Fic
Odd mood piece...
A Mending for Frayed Edges: D'Veen Sevesh Elehr'as, Kat'ehri Ardanu'in
The routines have been the same, day after day, in the year or so since his arrival at Kreyt'thal. In the evening, Sevesh Elehr'as will go to the baths: first he likes to sit with only his sore feet submerged in the steaming hot, herb-infused water, until the water cools enough to allow for full submersion. A warm cloth over the eyes soothes eye strain. He will attend to the more trivial matters of his grooming: inspection of fingernails and toenails for the odd ragged edge.
Bathing is one of the few real pleasures of his day. Of late he has gone after the end of his shift, instead of immediately prior to retiring for the night. Nonetheless, each night, he will muse to himself that he is one of the few of his race who know how to swim: and consider that secretly, he enjoyed the sensation. He will find himself starting to drift, and always, the timer will rouse him with a start: two minutes, and then the small partitioned room will be readied for the next patron.
As always, he will stand and reach for the dressing-gown from the hook, and he'll move to the locker and remove his things.
Some of his routines, of late, have changed.
He has returned to his room, sterile and white like much of Kreyt'thal. He is greeted by a familiar voice: "Mrr?"
The little black monkey-cat sits up on her haunches, greeting him, touching her cold nose to his fingertip.
"Ai, Zi'vahl," he says: "I'll return."
He finds the self-heating ceramic pot on its small pedestal. The food items are already neatly packaged in their sealed containers: fresh mushrooms, powdered herbal broth, gelatinous white de'ja cubes, finely chopped green leaves: the makings for soup. Waterseed-flour wrappers, dried mushrooms, minced de'ja: the makings for dumplings.
All of these, he puts in his bag, along with the vacuum pot of hot jau'than-blossom tea.
As always, he will dress in the drab clothes of the layman. None will look as the hooded, nondescript figure passes. His hair is still somewhat damp, and the open, cold spaces of the City of White and Gold bring the chilliness of space, of metal-on-metal.
He arrives at the apartment before its occupant has closed her shop. As could be expected, the door is unlocked, and this place is a simple, unadorned room with a rolled-up mattress in the corner. Its tenant has draped fabric and wall-hangings on the walls, and set an altar with unlit lamps in the corner. Simple, but she has made it seem as if someone has always lived here. The scent of prayer incense hangs in the air.
Even with the dispensation to buy prepared food from the vendors, Sevesh Elehr'as mostly prefers to cook for himself - most of his people do not share his palate.
Even so, of late, he has considered that the same meal seems to taste much better when shared.
She won't like it, he considers: it isn't much.
All the same, she will arrive, and find him sitting before the ceramic pot, ladelling the soup into the bowls.
Kat'ehri Ardanu'in will sigh deeply. She will remove her careworn boots, sit on the rolled-up mattress for a moment, and rub one foot, and then the other.
Then she will look up, and she will position herself, cross-legged, on the floor, taking the bowl in one hand.
"Thank you," she will say, wearily.
They will finish the meal in silence. He will consider there is something new to show her, something which she hasn't seen before, but the set of her shoulders, the occasional sigh, the slowness with which she sips her broth: these say all that he needs to know.
He will stand. "I should go, Sa'in," he will say.
He will remove everything he has brought with him, as if he were never here.
This is what it would be, if it were any other night.
"What happened?" she asks.
"I found her," he says: "His mother. Sa'in... she lives here. At Kreyt'thal."
There is a silence between them for a moment.
Finally, Kat'ehri looks up, and she says, softly:
"You never told me how Dares died."
Curse that woman's directness! He winces inwardly. Not because he wouldn't want to tell her: but because there is no way he can tell her about Dares, and stop there. He would tell her then of Tsuras. And then Teresh. And finally, Thrana'al. How they all died, stupidly and needlessly. Things which he should not tell her, things which he can tell no one.
He considers: Not tonight.
"I will, Sa'in," he says, and that is all he says.
