Yevide writes... home.
This is a very long post indeed; I hope that my readers will indulge me. Someone asked me what Yevide thinks of the two men in her life, and someone else asked me if she had anybody at home to whom she might write. My mood was melancholy today, so I tried my hand at writing Yevide's letter. I'm afraid there's quite a lot to wade through first. I have included Yevide's history, because without it the letter will make very little sense. I have also included a snip out of a beautiful and touching scene I RP'd with Essdara in which Yevide spoke of her past. I recommend reading each of these before moving on to her letter. (ETA: "Yevide's story" was written by her original player, to whom credit is due. It has served as my inspiration in taking on and playing this character.)
My experience playing Yevide has been extraordinary. Every scene has been a treasure. I have written this for G'thon and J'cor, each of whom has gone above and beyond the call of duty to indulge me.
Thank you, gentlemen.
O land of ours where our childhood passed
Like dreams in the shade of the orange-grove,
Among the almond-trees in the valleys--
Remember us now wandering
Among the thorns of the desert,
Wandering in rocky mountains;
Remember us now
In the tumult of cities beyond deserts and seas;
Remember us
With our eyes full of dust
That never clears in our ceaseless wandering.
--Jabra Ibrahim Jabra
Yevide's Story.
Yevide's first memory is of goats. The smell and sound of them, the feel of their silky hair, the taste of their milk. There were those that teased the motherless girl, who said she had more in common with a goat than with men, but she didn't mind their jests. She'd have died as an infant without a nanny goat to feed her. Her brothers and sisters would go naked, her father hungry. They warmed the large tent the family shared at night, and helped drive off wherries when they grew too greedy, looking to steal a kid or an infant. The goat was provider and protector and nurturer, and Yevide could do worse for a totem.
Her people were Igen's nomads, the proud wanderers with a hatred for stone over their heads and walls surrounding. They called themselves one family, although there were several in the band that Yevide was born into. They had no harpers, no healers, only limited contact with the traders and made very rare forays into the holds, large and small, that had dug into the edges of the desert. They sang their own songs, died when their time came and looked down their broad noses at those who trapped themselves beneath rock and sand. The skies were free, their songs went, and it seemed a sin to hide away from them.
As difficult as their life was, it was also richly simple: they were born, they tended their herds and travelled from oasis to oasis. When a child grew old enough, they were married, bore children, raised those children and in time died. So it was for Yevide too. At fifteen she wed the man her father chose for her, a strapping hunter some twelve turns older than she. He was quiet, she full of laughter and together they were good. Their son came four turns later, a boy they called Nasir, for his father Nassir.
Six months after their child's birth, a sickness came to the people. The waters of the oasis they were camped around had soured, and caused a burning in their bellies that led to a deadly flux. Yevide's father died, and her husband, and her infant son. She'd have died too had the survivors not travelled a day and a night to reach the nearest hold, where a healer might be summoned. The holders nursed the remaining nomads and offered them a place to live when their illness passed. Some refused. Others, Yevide among them, stayed.
It was during the almond harvest that she saw a dragon for the first time and one saw her. A blue and a green landed beside the orchards, where the heartsick woman was emptying baskets into barrels. The green chose a young man, the blue a younger girl and Yevide.
With no reason to refuse their request, she allowed herself to be carried to the Weyr only a few days before the eggs broke shell. On the Weyr's stone-bound sands, Yevide was found again, this time by golden Ulyath.
Of an age with Arinya, Yevide looked to the more experienced junior to provide an example after she finished the grueling period of weyrlinghood. The example that she found was not one that fit well on her shoulders. Although life at the Weyr opened a world she'd never realized existed, Yevide never found the carousing, gambling and brawling career to be to her taste. This placed some distance between she and the other woman, as both regarded the other with some uncertainty. Both, however, were capable in their own ways-- Arinya as the charismatic field leader and Yevide as the sensual nurturer with desert wisdom for every question.
Arinya's stepping into the role of senior was not a difficult pill for Yevide to swallow at first. While she enjoyed the work life had given her, she had no true desire then to be a leader. She did well under G'mal's regime and even developed a system with the man that would allow protection for her beloved nomads once Thread began to fall, without their having to sacrifice independence.
So it was with some surprise that the Weyr heard the announcement that the middle-aged Yevide was being sent to Caucus. After seventeen turns of service to Igen, her departure was a startling thing-- wasn't she too old to be a student, after all? What use was there in training a woman to lead, when she would never lead? And Thread was falling, surely every gold was needed...
