocks, the same as the ones on his sideburns and head, she would have bet that it was like hers. Like her mother, he looked worn and ragged and caused in Sylvar another turbulent storm of mixed emotions, happiness and pain that fought each other viciously.
But there was something different about him, in his eyes - it was difficult to describe. Unlike with humans, his sclerae were not visible, so his intense, unblinking eyes did not seem bloodshot. No, they were glassy, glazed, the pupils dilated so much that only a narrow band of yellow showed around each. He was shaking, stumbling, and half fell into her mother, who held him up, speaking. When he responded, his lips moved slowly. They were wet with saliva.
Something small fell from his hand to the floor. Sylvar lurched, doing she knew not what, and then she was standing again, and her mother pointed, and she turned away, finding that the tiny room did not open up. But the side farthest from the door had a curtain cordoning off a slice of the tiny room, and she pushed past it to sit on a single mattress covered in folded blankets.
Just once, she looked through a hole in the curtain, and saw a flash of her mother and the man who looked like Sylvar - her father? He was clutching at his chest with one hand while her mother tried to lower him to the floor, worry clear in her face.
Then she looked down, at what was in the bowl now. It had dropped from her father's hand, and she must have palmed it. The memory was ending now, but before her vision darkened she saw that it was a used stimulant applicator, the needle dark.
[OOC: Juhani once mentions that her father "turned to stims" on Taris; this is a headcanon/AU memory of that. Her price is to have this song play any time she runs water for three days.]
And she could see. Sylvar was in an uncertainly-lit room with a woman who seemed quite a bit taller and larger than Sylvar, whose head was not far from the ceiling and who took up what seemed like a lot of the room. Guessing from the walls, however, it didn't seem like she was huge. No, Sylvar had to be small, and the room hardly larger.
The woman looked quite a bit like Sylvar herself did, but her markings were a bit different, the lines of her jaw subtly changed, a long-healed notch cut into one of her pointed ears. She looked older, more ragged than the face Sylvar saw in reflections - there was silver creeping into her tied-back hair, she seemed tired, and there were lines in her face. The clothing that she wore had enough patches on it that she could not tell what the original material had been.
Sylvar didn't know who this was. But as she saw her, as her features and her markings registered, the plastic beads at the ends of her dreadlocks, her weathered hands, she felt a powerful wash of emotion. Was it love? It was complicated, affection and pain and trust and longing and just a trace of anger and apprehension all mixed together. If she'd felt it suddenly normally, outside of a memory, she might have felt a lurch in the pit of her stomach, her eyes might have burned and spilled over, she might have run to be alone and doubled over to keen softly so that it would not be heard. But that would happen later. This was now.
The woman - she must have been related to Sylvar, and closely. Her mother? An older sister, a mother's sister? No way of knowing - it was simpler to call her mother. Sylvar's mother worked at some kind of small, blocky stove, her mouth moving in speech. The stove was short enough that she was kneeling so that the dented, tarnished kettle steaming upon it would be close to eye level. She wasn't wearing any shoes.
It seemed that the room was no larger than the ones in Temporary Housing - no, smaller, unless there was considerably more space behind Sylvar. The room was a closet, almost. Two people the size of Sylvar's mother could not have stood shoulder-to-shoulder; they would have had to turn sideways. It was poorly lit by a glowing panel in the waterstained ceiling, and the floor, between the stuffed sacks that crowded the walls, was bare and looked like poured duracrete. Sylvar's mother knelt on what might have been a rug at one time. It was as much holes as it was cloth, but it had been folded over and over again. There were patched, fraying cloths hung on the walls, but between them Sylvar could see the bare wall surfaces, cracked and pitted. Things were fairly clean, but... shabby. Worn.
Her mother straightened slowly, as if she'd spent too long bent over, and put her hands at the small of her back, saying something. Her notched ear twitched. Sylvar turned, maybe in response to what she'd said, and she must have stood up - her perspective got somewhat higher. She went to one of the sacks and saw her hands open it and reach in to bring out three odd metal bowls, almost like large cans that had been dented and pounded back into shape, many times. She brought them to her mother, who gestured. Sylvar put two of them back atop the stack and brought the third back. Now her mother took it, turned away for a moment, and gave it back, this time with broth and some sort of thick, pale noodles inside.
Sylvar must have gone back and sat down, because her perspective lowered again. She raised the metal bowl to her face and tasted - salt. Almost overpowering spices which she could not identify. Metallic undertones. The barest trace of the ghosts of meat and vegetables, with floury bursts that might have been the noodles. Sylvar as she was in the here and now would have been reluctant to eat this, but Sylvar as a child in a memory instantly tilted her head and the bowl, ate the contents without stopping, and licked it after.
When she lowered the bowl and could once again see past it, she saw that her mother was settling herself onto another of the sacks. Just as she could see that she also held a bowl, it was raised to her face and the contents were not visible, but Sylvar had the impression that her mother had put less into her own bowl, and fewer noodles.
Then Sylvar turned her head towards the door, which she had not seen before. Chains and bolts kept it from opening wide, although it opened part way. She was peripherally aware of her mother rising to her feet. Sylvar started to rise herself but sank back down as her mother reached the door, unbolted and unchained it, and stood sideways so that a man could enter, crowding the tiny room greatly.
He also looked like Sylvar. That was her pattern of chin markings, her hair color, and although she could not see his jawline behind a beard which was arranged into many short dreadlocks, the same as the ones on his sideburns and head, she would have bet that it was like hers. Like her mother, he looked worn and ragged and caused in Sylvar another turbulent storm of mixed emotions, happiness and pain that fought each other viciously.
But there was something different about him, in his eyes - it was difficult to describe. Unlike with humans, his sclerae were not visible, so his intense, unblinking eyes did not seem bloodshot. No, they were glassy, glazed, the pupils dilated so much that only a narrow band of yellow showed around each. He was shaking, stumbling, and half fell into her mother, who held him up, speaking. When he responded, his lips moved slowly. They were wet with saliva.
Something small fell from his hand to the floor. Sylvar lurched, doing she knew not what, and then she was standing again, and her mother pointed, and she turned away, finding that the tiny room did not open up. But the side farthest from the door had a curtain cordoning off a slice of the tiny room, and she pushed past it to sit on a single mattress covered in folded blankets.
Just once, she looked through a hole in the curtain, and saw a flash of her mother and the man who looked like Sylvar - her father? He was clutching at his chest with one hand while her mother tried to lower him to the floor, worry clear in her face.
Then she looked down, at what was in the bowl now. It had dropped from her father's hand, and she must have palmed it. The memory was ending now, but before her vision darkened she saw that it was a used stimulant applicator, the needle dark.
[OOC: Juhani once mentions that her father "turned to stims" on Taris; this is a headcanon/AU memory of that. Her price is to have this song play any time she runs water for three days.]