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 Posted: Sat Jul 09, 2016 10:27 am
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Posted: Sat Jul 09, 2016 10:28 am
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Posted: Sat Jul 09, 2016 3:59 pm
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Posted: Thu Aug 18, 2016 12:31 pm
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Posted: Fri Aug 26, 2016 10:31 pm
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❂ Whispers To The Moon ❂
Damissan couldn’t be sure what woke him.
For several moments after, he laid awake, breathing slow in the dark of his tent nested on the forest floor of Jauhar. They had made it to Neued, met with Xilarn’s personable cousin Ziari, and engaged the shifters there. Their timing had even been fortunate enough to coincide with a local festival, and now, in the quiet of his own space while the night bugs tittered outside, it was there that his thoughts drifted initially: to the shifters, all still so strange to his eyes, bustling about their own lives, lighting intricate and simple lanterns alike, and bathing the jungle in their culture as they paid respects to the moon.
He stirred, wincing briefly as the movement sent a small pain down his side where his wound still smarted, before shifting his weight again and carefully pulling to a sit. The injury was well on its way to healing, but particularly just after waking up, he could feel it throbbing, objecting to the abuses the trip had so far put his body through. After a moment’s debate wherein he assessed the likelihood of falling back to sleep and concluded that the chances were slim for the moment, he leaned and reached, pulling close his shirt and a loose pair of leggings and slipping into them along with boots. Once dressed, he stepped outside.
He supposed it oughtn’t have been a surprise that shifters moved about at night in as many numbers as they did by day. This far beneath the canopy, sunlight had little effect regardless, and as worshippers of the moon, it seemed only natural that they would be partly nocturnal. Still, it was an almost surreal sight to observe in person. All but glimmering white bodies moving about the trees like embodiments of moonlight shaped into living beings, their silvery hair bright and striking and movements so fluid and confident despite the varying heights that it seemed almost inhuman. Divine. Or something else altogether.
Though he didn’t dare climb back into the heights of the tree village as he had earlier been bid by his compatriots, Damis did let his feet carry him forward, away from his sleeping space and more into the winding interworkings of Neued’s night life, over the underbrush and through winding paths between the trees that the locals made their homes in. It earned him his fair share of stares: silver eyes flicking and lingering on the dark stranger in their midst, out of place and peculiarly colored. An odd feeling, to be sure — he being used to being part of the grand majority in his own homeland — but an oddity that was becoming more familiar by the day the further he made it from home, though it hadn’t truly been apparent until their arrival here. If what he’d been told of Jauhar’s deeper villages was true, though, it would only be more striking from here forward.
Less travelers. Less familiarity. In the deepest parts of the jungle, a pair of Oban visitors would be truly alien indeed.
With nowhere pressing to be and his only goal being to stroll until his mind settled to a point where he could sleep again, his pace was slow and winding. He didn’t expect to engage anyone, just watch and wait—but as was often the case, expectations frequently went awry.
He saw the cluster of girls before any approached him, heard their whispering and saw the leaning in of their exchange and the way they looked at him, but — given that he was already the oddity here and they weren’t the first to turn their heads to stare and murmur in his wake — he thought little of it. Until many minutes later, a voice greeted him from behind.
“A little late for an Oban to be up and about, isn’t it?”
He turned, pausing in his tracks. She was tall for a shifter, her tone disarmingly calm, and something about her face struck a chord. Familiar, but not quite enough so for Damis to pin where he had—
“I saw you at the festival,” she provided, as though answering his question before it was asked. “We almost danced. But then your lover came along—”
“He’s not my lover.” Damis shook his head, but was relieved at least to note that he did recall the encounter now, and he smiled. “I should have stayed, I remember now, but I don’t recall if I ever got your—”
“Issiva,” she said. “My friends want to know if your people often shave their heads like that, and how it doesn’t burn when the sun is so high all the time there.”
His eyebrows arched a half-nock. “Some,” he said, amusement creeping into his tone. “But not a great many. Before I made it to the jungle I would wear a cloak hood over it so as not to burn.”
“Did you get many followers?”