A Mending for Frayed Edges: D'Veen Sevesh Elehr'as, Kat'ehri Ardanu'in
The routines have been the same, day after day, in the year or so since his arrival at Kreyt'thal. In the evening, Sevesh Elehr'as will go to the baths: first he likes to sit with only his sore feet submerged in the steaming hot, herb-infused water, until the water cools enough to allow for full submersion. A warm cloth over the eyes soothes eye strain. He will attend to the more trivial matters of his grooming: inspection of fingernails and toenails for the odd ragged edge.
Bathing is one of the few real pleasures of his day. Of late he has gone after the end of his shift, instead of immediately prior to retiring for the night. Nonetheless, each night, he will muse to himself that he is one of the few of his race who know how to swim: and consider that secretly, he enjoyed the sensation. He will find himself starting to drift, and always, the timer will rouse him with a start: two minutes, and then the small partitioned room will be readied for the next patron.
As always, he will stand and reach for the dressing-gown from the hook, and he'll move to the locker and remove his things.
Some of his routines, of late, have changed.
He has returned to his room, sterile and white like much of Kreyt'thal. He is greeted by a familiar voice: "Mrr?"
The little black monkey-cat sits up on her haunches, greeting him, touching her cold nose to his fingertip.
"Ai, Zi'vahl," he says: "I'll return."
He finds the self-heating ceramic pot on its small pedestal. The food items are already neatly packaged in their sealed containers: fresh mushrooms, powdered herbal broth, gelatinous white de'ja cubes, finely chopped green leaves: the makings for soup. Waterseed-flour wrappers, dried mushrooms, minced de'ja: the makings for dumplings.
All of these, he puts in his bag, along with the vacuum pot of hot jau'than-blossom tea.
As always, he will dress in the drab clothes of the layman. None will look as the hooded, nondescript figure passes. His hair is still somewhat damp, and the open, cold spaces of the City of White and Gold bring the chilliness of space, of metal-on-metal.
He arrives at the apartment before its occupant has closed her shop. As could be expected, the door is unlocked, and this place is a simple, unadorned room with a rolled-up mattress in the corner. Its tenant has draped fabric and wall-hangings on the walls, and set an altar with unlit lamps in the corner. Simple, but she has made it seem as if someone has always lived here. The scent of prayer incense hangs in the air.
Even with the dispensation to buy prepared food from the vendors, Sevesh Elehr'as mostly prefers to cook for himself - most of his people do not share his palate.
Even so, of late, he has considered that the same meal seems to taste much better when shared.
She won't like it, he considers: it isn't much.
All the same, she will arrive, and find him sitting before the ceramic pot, ladelling the soup into the bowls.
Kat'ehri Ardanu'in will sigh deeply. She will remove her careworn boots, sit on the rolled-up mattress for a moment, and rub one foot, and then the other.
Then she will look up, and she will position herself, cross-legged, on the floor, taking the bowl in one hand.
"Thank you," she will say, wearily.
They will finish the meal in silence. He will consider there is something new to show her, something which she hasn't seen before, but the set of her shoulders, the occasional sigh, the slowness with which she sips her broth: these say all that he needs to know.
He will stand. "I should go, Sa'in," he will say.
He will remove everything he has brought with him, as if he were never here.
This is what it would be, if it were any other night.
"What happened?" she asks.
"I found her," he says: "His mother. Sa'in... she lives here. At Kreyt'thal."
There is a silence between them for a moment.
Finally, Kat'ehri looks up, and she says, softly:
"You never told me how Dares died."
Curse that woman's directness! He winces inwardly. Not because he wouldn't want to tell her: but because there is no way he can tell her about Dares, and stop there. He would tell her then of Tsuras. And then Teresh. And finally, Thrana'al. How they all died, stupidly and needlessly. Things which he should not tell her, things which he can tell no one.
He considers: Not tonight.
"I will, Sa'in," he says, and that is all he says.