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rainbowfic2024-12-11 09:07 pm
paradoxcase) wrote in rainbowfic2024-12-11 09:07 pm
Dogwood Rose #10, Nacarat #6 [The Fulcrum]
Name: Garden of Regrets
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Dogwood Rose #10: blue: the unattainable, Nacarat #6: Shlimazl (Yiddish): A chronically unlucky person
Styles and Supplies: Photography
Word Count: 1085
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Setsiana
In-Universe Date: 1647.6.2.1
Summary: Setsiana reflects.
The rest of the evening passed in a daze of unreality. Setsiana stopped by the dining hall and decided to get her dinner in a carry-out bowl; as the curly-haired servant girl went to get it, she looked out across the room, at the juniors having an early dinner and a few townspeople who had come by for a meal that they otherwise could not afford. The servant returned; idly, she tried to remember if she’d seen the girl around town or in school, but she didn’t think she had. The temple must hire some of its servants from the more rural farming communities to the north whose children would not wind up in Setsiana’s class, after all. She took the food numbly and carried it to her dorm.
There was not much in the way of furniture in the juniors’ dorms: a writing desk, of course, a bed, a chair, a small dresser. She’d always found the bed acceptable in the past, but recent events had caused her to consider that it might be a bit too small for some activities. For better or worse, that didn’t seem like it would be a continued problem in the future. A lamp sat unlit in a sconce on the wall; she’d have to light it from the communal hearth at some point before the sun set, but she didn’t feel like it right now.
Setsiana had placed a line of flowers in pots on her windowsill, next to the desk. They were New Years’ flowers - the flower you planted on the New Year as a symbol of what the coming year held for you. The flower was chosen randomly from a collection of nearly-identical seedlings; supposedly the random choice put you into a new timeline and the flower corresponded to what would happen to you in that timeline. It didn’t really work that way, but Setsiana enjoyed the process of watching her flower bloom every year and wondering and hoping about what it would turn out to be.
Disconsolately, she picked up the watering can next to the pots and mentally went back through four years of New Years’ flowers, whispering their QuCheanya names as she did so. For her first New Year as a junior priestess, in 1644, there was syire, several tall stems with thinly clustered small pink flowers growing along them, for Friendship. She’d been so hopeful that year, of making new friends among the other juniors; she had made a few, in fact, but the year hadn’t quite lived up to her expectations. Then, for 1645, it was tyaipo, a brilliant yellow flower framed by curling leaves, for Learning, and that one had come true, she’d learned a lot in her second year. In 1646 it was yuqqhe, a ball of red flowers gathered at the end of the stem, for Challenge, although really, almost all four years had been a challenge, if she was being honest. And on the first day of spring at the start of this year, 1647, she’d planted a pfeli, a purple flower with rounded petals that signified the beginning of something new. She’d wondered how to interpret it; at first she wondered if it might mean she’d actually publish and get her second braid, then she wondered if it was for her relationship with Yeimicha, although for that she would have preferred a chonea, the pitcher-shaped blue flower that meant True Love. But now, there were only three and a half months left in the year and both of those possibilities seemed dead in the water. Maybe something else new would happen in the remaining time, but she was beginning to doubt it.
Flowers watered, she sat down at the desk to eat, mechanically and without tasting. She cast her eyes over the piles of papers, some of them her 10-year-olds’ assignments, and some of them her own work, and thought vaguely that there had been something she’d planned to work on tonight, but she couldn’t remember what it was anymore. It was probably the grading, she decided, but that could wait for tomorrow. She didn’t much feel like doing any more work at the moment. She put the bowl aside; she’d take that back to the dining hall tomorrow, too.
She put on a nightdress and shoved her bed back up against the wall from where it had been moved the previous evening, and sat on it, cross-legged, with her back to the wall. She closed her eyes, stilled her breathing, and counted down from ten, tried to achieve some semblance of meditation. Normally it was easy for her, but tonight it came only with effort. She resisted the urge to think about what Yeimicha had said, since it would only make her more upset. Maybe they’d have a better conversation tomorrow, and sort out whatever terrible miscommunication had happened. Maybe she’d say the right thing to convince her she was wrong. But how could she, when she didn’t know what had happened to make Yeimicha think that in the first place? How could she fix or apologize for or explain something she didn’t know about? That had come completely out of nowhere, it didn’t make sense—
Setsiana opened her eyes. It wasn’t working tonight. She had to stop thinking.
She wondered if qoire would make it easier. She’d often thought that with its connection to dreams and similar states of consciousness it would be an aid to meditation, and she’d wondered if it could give her a waking dream of sorts, a state where she could speak with Sapfita while she was still wide awake. But she’d never been allowed to experiment; qoire was off-limits to all but the full priestesses, and there was no chance of her getting a special exception. Someday she’d achieve the third braid and then she was going to write a paper about the utility of qoire for meditation, but she had to get there first.
Eventually she was able to calm her mind and still her thoughts for a while, imagining what it would be like to hear Sapfita’s voice in the back of her head, just out of reach, in this state. She lay on the bed for a time, watching the sun set outside the window that was open to let in the mild autumn breezes; the time to light the lamp came and went, and when it was finally fully dark, she undid her braid and rolled under the covers for a very early night.