He blinked. “Many…?”
“Followers. For your new god. You mentioned a strange god that brought you here, and were on about it for some bit.”
Damissan opened his mouth, several familiar corrections on the tip of his tongue, ‘He is not a ‘new’ god, He is the God…’ ‘He is not ‘my’ god, He is our God of all people…’ but in the moment, he hesitated, uncertain if it was even the speech he wanted to give this night. In the in between, she filled in.
“Do you really believe it all? Or were you drunk already. Because it sounded like a lot of nonsense to me, but I wasn’t sure if you were serious and you didn’t look yet like you’d taken too many sips of moon juice, but I thought to myself you know, it might be harder to tell with a foreigner. Your people especially, they have such dark and oddly shaped faces.”
Damissan stared. “I…ah…”
“Issiva.”
A titter of other voices followed, and Damis glanced up to the tree limb where his company’s friends awaited—some standing, others with their legs dangling. It was such an odd atmosphere he had difficulty adjusting to the ease with which they used the trees, as natural to them as walking paths in Oba.
“Do you want to see a real goddess?” Issiva challenged, and Damis blinked again, gaze flicking back down to her in surprise as her hip cocked and the corner of her lip twitched up. “You seem like a curious foreigner. If you’re going to wander about telling people what they ought to believe in, you should probably see the competition yourself first, don’t you think? Of course, you don’t have to, but if you’re quiet…” She shrugged, “…they probably won’t kick you out.”
“I…” Damis started, but already, she was turning and off, scampering across the forest floor and up the tree her friends shared. There were obvious notches in it, easy grips and handholds, and where there weren’t, support structures had been built around enough to facilitate climbing—but only enough to make a more feeble shifter comfortable, not an outsider, and, ‘I’m afraid of heights…’ lingered long unspoken at the back of his mind as he watched them move up.
And yet.
If you’re going to wander about telling people what they ought to believe in, you should probably see the competition yourself first, don’t you think?
He frowned. His eyes climbed the path they had, and despite his attempts to nudge it to the wayside—to remind himself that he ought to be sleeping, that there were things to be done come morning, that he couldn’t climb well, and that whatever the shifters prayed to and how was not his business—the words stuck. Because how could he make what he wanted them to believe into his business if he didn’t understand what he was trying to replace? And resisting curiosity had never been one of his greatest talents.
Carefully and with trepidation, Damissan moved to the tree they had climbed and started up, swallowing down his pulse as he went. Though they didn’t appear to look back — or at least, not in the few moments he dared to spend glancing their way instead of directly where he was going next — the cluster of shifter girls was easy enough to follow with his eyes and they didn’t move so far ahead that he lost track of the path they took up, despite going at a significantly slower pace himself. By the time they might have, their destination had become obvious enough that he could make the remaining way on his own, the path lit along the connecting bridges by a series of efflorescent lights like glowbugs, but stationary, as though someone had rubbed a glowing substance onto small stones.
Then, at the ‘top’ — though not as high as other sections, a break in the canopy was visible — a stretch of area between the trees from which a great, fastly secured net hung at all corners, braced by added wooden beams in certain sections and strapped like a broad hammock. It had been arranged in the middle of a parting in the overhead dense green so that now, in the midnight hour, undisturbed moonlight poured like rich, ethereal silver over the space, pooling on the inhabitants who sat within it—of which there was quite a gathering.
As he neared, he could make out a primary speaker near the center, dressed with enough ornate decor that Damis assumed she had substantial status in the tribe and weaving a tale to her listeners of Serin’s blessings. He dared not step out anywhere near to the actual net, his stomach rebelling at even the thought, but he did settle with his back to the nearest trunk, folding his arms and sticking to the shadows as he watched. And listened.
He couldn’t have said how long he stood there. At first, he had thought it would only be for a moment. Only long enough to assure himself that these were the primal teachings of, essentially, peaceful savages. That whatever she said would be rudimentary, brief, and easy enough to elaborate on and correct. But her words wound on. As minutes stretched into what might have been hours of a night sermon, she crafted a series of small tales wherein each tied into the next, and together, they enumerated not only portions of the shifter faith he certainly hadn’t ever read of in books, but also made reference to points in history from an angle he’d never heard before.