Singing The Dead.
"We each have our idea of the sacred," Yevide agrees gravely, leaving her teacup set on the saucer for now. "There is milk, and sweetener if you wish, dear." She takes her time over choosing a sweet roll, perhaps pondering her reply in that time as well. "I was born to nomads. I had a large family. I don't mind your asking, my dear. The young are curious. My son would have been your age now."
"Sacred... Never thought of it like that, but yeah, I'd consider the kitchens sacred to me. The thought of someone doing that is quite repulsive." Dara shakes her head, "And no, I find with tea milk and sugar just hide the taste. I like that with klah, but not with tea." She fiddles with the cup a few moments. "Your son." A slight smile. "I think you're trying to shock me, but I think that's wonderful. He's still at Igen? Is he a rider there, like you? And I don't know anything about the nomadic people, so I don't even know what to ask!"
"Good girl!" Yevide is delighted, favouring the girl before her with a particularly warm smile. "I add neither, but so many people seem to prefer it. I would rather the pure taste as well." She sets down the pastry, reaching for the cup and saucer; the small saucer she cradles in her palm, and her smile is wistful as she gazes down into her tea. "No, he died when he was just a little baby. My husband, also." She lifts her gaze then, blue eyes smiling, expression gentle. "It was a very long time ago. Before you were born."
"Tea is delicate, and the mix of herbs is something to be savoured, to see what is there, and how they interact. The others spoil that, for me. Klah... Is bitter, and straightforward, and I can't drink it without obscene amounts of sweetener." As Yevide explains about her family, Dara looks sadly down at her tea. "You were married young, then, to have a child and a husband, and still Impress? And before I was born, I find, was not so very long ago in this world. Sometimes I have to remind myself how young I really am. I'm sorry to bring up a hard topic, ma'am." A quiet moment. "It must have been very hard. Losing a dream, especially like that, is... Well, it is what it is."
"I was married young," Yevide agrees, raising her cup for a slow sip, lashes lowering as she inhales the steam while she swallows. "We married young, my people." There's another smile for the girl, her eyes crinkling at the edges as her gaze dwells almost fondly on her. "It is not a hard topic. Those of us who lived remember them, and I sing their names sometimes. A tradition of ours. I was heartsore for a long time, but they left me long ago. Now I remember them with love, not sadness."
"And you've never had more children?" Dara asks, curiosity overcoming somberness. "You... Sing their names? I don't think I quite follow your meaning, ma'am. And I hope, should I ever lose anyone so dear to me, I could be so stong. I don't always deal well with loss, or dissapointments." She looks curiously, "The way you say 'Those of us who lived'... Did something happen to your people?"
"I never wished any others. I had Ulyath then, and no time. Then I had a whole weyr full of children." Yevide is quiet, sipping from her tea again before the saucer is laid down so she can reach for the pastry. "We have songs to list and remember the dead, my people. We did not carry records about, so that was our way. This is excellent, my dear." 'This' is the pastry, which she takes up and waves appreciatively. "You would find a way, of course. Time is a great healer." Another mouthful, slowly chewed. "A sickness came. It happens."
"I... Can't imagine not wanting children." Dara murmers softly. Louder, "It seems an excellent way of remembering, like the teaching ballads only for names? It must be a very sad song, though." A soft sigh. "And there are, I feel, wounds even time won't heal, though I guess it can also make us numb, which can serve the same end." She doesn't press about the sickness, and is quiet for a long moment before she continues. She looks over at the pastry being eaten, with a shy smile again. "I've learned a lot about baking since you came here. I was never fond of it before, but I am finding I enjoy the formulaicness of it. It's quite differnt from my usual cooking style."
"It begins as a sad song," Yevide agrees, shredding a piece of pastry. "It rises at the end, reminds the listener that those deaths lie behind, and life lies ahead. For me, Ulyath lay ahead, a whole second life I had never imagined." She shares the girl's silence; the pastry provides distraction, and she chews on it thoughtfully, lips curving upward to return Essdara's smile. "Have you learned to bake for me, my dear?"
Yevide's Letter.
Nassir, my love.
It has been such a long time since I wrote, but what could I possibly write these days that you would understand? You would not care, of course. You would listen anyway; you would smile and stroke my hair slowly, shush me when I had talked myself out, and love me until I forgot why these things trouble me so. I have lived so many more turns without you than I ever did by your side, yet as the weeks pass in this place, my yearning for you reawakens. You could not be more different to the men here.
