more ficcy stuff
Meeting the Dark: Kat'ehri Ardanu'in
7898: en route to Zharyn-dar
~~
Today I have heard the D'Veen playing his flute. He has been aboard for two days, and he does not know I listen nor does he know that I have watched him.
I have never seen a member of the Mastery before. I wonder if they are really that different from us.
I expected that the D'Veen would be old, because everyone knows that Masters are old. And they are all ugly and tremendously powerful.
But the D'Veen is not old. I have seen him sitting in the hold, with his hood down, playing his flute in contemplation. Always he faces the bay window, staring into space itself, offering the music like a prayer.
His face is youthful and unlined, his hair is shiny and black. His eyes are large and clear, and remind me of the precious ambers my family used to bring from Altikhar. The D'Veen's long, slender hands remind me of the smooth, white hands of a Healer. I expected the D'Veen to be old and ugly but instead he is young, and he is beautiful.
Always he is alone, but he does not seem lonely, he plays his songs to Space itself because Space is his companion.
I have decided that he is not lonely because he belongs to the Varen.
When I can bring myself to speak with him, I must ask him what that feels like.
~~
At this hour, we are the only two people awake. Weeks have passed and these meetings have become commonplace. I tell myself that in a week he shall offboard to meet with his Master and I will never see him again. This is the thought that brings me comfort.
The D'Veen sets his tea bowl down, half-full. I reach for the tea decanter to refresh his tea, but he says, "No more, thank you," and we resume our conversation.
"I came from the Perimeter clans," he says, softly.
"You are Kova'i," I reply. I am surprised. His manners, his bearing do not betray the rough survivalism of the Perimeter Kova'yin lifestyle.
"I... was," he says. "I have not seen my clan in a long time. I gave up my clan name. What... what about you?"
"I never had one," I say.
I cannot believe I could say something so dumb. Of course I never had one. He knows that. I'm a woman, I don't have a clan name! I feel so foolish.
But he smiles in his way - a slight lift of the left corner of his mouth - and says, "No, I mean where do you come from."
"I am from the route between Kt'thira and Altikhar," I reply.
"A Westerner," he says, barely pausing before responding to me. Of course. He knows where I have come from.
"I have not seen my family since I was very young. I will likely never see them again."
"We have that in common," he says.
Without meaning to, I tell him my past.
I tell him how a year ago, I became a housekeeper for this clan he is travelling with, because my co-wives beat me and left me for dead with these scars upon my body. How while I was conscious I dreamed that the Varen came to me, and told me I was not to let myself die, so I became a housekeeper because I could not let sell my body.
How I was married when I was barely a girl. How my husband, Vardu took ill and died. He died in great agony. How I believed he was poisoned, how I felt I could have done something to stop it.
The D'Veen tells me, "Tell me, how did it happen?"
"He had a great pain in his stomach," I say. "The pain became worse and worse until it became a great fever."
The D'Veen shakes his head, slowly. "You need not worry," he says. "Your husband was not poisoned."
"What? How do you know this."
The D'Veen points to a spot on his own abdomen, covered in many layers of black cloth. He explains to me about a small, useless organ we have in common with those Downworld, and that it can become infected, and then burst and cause death. He explains to me that Downworlders never die of this disease.
I have never met a Downworlder but I know that they are not religious like we are. They believe in cutting into the body to remove an offending part. The body that was shaped in the image of the Ancients themselves!
But the D'Veen tells me of things strange, things I have never seen nor known before. "I believe that we do not all believe the same things," he says, "Or live the same way. But we all have in common that we all go into the Quiet. The insect, the animal, the human being - and even our kind."
I am silent, as I listen to him. I have never considered this before.
I whisper, "But the Holy Books-"
"I have studied the Drinai texts for many years and I can find no conflict. Wherever it is we are, it is to the same place that we all return, I believe," he says.
All the same, I am relieved to know that my husband was never poisoned, but saddened to know that I did not know this fact. Do only men know these things? But I have never even heard my own father talk like this D'Veen!