He found himself lingering until the final prayer, and only when each of the gathered participants joined in to tell their portion — small snippets of what blessings they were grateful for personalized by their life experience — did Damissan get the distinct feeling that he was, somehow, intruding where he didn’t belong. More of an outsider for simply listening in than he had been in the swell of the shifting crowd at their festival. Out of place because these were their stories, and he simply had no part in them.
Fear, though, inspired by a single glance to the bridges leading back down—so, so far down—held him rooted long enough for them all to finish, and he was still standing there, building his nerve to leave when they began filing out, thanking the speaker for her time before heading to the edges of the net. Some filed passed him. Others took different routes. He paid them little mind until one — an older, grizzled man with a bulk to him that suggested half strength and half an over-eager appetite — was all but atop him.
“It’s a bit far up…” The man’s rumbling voice jerked Damis out of his thoughts, drawing his gaze up to dark gray eyes—and a none-too-friendly expression, “…for a little dark sand man far from home who can’t fly…and doesn’t have friends about.”
For all of five seconds, Damis’ blood cooled under his skin and he would have sworn he could taste his pulse for how serious the man sounded. He wasn’t sure how in that moment he found his voice, but still the words came: “I mean no harm here…I apologize if I intrude—”
“You breathin’ here,” the man said, “with your red eyes and sand blood this high and close to the lady moon…is an intrusion.”
Damissan’s mouth opened, but this time, his tongue failed him, his body braced to hold as closely to the tree as he could physically manage and mind already scouring a list of terrible options of what he ought to do if the man made some move of aggression—
But he only sneered, shook his head, and scoffed before backing away. He spared a last stray glance at Damis when he reached the near bridge and after meeting his gaze, spat over the edge before turning and heading fully on his way. Damis lost track of how long it took before his pulse felt stable again in his chest, and the sky was beginning to lighten in the canopy by the time he made it back down to the forest floor. Even with the safety of solid earth beneath his feet, though, the night’s exchanges lingered heavy on his mind long into dawn.
Before even setting out, Damis had had his doubts. Natural, healthy doubts, but doubts just the same, and after tackling them then, it had seemed in retrospect like the obvious choice. He had been doing nothing with his life. A great many different things day to day, of course, but nothing that lasted. Nothing that truly benefited himself or his family and certainly nothing that had any benefit for anyone else, and pursuing something more than that—a grander purpose inspired by his own failures—had felt like a good cause. A noble one, even.
And yet.
He frowned, settling back in his tent and sifting through his belongings until he’d located parchment and the carefully boxed ink and quill stored with it.
Mother and Father,
The jungles of Jauhar are denser than Sulburi’s streets on market Sunday if all the peasants and merchants were five buildings high and overgrown with brush and moss. I breathe in and on some mornings feel that I am drinking. But the trees are indescribably beautiful, or I imagine they would be if I could see them more clearly in the constant dark. The sun does not reach the forest floor even in the height of day. It is as though I am walking in twilight and night shadow. The local forest fungi does sometimes cast a purple glow on the rock and trees.
I have also found that the landscape is full of fascinating insects. Xilarn and I had a rare opportunity to study some first hand shortly after arriving. Though it was a surprise, I think the experience of learning about their habits and habitat brought us closer. We also met his cousin. She is a beautiful and bright young woman. I think you would like her, Mother, though we did not stay for long.
In Neued we attended one of the local festivals. Though it was not as grand or loud as our procession back home, it was more than I expected from the local people. They are more civilized than I imagined, and watching the ease with which they travel between the trees inspires a fascination I am not certain I would ever tire of. It is nothing short of amazing.
Though my time away is counted in weeks now—
Damissan hesitated, quill hovering for a moment before he re-dipped it, eyeing the parchment, scanning what he’d written, and debating before continuing.