A long time ago, after you had left me and not long after Ulyath had arrived, I danced at a gather. My partner was G'thon, bronze Hirth's rider. He was handsome and kind, and for the first time I thought that perhaps one day I might look at another man. I blushed and I babbled; I am sure that I spoke about goats, and I am just as sure that I stepped on his foot. He was grave, but there was a gleam in his eye that drew me to him. That night I conceded the possibility of another man - some other man - in my future.
I wish I had known him more before he lost Hirth. Maybe then I would know what to do. He does not love me, but I do not know if he can love anymore. He gives; he gave me affection and indulgence and that was something. You understood that a woman must be precious sometimes, even if she must be hard and resilient the rest of the time. Affection and indulgence; was he capable of more, after Hirth? If he was, I never saw it. I do not know now which of it was real, which was not. I do not doubt his affection, but we loved our goats without hesitating to drive them, milk them, clip them, eat them. I do not know what he thought I should be. His goat, or lover, or partner, or all of that? Did nobody ever tell him that goats are headstrong creatures?
I have let J'cor tell me to push him away, but not without regret. Jeri says - his name is always Jeri in my mind, but rarely on my lips. He yearns to hear it, so I ration it as you used to ration your smiles, making them all the more valuable. Jeri desires that I create a distance between G'thon and I; he would take G'thon's place in every way. He's so warm, Nas, he reminds me of you in that way, skin so hot. He is my Weyrleader, the man I chose, so I owe him whatever I can give him. I was your wilful little goat in the moment I bade him stay, reaching for the thing I wanted with scant thought for the consequences; nevertheless, it was a good choice.
I hope I have done the right thing. I am so tired. I am tired of speaking in riddles, tired of being hated, tired of waiting for a glimpse deep into his heart when I am not sure whether he has one anymore. Jeri is here, and he is warm and solid, and he wants this thing with me. He will have what he wants.
I wish I knew what you would tell me to do, my husband, but you are too far in the past and too far from these mountains for me to guess. I sing for you at the death of every month, and for Nasir, and our families. I wonder, should I sing for Hirth too? His name is recorded, should be safely remembered; it is spoken often. Yet sometimes, I feel I am the only one - bar G'thon - who thinks on who he was, what he might have thought or said. Others simply think of the fact that he is no more, and that is not the same as thinking of him. I think of you, Nas. I remember your smile and your face and your voice and your hands.
My love is yours,
Your little goat,
Vide.
My experience playing Yevide has been extraordinary. Every scene has been a treasure. I have written this for G'thon and J'cor, each of whom has gone above and beyond the call of duty to indulge me.
Thank you, gentlemen.
O land of ours where our childhood passed
Like dreams in the shade of the orange-grove,
Among the almond-trees in the valleys--
Remember us now wandering
Among the thorns of the desert,
Wandering in rocky mountains;
Remember us now
In the tumult of cities beyond deserts and seas;
Remember us
With our eyes full of dust
That never clears in our ceaseless wandering.
--Jabra Ibrahim Jabra
Yevide's Story.
Yevide's first memory is of goats. The smell and sound of them, the feel of their silky hair, the taste of their milk. There were those that teased the motherless girl, who said she had more in common with a goat than with men, but she didn't mind their jests. She'd have died as an infant without a nanny goat to feed her. Her brothers and sisters would go naked, her father hungry. They warmed the large tent the family shared at night, and helped drive off wherries when they grew too greedy, looking to steal a kid or an infant. The goat was provider and protector and nurturer, and Yevide could do worse for a totem.
Her people were Igen's nomads, the proud wanderers with a hatred for stone over their heads and walls surrounding. They called themselves one family, although there were several in the band that Yevide was born into. They had no harpers, no healers, only limited contact with the traders and made very rare forays into the holds, large and small, that had dug into the edges of the desert. They sang their own songs, died when their time came and looked down their broad noses at those who trapped themselves beneath rock and sand. The skies were free, their songs went, and it seemed a sin to hide away from them.
As difficult as their life was, it was also richly simple: they were born, they tended their herds and travelled from oasis to oasis. When a child grew old enough, they were married, bore children, raised those children and in time died. So it was for Yevide too. At fifteen she wed the man her father chose for her, a strapping hunter some twelve turns older than she. He was quiet, she full of laughter and together they were good. Their son came four turns later, a boy they called Nasir, for his father Nassir.