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Dogwood Rose #10: blue: the unattainable, Nacarat #6: Shlimazl (Yiddish): A chronically unlucky person
Styles and Supplies: Photography
Word Count: 1085
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Setsiana
In-Universe Date: 1647.6.2.1
Summary: Setsiana reflects.
The rest of the evening passed in a daze of unreality. Setsiana stopped by the dining hall and decided to get her dinner in a carry-out bowl; as the curly-haired servant girl went to get it, she looked out across the room, at the juniors having an early dinner and a few townspeople who had come by for a meal that they otherwise could not afford. The servant returned; idly, she tried to remember if she’d seen the girl around town or in school, but she didn’t think she had. The temple must hire some of its servants from the more rural farming communities to the north whose children would not wind up in Setsiana’s class, after all. She took the food numbly and carried it to her dorm.
There was not much in the way of furniture in the juniors’ dorms: a writing desk, of course, a bed, a chair, a small dresser. She’d always found the bed acceptable in the past, but recent events had caused her to consider that it might be a bit too small for some activities. For better or worse, that didn’t seem like it would be a continued problem in the future. A lamp sat unlit in a sconce on the wall; she’d have to light it from the communal hearth at some point before the sun set, but she didn’t feel like it right now.
Setsiana had placed a line of flowers in pots on her windowsill, next to the desk. They were New Years’ flowers - the flower you planted on the New Year as a symbol of what the coming year held for you. The flower was chosen randomly from a collection of nearly-identical seedlings; supposedly the random choice put you into a new timeline and the flower corresponded to what would happen to you in that timeline. It didn’t really work that way, but Setsiana enjoyed the process of watching her flower bloom every year and wondering and hoping about what it would turn out to be.
Disconsolately, she picked up the watering can next to the pots and mentally went back through four years of New Years’ flowers, whispering their QuCheanya names as she did so. For her first New Year as a junior priestess, in 1644, there was syire, several tall stems with thinly clustered small pink flowers growing along them, for Friendship. She’d been so hopeful that year, of making new friends among the other juniors; she had made a few, in fact, but the year hadn’t quite lived up to her expectations. Then, for 1645, it was tyaipo, a brilliant yellow flower framed by curling leaves, for Learning, and that one had come true, she’d learned a lot in her second year. In 1646 it was yuqqhe, a ball of red flowers gathered at the end of the stem, for Challenge, although really, almost all four years had been a challenge, if she was being honest. And on the first day of spring at the start of this year, 1647, she’d planted a pfeli, a purple flower with rounded petals that signified the beginning of something new. She’d wondered how to interpret it; at first she wondered if it might mean she’d actually publish and get her second braid, then she wondered if it was for her relationship with Yeimicha, although for that she would have preferred a chonea, the pitcher-shaped blue flower that meant True Love. But now, there were only three and a half months left in the year and both of those possibilities seemed dead in the water. Maybe something else new would happen in the remaining time, but she was beginning to doubt it.
Flowers watered, she sat down at the desk to eat, mechanically and without tasting. She cast her eyes over the piles of papers, some of them her 10-year-olds’ assignments, and some of them her own work, and thought vaguely that there had been something she’d planned to work on tonight, but she couldn’t remember what it was anymore. It was probably the grading, she decided, but that could wait for tomorrow. She didn’t much feel like doing any more work at the moment. She put the bowl aside; she’d take that back to the dining hall tomorrow, too.
She put on a nightdress and shoved her bed back up against the wall from where it had been moved the previous evening, and sat on it, cross-legged, with her back to the wall. She closed her eyes, stilled her breathing, and counted down from ten, tried to achieve some semblance of meditation. Normally it was easy for her, but tonight it came only with effort. She resisted the urge to think about what Yeimicha had said, since it would only make her more upset. Maybe they’d have a better conversation tomorrow, and sort out whatever terrible miscommunication had happened. Maybe she’d say the right thing to convince her she was wrong. But how could she, when she didn’t know what had happened to make Yeimicha think that in the first place? How could she fix or apologize for or explain something she didn’t know about? That had come completely out of nowhere, it didn’t make sense—
Setsiana opened her eyes. It wasn’t working tonight. She had to stop thinking.
She wondered if qoire would make it easier. She’d often thought that with its connection to dreams and similar states of consciousness it would be an aid to meditation, and she’d wondered if it could give her a waking dream of sorts, a state where she could speak with Sapfita while she was still wide awake. But she’d never been allowed to experiment; qoire was off-limits to all but the full priestesses, and there was no chance of her getting a special exception. Someday she’d achieve the third braid and then she was going to write a paper about the utility of qoire for meditation, but she had to get there first.
Eventually she was able to calm her mind and still her thoughts for a while, imagining what it would be like to hear Sapfita’s voice in the back of her head, just out of reach, in this state. She lay on the bed for a time, watching the sun set outside the window that was open to let in the mild autumn breezes; the time to light the lamp came and went, and when it was finally fully dark, she undid her braid and rolled under the covers for a very early night.
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no subject
Thank you!
no subject
I love this! What a clever idea!
no subject
Thanks! There will be more details about how the new year is celebrated at the end of Part 1, actually.
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Thank you!