—I am inspired as ever. I do think, though, that I am learning lessons from the people. They have more to offer than I expected, and I feel humbled by the depths of their faith in gods I know little of. From this point forward, I am making it a goal of my own person to better understand the beliefs I am trying to replace before I suggest my own. Though I have faith God will guide me in this endeavor, it is as ever a more complicated path than I imagined for myself when I began. Perhaps that is for the best. It should fill my letters to you with a great many things in the days and weeks to come.
I think of you and miss home. As always, I hope that these words find you well. May God be with you both.
ȿincereℓy and Ӻorever Your ȿon,
Damissan Mataou
Were it a day outside of the jungle, it would have been bright when Damissan finished. As it was, he read over his words in the dim light of his own lantern, reviewing them until satisfied before blowing the ink gently and folding the sheet into a neat square to be tucked with the others that he would send next he had the opportunity to send missives. After storing it safely, he stepped back out into the morning air.
Even more than his first morning in Jauhar, Damissan missed the light of dawn, and the warmth of sun on his skin.
Word Count: 2,923
Quote: In Damissan's last growth solo, he forwent the temptation of sticking to his easy, cushioned life in order to pursue a higher and, in his view then, nobler purpose. Like he had 'saved' himself (or been saved) by his God, he was determined to share this break through with others. In the time in between, he has discovered that there are more difficulties to sharing his ideas than the internal ones created by his own personal vices and temptations. Outside forces, whether they be natural (deadly desert storms, giant insects) or human (angry villagers, racist town merchants) complicate matters further, and in this particular solo, all these past factors combine with the present experience to drive home another overarching complication: he is not speaking into a vacuum. He is not speaking to sheep. He is not even, as he once selfishly (though he didn't realize it) thought, speaking to 'dumb' savages. Though he knew on a surface level that the people he would be preaching to had religions of their own, this solo is meant to highlight and emphasize for Damissan that the people of other races and nations are not 'less civilized' empty slates ready to hear his word and abandon their lesser beliefs as soon as they hear his brilliant idea. It also, though, forces him to take pause at another chance to turn back and in this case, he chooses to drive forward. Though the road is not what he expected, he still feels he can do more good than harm and is determined not to let his own misconceptions deter him from his path entirely. |
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Posted: Mon Aug 29, 2016 5:15 pm
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Posted: Mon Sep 12, 2016 7:49 am
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Posted: Thu Sep 29, 2016 2:57 pm
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Posted: Thu Sep 29, 2016 5:24 pm
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Posted: Mon Oct 03, 2016 10:00 am
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Posted: Fri Oct 14, 2016 2:40 pm
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Posted: Fri Oct 14, 2016 6:29 pm
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Posted: Sat Oct 15, 2016 2:46 pm
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❂ I Wasn't Born To Fade ❂
On the eve of Damissan’s thirteenth name day, he was thinking of little else than that: who would be invited, what he wanted, where he wanted to go—and what all would and would not be on the menu.
“No fish,” he said, sitting still as one of his maids braided his hair and another, from the kitchens, took notes. “Nothing with too much sugar, but I want dessert, no fungus—no mushrooms, no seaweed, nothing with pakka or fennis or iira root, or anything else that grows in the ground or in the sea.”
The maid with ink and parchment paused in her scribbling. “Young master…” When his eyes moved to her, she hesitated. “You…do understand—”
“Only things that grow above the ground,” he said. “And meat. And spices from the eastern regions. I also want—”
A knock sounded at his door.
He swung his legs beneath his chair, but otherwise did not move. The second maid was already moving to answer it, the first finishing the current braid in progress. Without braids or other fasteners to tame it, his hair was a wild nest of red curls, deep and rich in color as his eyes but with a temperament all its own. It always had to be managed.
“Young master, it’s someone here to see you…”
When the hands at his hair dropped, Damissan took that as sign enough that he could move and did so, slipping down off his chair and striding to the door on legs which had just begun to sprout—and were growing at such a newly rapid rate it seemed every few weeks his pant hems had to be adjusted to fit.