Six months after their child's birth, a sickness came to the people. The waters of the oasis they were camped around had soured, and caused a burning in their bellies that led to a deadly flux. Yevide's father died, and her husband, and her infant son. She'd have died too had the survivors not travelled a day and a night to reach the nearest hold, where a healer might be summoned. The holders nursed the remaining nomads and offered them a place to live when their illness passed. Some refused. Others, Yevide among them, stayed.
It was during the almond harvest that she saw a dragon for the first time and one saw her. A blue and a green landed beside the orchards, where the heartsick woman was emptying baskets into barrels. The green chose a young man, the blue a younger girl and Yevide.
With no reason to refuse their request, she allowed herself to be carried to the Weyr only a few days before the eggs broke shell. On the Weyr's stone-bound sands, Yevide was found again, this time by golden Ulyath.
Of an age with Arinya, Yevide looked to the more experienced junior to provide an example after she finished the grueling period of weyrlinghood. The example that she found was not one that fit well on her shoulders. Although life at the Weyr opened a world she'd never realized existed, Yevide never found the carousing, gambling and brawling career to be to her taste. This placed some distance between she and the other woman, as both regarded the other with some uncertainty. Both, however, were capable in their own ways-- Arinya as the charismatic field leader and Yevide as the sensual nurturer with desert wisdom for every question.
Arinya's stepping into the role of senior was not a difficult pill for Yevide to swallow at first. While she enjoyed the work life had given her, she had no true desire then to be a leader. She did well under G'mal's regime and even developed a system with the man that would allow protection for her beloved nomads once Thread began to fall, without their having to sacrifice independence.
So it was with some surprise that the Weyr heard the announcement that the middle-aged Yevide was being sent to Caucus. After seventeen turns of service to Igen, her departure was a startling thing-- wasn't she too old to be a student, after all? What use was there in training a woman to lead, when she would never lead? And Thread was falling, surely every gold was needed...
Singing The Dead.
"We each have our idea of the sacred," Yevide agrees gravely, leaving her teacup set on the saucer for now. "There is milk, and sweetener if you wish, dear." She takes her time over choosing a sweet roll, perhaps pondering her reply in that time as well. "I was born to nomads. I had a large family. I don't mind your asking, my dear. The young are curious. My son would have been your age now."
"Sacred... Never thought of it like that, but yeah, I'd consider the kitchens sacred to me. The thought of someone doing that is quite repulsive." Dara shakes her head, "And no, I find with tea milk and sugar just hide the taste. I like that with klah, but not with tea." She fiddles with the cup a few moments. "Your son." A slight smile. "I think you're trying to shock me, but I think that's wonderful. He's still at Igen? Is he a rider there, like you? And I don't know anything about the nomadic people, so I don't even know what to ask!"
"Good girl!" Yevide is delighted, favouring the girl before her with a particularly warm smile. "I add neither, but so many people seem to prefer it. I would rather the pure taste as well." She sets down the pastry, reaching for the cup and saucer; the small saucer she cradles in her palm, and her smile is wistful as she gazes down into her tea. "No, he died when he was just a little baby. My husband, also." She lifts her gaze then, blue eyes smiling, expression gentle. "It was a very long time ago. Before you were born."
"Tea is delicate, and the mix of herbs is something to be savoured, to see what is there, and how they interact. The others spoil that, for me. Klah... Is bitter, and straightforward, and I can't drink it without obscene amounts of sweetener." As Yevide explains about her family, Dara looks sadly down at her tea. "You were married young, then, to have a child and a husband, and still Impress? And before I was born, I find, was not so very long ago in this world. Sometimes I have to remind myself how young I really am. I'm sorry to bring up a hard topic, ma'am." A quiet moment. "It must have been very hard. Losing a dream, especially like that, is... Well, it is what it is."
"I was married young," Yevide agrees, raising her cup for a slow sip, lashes lowering as she inhales the steam while she swallows. "We married young, my people." There's another smile for the girl, her eyes crinkling at the edges as her gaze dwells almost fondly on her. "It is not a hard topic. Those of us who lived remember them, and I sing their names sometimes. A tradition of ours. I was heartsore for a long time, but they left me long ago. Now I remember them with love, not sadness."