I tell the D'Veen how I never bore Vardu's child, so I was discarded by the two wives, and the injuries they inflicted upon me because I tried to take back my own dowry which they had stolen from me.
But most of all I tell the D'Veen how I try to do the right thing, how I try to do what the Varen have written for me to do, in their books. But how I have wronged so many people trying to do it.
I do not know why I tell the D'Veen all this. I tell him because I need to tell someone, because all these years, I have told no one. I tell him because he is the only person in the universe who cannot use my words against me and because he does not seem to see me as a foolish girl.
I tell him because only someone who belonged to the Varen could possibly be so beautiful. I tell him because he is a D'Veen and he belongs to the Varen and telling him is like telling the Varen, whom I tell nightly anyway, in my prayers.
But all the more, I tell him because telling him, I am releasing it. I thought I would cry if I ever told my story but I find myself drawing a peculiar kind of strength in the telling.
Suddenly, there is an aura of sadness, of weariness about him.
There is a long silence between us.
"How do you bear it," he manages.
Remembering how I have borne it these years, I am filled with a kind of radiance, because never before have I had such proof that They are with me.
"I have borne it all these years because I know They intend for me to live," I reply, "And because They are with me. I prayed to them, and see, they have sent for me to speak with, someone who belongs to Them."
"Varè," he says, softly. "My own faith isn't always that good."
But the barely noticeable half-smile dissappears for a moment. I cannot read what is crossing his face, but I can tell he is reminded of something, I know not what, and I know he will probably never tell me. The cloak of sadness wrapped around him makes me feel ever conscious of his vulnerability. I am suddenly aware of how thin and fragile-looking his body is under those heavy black robes. I cover his hand with mine before I realize my mistake.
He pulls his hand away, and both of his hands dissappear inside of the folds of his robes. "I- I am sorry," he says, softly. "You must never try to touch me."
He looks at the ground for a long time. He does not look at me. It is as though there is an invisible, impenetrable wall between us. I know that he has put it there.
My cheeks burn, and I don't know why. I am chastened, shamed. It was just a small mistake. I forgot myself, I forgot that he belonged to the Varen, because for a moment he seemed like a man, just a man who seemed so fragile and so sad.
The atmosphere has become tense, awkward. He does not look at me. I do not look at him. I stand and prepare to leave, wishing I had never done such a wicked thing.
"Kat'ehri," he says, breaking the silence.
He stands, but he stays where he is. I turn, and face him.
For a moment, his eyes meet mine, and I can feel my face burning, turning red. I don't recall when I told him my name, and it's then I know that he could see through me if he wanted, this man who belongs to the Varen.
My eyes sting with new tears. The worst pain is one I could never share with him. If he ever looked into my eyes I would not be able to hide it. I know that if I let him look into me, he will see the wicked things I have felt.
He will see the things I imagined, those nights I lay curled on my husband's bed, perfumed and bare beneath my red wedding robe, all those nights waiting for Vardu, when Vardu never came.
He will see the wicked pleasures I imagined those nights: how some nights my imaginary companion was a Defender, and some nights a priest. All of them more attainable than the husband I waited for. How my husband told me to take a lover, but I could do no such thing. Yet the irony! Most nights it was that same husband who was my imaginary companion, but always - even when it was my husband - my imaginary lover was a man I could never have.
If the D'Veen could see into me, he would see that some nights while I was married, I wished one of the clanswomen would keep me company, as they kept each other company during the long months that our men were away. Such a thing was encouraged. But shamefully, I never desired them. I could only watch and feel a pang of envy as they kept each other from being lonely. Even when I did think of such a thing, they turned me away as a stranger who had never borne a child into the clan.
And now, my body - still young, but rendered unfit for marriage by the very marks my co-wives themselves put on my body for the crimes I committed!
Should the D'Veen see any of these wicked things inside of my heart, I imagine I could live with that shame.
But worst, worst of all are the things I find myself imagining about the D'Veen himself, about those slender Healer's hands, even as he stands before me right this moment.
I gather my skirts and turn toward the door. I will let him see none of this.