The man outside his doorway would not have been able to cross the threshold standing straight without hitting his head. Lord Balhar Royce was the tallest man Damissan knew. Pureblood Oban and native of Kalv, he was first and foremost a diplomat, serving as a go-between in relations amongst Oba itself, its noble families, and the northern nations. He delighted in traveling, enlivened discussion, and debate. Youngest son of four, he had never married, and whenever he was in the area, he always found time to pay visits to the Mataou family. Today he stood just outside Damissan’s room with his thick hair pulled back, and when Damis appeared, his smile stretched into a grin that always managed to look mischievous on his features.
“Lord Royce,” Damissan said.
“You remember me,” the nobleman said. “Impressive. I think you’ve grown a full foot since I last saw you.”
“Father says I should always remember everyone’s names,” Damis said.
For a moment, he couldn’t read the man’s expression. Then, he was smiling again. “Well, that’s surprisingly reasonable advice, isn’t it? Do you follow it?”
Damissan nodded. “Father says—”
“I am sorry, but do you know where your mother is? I was hoping to speak with her before I made my way out.”
Damissan eyed him. “You don’t like Father, do you.”
Lord Royce blinked. “Now what ever would make you say that?”
“You only ever want to speak to Mother. And he doesn’t like you.”
“Doesn’t he?” The man was either stiff or amused, or both, but not troubled enough for Damis to pay it much heed. “Come, though, what about me is there not to like?”
“He says you don’t know half of everything you think you do. And that you talk too much.”
The man stared. Then, quick as a wink, he was laughing, an open, genuine sound that filled the hallway. When he finished, his eyes still shone with mirth as they met Damissan’s. “Well, I might at least say with confidence that he is not alone in that sentiment. But still incorrect as the rest of them.” Lord Royce did wink then. “I’ll have you know, I talk just the right amount. Now—”
“Will you bring me anything for my name day?”
The man stared. “For your…? You’re not another year older already are you?”
“I’m almost thirteen.”
“Well, gods above…no wonder you’re sprouting like a little red weed. But, that behind us, no. I trust you will have a room full of offerings, so much so you won’t know what to do with them all. Mine would be lost in the sea. Besides, your daddy brings in twice the coin I do. I find myself hard pressed to imagine anything I could add that you won’t already have three of.”
“A stone,” Damissan said.
“A stone.”
“From the farthest place you’ve ever been. Like the jungle. Or Zena.”
Lord Royce looked amused. “You realize I have never been to Jauhar. I don’t know what all they’ve taught you about the alkidike, but they are not extraordinarily fond of us easterners, you know. I don’t think I could be paid enough to cross that border.”
“You’ve been to Zena.”
“I have been to Zena.” The man tipped his head, and after a moment bent at the knees, dipping to a crouch and bringing him closer to eye level. “Have you ever seen an iceling?”
Damissan shook his head.
“They have blue skin, like the sky but frigid, and long, long pointed ears that look as though they might get caught on something all the time—long as your finger or longer—and bright, shifty yellow eyes. They think they’re on top of the world up there.”
“They sound ugly,” Damissan said. “And interesting. I want to go there.”
Lord Royce’s smile returned. “Maybe one day. Until then, why do you want a rock, mm? What would you do with it?”
“I’d keep it,” Damis answered immediately. “I’d put it in my room and if anyone ever asked why I had it I would tell them it’s because I told Lord Royce of Kalv that I wanted him to fetch me a stone from Zena for my nameday and he did it because I get what I want.”
“Because you get what you want.”
“Mother is in the library,” Damissan said. War had a wider variety of casualties than just the combatants and the people in their wake. When a city was razed or raided, what might be left in the aftermath could range from nothing to great troves of unguarded possessions or valuables. A city library, half burned to the ground had been scavenged in the aftermath of a military scuffle some week or two prior, resulting in multiple carriages of literature being funneled back into the capitol for preservation with no immediate room for placing them. His mother had been quick to volunteer their personal library as a ‘temporary’ home for many of the tomes. “They’re reorganizing and moving shelves about to make room. Another caravan of books came today and she wanted to supervise the servants to make sure things got to the right places.”