"And you've never had more children?" Dara asks, curiosity overcoming somberness. "You... Sing their names? I don't think I quite follow your meaning, ma'am. And I hope, should I ever lose anyone so dear to me, I could be so stong. I don't always deal well with loss, or dissapointments." She looks curiously, "The way you say 'Those of us who lived'... Did something happen to your people?"
"I never wished any others. I had Ulyath then, and no time. Then I had a whole weyr full of children." Yevide is quiet, sipping from her tea again before the saucer is laid down so she can reach for the pastry. "We have songs to list and remember the dead, my people. We did not carry records about, so that was our way. This is excellent, my dear." 'This' is the pastry, which she takes up and waves appreciatively. "You would find a way, of course. Time is a great healer." Another mouthful, slowly chewed. "A sickness came. It happens."
"I... Can't imagine not wanting children." Dara murmers softly. Louder, "It seems an excellent way of remembering, like the teaching ballads only for names? It must be a very sad song, though." A soft sigh. "And there are, I feel, wounds even time won't heal, though I guess it can also make us numb, which can serve the same end." She doesn't press about the sickness, and is quiet for a long moment before she continues. She looks over at the pastry being eaten, with a shy smile again. "I've learned a lot about baking since you came here. I was never fond of it before, but I am finding I enjoy the formulaicness of it. It's quite differnt from my usual cooking style."
"It begins as a sad song," Yevide agrees, shredding a piece of pastry. "It rises at the end, reminds the listener that those deaths lie behind, and life lies ahead. For me, Ulyath lay ahead, a whole second life I had never imagined." She shares the girl's silence; the pastry provides distraction, and she chews on it thoughtfully, lips curving upward to return Essdara's smile. "Have you learned to bake for me, my dear?"
Yevide's Letter.
Nassir, my love.
It has been such a long time since I wrote, but what could I possibly write these days that you would understand? You would not care, of course. You would listen anyway; you would smile and stroke my hair slowly, shush me when I had talked myself out, and love me until I forgot why these things trouble me so. I have lived so many more turns without you than I ever did by your side, yet as the weeks pass in this place, my yearning for you reawakens. You could not be more different to the men here.
A long time ago, after you had left me and not long after Ulyath had arrived, I danced at a gather. My partner was G'thon, bronze Hirth's rider. He was handsome and kind, and for the first time I thought that perhaps one day I might look at another man. I blushed and I babbled; I am sure that I spoke about goats, and I am just as sure that I stepped on his foot. He was grave, but there was a gleam in his eye that drew me to him. That night I conceded the possibility of another man - some other man - in my future.
I wish I had known him more before he lost Hirth. Maybe then I would know what to do. He does not love me, but I do not know if he can love anymore. He gives; he gave me affection and indulgence and that was something. You understood that a woman must be precious sometimes, even if she must be hard and resilient the rest of the time. Affection and indulgence; was he capable of more, after Hirth? If he was, I never saw it. I do not know now which of it was real, which was not. I do not doubt his affection, but we loved our goats without hesitating to drive them, milk them, clip them, eat them. I do not know what he thought I should be. His goat, or lover, or partner, or all of that? Did nobody ever tell him that goats are headstrong creatures?
I have let J'cor tell me to push him away, but not without regret. Jeri says - his name is always Jeri in my mind, but rarely on my lips. He yearns to hear it, so I ration it as you used to ration your smiles, making them all the more valuable. Jeri desires that I create a distance between G'thon and I; he would take G'thon's place in every way. He's so warm, Nas, he reminds me of you in that way, skin so hot. He is my Weyrleader, the man I chose, so I owe him whatever I can give him. I was your wilful little goat in the moment I bade him stay, reaching for the thing I wanted with scant thought for the consequences; nevertheless, it was a good choice.
I hope I have done the right thing. I am so tired. I am tired of speaking in riddles, tired of being hated, tired of waiting for a glimpse deep into his heart when I am not sure whether he has one anymore. Jeri is here, and he is warm and solid, and he wants this thing with me. He will have what he wants.
I wish I knew what you would tell me to do, my husband, but you are too far in the past and too far from these mountains for me to guess. I sing for you at the death of every month, and for Nasir, and our families. I wonder, should I sing for Hirth too? His name is recorded, should be safely remembered; it is spoken often. Yet sometimes, I feel I am the only one - bar G'thon - who thinks on who he was, what he might have thought or said. Others simply think of the fact that he is no more, and that is not the same as thinking of him. I think of you, Nas. I remember your smile and your face and your voice and your hands.
My love is yours,
Your little goat,
Vide.