7s_prompts: Understand
closestkept used with permission and love.
prompt:"Our dignity is not in what we do, but in what we understand." - George Santayana
"I'm not a storyteller." She's shy.
"You don't have to be." He's patient. But persistent.
"I don't know the words." They're in bed. Their nest.
"You do."
She turns away in silence.
"How would you say it to a child? A fairy story. To Junior."
The silence grows; finally, she meets his eyes. "It's not a nice story."
He could tell her most fairy tales aren't. But only nods. "I understand."
Shayera takes a breath and begins. "When I was a girl, the mother of my mother told stories of a time when Thanagar was not so divided. Not so driven. When children grew up to be artists and storytellers. Poets." She begins in English, in soft, measured tones. She is telling the story. "Now, we are soldiers and stories are lessons."
He could tell her most stories are. But only nods.
"Your Earth is mostly water. Thanagar is mostly dust." She means to paint a picture with words, using his language to describe her desert the way she'd used hers to describe his. He understands. She speaks of sand that covers everything. "It is a red that doesn't exist here." She speaks of trees that do not exist here either. Her voice changes as she tells of these differences. She doesn't notice. He understands.
"Where there is water...it is like a magic lost along with the stories. We only use it."
She was born in a city. "There are only cities now. Once, when we lived on the land, we lived as ....nomads." She says the word in Thanagarian. She does not know the English. "People who move from place to place without a home." He nods. "The mother of my mother..." She pauses, tilting her head and he provides the word.
"Grandmother."
"Grandmother. Many of her stories were of the travels." She does not know what is history and what is legend. The warriors do not understand the difference. Only the grandmothers do. "We weren't always born with wings, some few are still...different. They live on the land, with the water. Maybe they are still nomads. Maybe they are storytellers. I don't know. I have only been there once."
And now, never again.
She talks about her city and all the cities that float above the sand. There are no high buildings, they don't need them to scrape the sky, and in the war such heights are dangerous. In the war many things are dangerous. Beauty. Individuality. Poetry. Anything that might distract from duty.
"Everything must be useful or it is irrelevant. Home is where you sleep. Family is a means to expansion. Love is... They do not pursue relationships. They conquer what they desire. They desire what will make them stronger. More fit to fight. And they fight to win." As she goes she speaks more and more words in her own language until she speaking entirely in Thanagarian. As she goes she creeps closer and closer to him until she is enveloped in his arms. She doesn't notice. He understands.
"I was so proud to be chosen." Not meaning to, she's skipped to the end and shudders. He holds her closer still. She notices, and turns her face to meet his eyes. In the years from end to beginning the pride has been eclipsed by shame. She feels tears in her eyes; they make her angry. "There is beauty there," she says in defiance of shame, anger and tears. "It is only hiding."
St. John raises a hand to brush her eyes. He doesn't wipe her tears away, just touches them. "I understand."
She nods. The silence grows again. He lets it.
prompt:"Our dignity is not in what we do, but in what we understand." - George Santayana
"I'm not a storyteller." She's shy.
"You don't have to be." He's patient. But persistent.
"I don't know the words." They're in bed. Their nest.
"You do."
She turns away in silence.
"How would you say it to a child? A fairy story. To Junior."
The silence grows; finally, she meets his eyes. "It's not a nice story."
He could tell her most fairy tales aren't. But only nods. "I understand."
Shayera takes a breath and begins. "When I was a girl, the mother of my mother told stories of a time when Thanagar was not so divided. Not so driven. When children grew up to be artists and storytellers. Poets." She begins in English, in soft, measured tones. She is telling the story. "Now, we are soldiers and stories are lessons."
He could tell her most stories are. But only nods.
"Your Earth is mostly water. Thanagar is mostly dust." She means to paint a picture with words, using his language to describe her desert the way she'd used hers to describe his. He understands. She speaks of sand that covers everything. "It is a red that doesn't exist here." She speaks of trees that do not exist here either. Her voice changes as she tells of these differences. She doesn't notice. He understands.
"Where there is water...it is like a magic lost along with the stories. We only use it."
She was born in a city. "There are only cities now. Once, when we lived on the land, we lived as ....nomads." She says the word in Thanagarian. She does not know the English. "People who move from place to place without a home." He nods. "The mother of my mother..." She pauses, tilting her head and he provides the word.
"Grandmother."
"Grandmother. Many of her stories were of the travels." She does not know what is history and what is legend. The warriors do not understand the difference. Only the grandmothers do. "We weren't always born with wings, some few are still...different. They live on the land, with the water. Maybe they are still nomads. Maybe they are storytellers. I don't know. I have only been there once."
And now, never again.
She talks about her city and all the cities that float above the sand. There are no high buildings, they don't need them to scrape the sky, and in the war such heights are dangerous. In the war many things are dangerous. Beauty. Individuality. Poetry. Anything that might distract from duty.
"Everything must be useful or it is irrelevant. Home is where you sleep. Family is a means to expansion. Love is... They do not pursue relationships. They conquer what they desire. They desire what will make them stronger. More fit to fight. And they fight to win." As she goes she speaks more and more words in her own language until she speaking entirely in Thanagarian. As she goes she creeps closer and closer to him until she is enveloped in his arms. She doesn't notice. He understands.
"I was so proud to be chosen." Not meaning to, she's skipped to the end and shudders. He holds her closer still. She notices, and turns her face to meet his eyes. In the years from end to beginning the pride has been eclipsed by shame. She feels tears in her eyes; they make her angry. "There is beauty there," she says in defiance of shame, anger and tears. "It is only hiding."
St. John raises a hand to brush her eyes. He doesn't wipe her tears away, just touches them. "I understand."
She nods. The silence grows again. He lets it.