Lord Royce studied him for a moment before speaking. “You’re a spoiled little thing, I hope you know that.”
“I gave you what you wanted.”
“That you did,” Royce admitted. “Fortunately…” He stood again, straightening his posture and dusting his hands over himself, “I make my living arranging deals between adults, not children. I am thankful, though, for your help, little Lord Damissan. I hope you have a marvelous name day filled with all the presents you could hope for.”
As he moved to leave, Damissan watched his retreating back. The man had made it halfway down the hall before Damis called out. “Please?”
Lord Royce’s chuckle could be heard as he raised his hand in a parting wave, not so much as glancing back before turning the corner and stepping out of sight.
•••
Damissan adjusted his paperweight — a smooth black stone inlaid with deep, cobalt blue veins that looked almost akin to a snapshot of dark lightning trapped in the polished surface — and studied the words on the parchment before him. It would be some time yet before he would even have the opportunity to send word to his parents, but enough had transpired that it felt like time to begin again with a letter.
Word Count: 1,392 |
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Posted: Mon Oct 17, 2016 7:31 am
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❂ No One Cares ❂
[ About The Stories They’re Not In ]
Bahati Mataou gave her name to her husband when they wedded. Political reasons, personal reasons — all of them meshed together then, and neither she nor Ra’amand pretended that their engagement was anything but a wise business decision at the time. Fortunately, they got along well enough. He was intelligent, civil, and a painstaking strategist, if chilly and difficult to get near to. She thought him meticulous and impersonal at first, but they shared a desire for a legacy in the family name, necessitating intimacy that very gradually — after months and eventually years of sharing space as partners and navigating the landscape of their field as a team — became more genuine.
She had had a lover, initially, of whom Ra’amand was distantly aware—at least in the sense that he knew of the man’s existence and status prior to their matrimony. But after their ceremony, the man was less involved, present on certain occasions only because he was a political figure as well and a ‘friend’, which Ra’amand tolerated, begrudgingly, and with more reserve the more he grew attached to his wife.
In time, Ra’amand fell in love with her, and well after that, she with him. For years, they tried to conceive. Initial hopefulness became patient determination which gradually wore down into frustrated persistence. Potions, charms, scheduling, and sheer frequency bore no results and as Bahati edged ever closer towards an age where carrying might present a health risk, the couple fretted and sought the counsel of a wide swath of healers. Ra’amand concluded his wife was barren.
Bahati privately suspected otherwise.
Though the healers seemed unwilling to suggest as much to a nobleman’s face, Bahati drew her own conclusions and, after private debate on the costs and benefits of keeping him fully informed, eventually chose to move behind her husband’s back. Without Ra’amand’s knowledge, she approached her former lover with an offer. On the promise that he would be permitted to see the child, and her, with some degree of relative frequency should their efforts bear fruit, he consented to acting as an undisclosed surrogate.
Within a month, Bahati was with child. Never having ceased in her efforts to conceive with her own husband, Ra’amand suspected nothing, other than to consider it a delightful miracle, and after a seamless pregnancy and complication-free birth to a healthy infant boy, the couple had all that they wanted. If the child took more after his mother than his father, no one was any the wiser, and Bahati contented herself with her husband’s blissful ignorance. Damissan would grow healthy, and in time, their legacy would live on through him.
To the present day, Bahati was not wholly positive what inspired her husband’s inquiry into the matter, thirteen years after Damissan’s birth and well after she had put the issue to rest in her mind—but she had her suspicions.
“Is he mine?”
Bahati had been seated behind a great, polished mahogany desk on the third floor of their estate, settled near the window with evening light pouring in over the papers before her when her husband’s question came, following in the immediate aftermath of the door shutting sharply behind him. She took a moment, finishing what she had beneath her before glancing up. “Is who…?” Whether it be his tone only then sinking in, or the sight of his face and posture, Bahati’s attention focussed, and she set down her quill, moving to stand. “Ra’amand—”
“Damissan.”
She stilled midway up with her fingers perched at the desk’s edge. “Damissan? Has he been hurt? What—”
“Is he my son?”
