Left Hand of Darkness: Shadows cast behind you (Estraven)
Slowly reposting the Yuletide fics I personally love the most back onto my LJ; if you love me you will read them and ignore the fact that I'm still flailing around in my sandboxes, failing to write things! *BEAMS* But, seriously: The Left Hand of Darkness (by Ursula K Le Guin) is one of those works of fiction that blew me out of the water the moment I read it, and which I strive my damnedest to emulate in terms of... of everything. Give this fandom a shot. Go to your libaries, search for an ebook, borrow a copy, beg for one, steal one open it up and read it. I promise you amazing things will happen.
Shadows cast behind you
Fandom: The Left Hand of Darkness
Characters: Estraven; mentions of Ashe, Arek.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Estraven needs a warning for being Estraven. Everything he touches turns to tragedy.
Summary: In the kemmerhouse.
733 words and one of the hardest and easiest pieces I've ever tried to write.
A kemmerhouse is a kemmerhouse no matter the Domain or the people within it. Love is love, as they say in Rer where nothing has changed for a thousand years and where, if its citizens - proud, communal, fiercely bonded and stubborn - have their say, nothing will change for a thousand more. Since coming to Erhenrang, Estraven has not believed the same.
The kemmerhouse keeps its name, but the people inside it change its face. In the capital, near the residences of those members of the kyoremmy who service Argaven's administration, and the servants of such servants who still dine with kings, all still meet in darkness, warmth and sliding sweetness; the oldest of dances performed by the players of the world's oldest game. Here, like everywhere else in Karhide, they call the houses public, but for all those who enter it, Estraven has not yet seen one who has not had either recognisable lineage or a chain of office. The powerful come here to try their hands at roundabout gossip, which in this nation approximates to truth.
Estraven enters the house for the first time in eight years since leaving Kerm Land, and they watch from their corners, wondering how he should act and who he might choose. Why is he here, is the question on the lips of those young enough to ask out of ignorance. Why now, is the one asked by those more seasoned. And why here, strutting in so blatantly and without shame? No wonder that Therem Harth can drive a man from the city right out to some Fastness.
None of them murmur, but they are all heard; Estraven lets it sweep past as one must when walking into the wind. No one here, it seems, cares for Ashe Foreth rem ir Osborth.
Nowhere in the kemmerhouse will be different, but farther in there are, at least, rooms in which politicians learn to forget how to speak. Estraven moves past the dreamers and the speculators and lets them make what they would of what they see; nothing they can say will do Karhide's Prime Minister anything but good. Therem Harth, they may say, is in the world again - back in the kemmerhouses amongst both those who have loved Estraven's swift political ascension and those who have hated it. They can touch Therem Harth again, try to meet Therem Harth somewhere beyond the kyoremmy debates or royal missives. Or they may say: Therem Harth is returned and unbuyable; a broken vow lies over Estraven like a shield and a shroud. Therem Harth will not swear kemmering again; no point, then, to try for the closer affections of this Lord.
Estraven's shadow is cast perfectly; few others err so little in the act of preserving shifgrethor. Moving beyond them, Harth goes in search of someone who will, at least, pretend not to know the heir of Estre. ('Nobility,' Harth hears someone say from behind. 'They do what they like.') Yes, perhaps they do. Estraven turns away and looks for someone in the male phase of kemmer. There is no lack of them; it startles Harth when it shouldn't. Seven years of oskyommer and the sight of more than one face seems alien and strange. In the privacy of the Osborth Clanhearth, Ashe always turned to femaleness. Nobility does as it likes - and so they did, using drugs when they had to because Ashe loved too well, and Therem too easily. If there was to be a child it would not be of Estre get. Therem Harth could not break that many vows, even forbidden ones.
Here those vows lie behind Harth like shattered ice, perilous and forcing Harth onwards - now towards Rathe rem ir Osgir, beautiful in kemmer and also politely mute. Harth goes, and lets a female body remember forgotten things: Arek's hands, how they were relentless and indefatigable and persistent, how they pulled Therem apart and pieced Therem together again. Rathe is a skilled lover, fully experienced as most in Erhenrang are with asking little questions and making less conversation. Therem chooses no one else that day. They stay together, buoyed up by anonymous kemmer. Therem does not know what Rathe sees behind closed eyes.