In her moment’s hesitation, Ra’amand apparently found his answer. When his fingers fisted, however, Bahati’s shoulders squared. “I do not know what you are referring—”
“You know every bit what I am referring to, better than I—”
“I don’t know.”
Ra’amand took pause. “You don’t…” He blinked, evidently taking time to process. “You don’t know,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Bahati said. “I can’t be sure.”
“How—”
“Since our wedding night I have not ceased being a wife to you, Ra’amand, don’t play the fool. We tried. We failed for many years, but we continued to try. That did not stop during the period he was conceived, so it is entirely possible—”
“You laid with another man.”
“I thought you infertile.”
“You laid—”
“I did.”
“And you lied to me.”
“I never—”
“Thirteen years I thought I had a child—”
“You do have a child.”
Ra’amand turned. “Where is the boy?”
Quick as a breath, then, Bahati was around the corner of the desk, striding to and snatching up his arm before he could pull to the door. “Do not—”
“Unhand me.”
“He is a child, Ra’amand,” Bahati hissed. “A child, and your child—”
“He is not—”
“And you will not breathe a word to him of this.” Her words in that moment were steel, uncharacteristically and overtly fierce, if quiet. “He is young. Whatever wounds there be to your pride, he knows you and loves you as his father.”
“As I knew and loved him as a son,” Ra’amand said, his words cold and clipped. “Unfortunately. It would seem we were both equally mistaken.” He pulled from her grip. “And he is a fatherless b*****d—” Bahati’s palm cracked across his face, and not a moment later, his snatched her wrist, gripping and shoving hard enough that her body thudded to the wall under his. “Why him? Why did you never see fit to tell me? Have you continued for all these years to lay with—”
“No.” Bahati jerked under his grip, but did not dislodge either his body or his hands. “Then and only then, and he has not touched me again after. I chose him because I knew I could trust him—”
“To deceive me.”
“—to keep confidence,” Bahati snapped. “Your issues with him be as they may, but I have known Balhar since we were children. I knew I could trust him to do as I asked and desist afterward, and he was of a noble bloodline. I wanted a child, and you wanted a child, and you were happy not knowing. It gave us exactly what we wanted.”
“I wanted a child that was ours. How can I trust you.”
“I have never lied to you, Ra’amand.” She met his stare. “I only chose to omit the truth. But I am telling it to you now.”
“You are telling me late.” He gripped her chin, forcing it upward. “One day—when he is older, for your sake only—I will see to it that Damissan learns the truth. In the days between…” His opposite hand caught her hip, dragging it sharply in. “I want a son of my own.”
•••
Damissan’s hands hooked over the bark of a low hanging tree branch. There were certainly enough of them in Jauhar. Once stable with his weight suspended beneath him, he pulled, hoisting himself up to notch his chin over his gripping point and then back down—and up. The further he traveled from home and the longer he stayed gone, the more he became aware of just how much of his life, as defined by what had seemed to ‘matter’ at any given time, was shaped by the expectations of others. Even his behavior in rebellion.
What had seemed to matter at ten, thirteen, sixteen—whether it be meeting, exceeding, or defying the wants of his parents, relatives, peers, or social class as a whole—had always been bound in those terms. The good son. The forgotten son. The embarrassment. The stand in.
His muscles bunched, lifting him again until his breath skirted out as his chin hooked—and back down. He remembered the period of uncertainty in his role to play like an uncomfortable dream, not dark enough to be termed a ‘nightmare’ but murky and indistinct just the same, stretching over the period of years where his father had simply stopped. Stopped looking at him. Stopped speaking to him except in the most clipped, most minimalist terms. Stopped being there at any occasion where he could find opportunity not to be. And Damissan hadn’t understood as a child.
And then he had.
And to this day, Damissan couldn’t say which flavor he preferred. Waiting in ignorance or living with rejection. At least the latter armed him with knowledge to proceed forward on, but in the end, the more he tasted of freedom and distance, the more he found he liked that above all else.
Word Count: 1,462 |
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Posted: Tue Mar 28, 2017 8:40 am
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