Therem Harth rem ir Estraven's own imaginings - like love in old cities - are ones from another lifetime, unchanging the same way that love is love.
Shadows cast behind you
Fandom: The Left Hand of Darkness
Characters: Estraven; mentions of Ashe, Arek.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Estraven needs a warning for being Estraven. Everything he touches turns to tragedy.
Summary: In the kemmerhouse.
733 words and one of the hardest and easiest pieces I've ever tried to write.
A kemmerhouse is a kemmerhouse no matter the Domain or the people within it. Love is love, as they say in Rer where nothing has changed for a thousand years and where, if its citizens - proud, communal, fiercely bonded and stubborn - have their say, nothing will change for a thousand more. Since coming to Erhenrang, Estraven has not believed the same.
The kemmerhouse keeps its name, but the people inside it change its face. In the capital, near the residences of those members of the kyoremmy who service Argaven's administration, and the servants of such servants who still dine with kings, all still meet in darkness, warmth and sliding sweetness; the oldest of dances performed by the players of the world's oldest game. Here, like everywhere else in Karhide, they call the houses public, but for all those who enter it, Estraven has not yet seen one who has not had either recognisable lineage or a chain of office. The powerful come here to try their hands at roundabout gossip, which in this nation approximates to truth.
Estraven enters the house for the first time in eight years since leaving Kerm Land, and they watch from their corners, wondering how he should act and who he might choose. Why is he here, is the question on the lips of those young enough to ask out of ignorance. Why now, is the one asked by those more seasoned. And why here, strutting in so blatantly and without shame? No wonder that Therem Harth can drive a man from the city right out to some Fastness.
None of them murmur, but they are all heard; Estraven lets it sweep past as one must when walking into the wind. No one here, it seems, cares for Ashe Foreth rem ir Osborth.
Nowhere in the kemmerhouse will be different, but farther in there are, at least, rooms in which politicians learn to forget how to speak. Estraven moves past the dreamers and the speculators and lets them make what they would of what they see; nothing they can say will do Karhide's Prime Minister anything but good. Therem Harth, they may say, is in the world again - back in the kemmerhouses amongst both those who have loved Estraven's swift political ascension and those who have hated it. They can touch Therem Harth again, try to meet Therem Harth somewhere beyond the kyoremmy debates or royal missives. Or they may say: Therem Harth is returned and unbuyable; a broken vow lies over Estraven like a shield and a shroud. Therem Harth will not swear kemmering again; no point, then, to try for the closer affections of this Lord.
Estraven's shadow is cast perfectly; few others err so little in the act of preserving shifgrethor. Moving beyond them, Harth goes in search of someone who will, at least, pretend not to know the heir of Estre. ('Nobility,' Harth hears someone say from behind. 'They do what they like.') Yes, perhaps they do. Estraven turns away and looks for someone in the male phase of kemmer. There is no lack of them; it startles Harth when it shouldn't. Seven years of oskyommer and the sight of more than one face seems alien and strange. In the privacy of the Osborth Clanhearth, Ashe always turned to femaleness. Nobility does as it likes - and so they did, using drugs when they had to because Ashe loved too well, and Therem too easily. If there was to be a child it would not be of Estre get. Therem Harth could not break that many vows, even forbidden ones.
Here those vows lie behind Harth like shattered ice, perilous and forcing Harth onwards - now towards Rathe rem ir Osgir, beautiful in kemmer and also politely mute. Harth goes, and lets a female body remember forgotten things: Arek's hands, how they were relentless and indefatigable and persistent, how they pulled Therem apart and pieced Therem together again. Rathe is a skilled lover, fully experienced as most in Erhenrang are with asking little questions and making less conversation. Therem chooses no one else that day. They stay together, buoyed up by anonymous kemmer. Therem does not know what Rathe sees behind closed eyes.
Therem Harth rem ir Estraven's own imaginings - like love in old cities - are ones from another lifetime, unchanging the same way that love is love.