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rainbowfic2025-05-23 04:08 pm
paradoxcase) wrote in rainbowfic2025-05-23 04:08 pm
Ecru #4, Techelet #4 [The Fulcrum]
Name: A New Year
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Ecru #4: Talk, Techelet #4: Tashlich (casting off sins)
Styles and Supplies: Life Drawing, Gift Wrap, Panorama, Stain ("The follies which a man regrets most, in his life, are those which he didn't commit when he had the opportunity."), Novelty Bead ("petting", given here)
Word Count: 1634
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Setsiana, Sapfita, Qhoroali
In-Universe Date: Night of 1911.9.5.6; 1912.1.1.1
Summary: A new year arrives, and with it, a change of heart.
Setsiana’s rage persisted for maybe another week, but her mind was too agitated to come up with any kind of careful plan for escape. She jumped at a couple of opportunities, but she just wasn’t quick enough, or not strong enough to pull through, and in the close scuffles it was difficult to withdraw the knife from her pocket. After a week, her anger cooled to hopeless frustration, and from there it sunk into the enduring depths of black despair. She cried in her room, and read the last bits of her romance novel to try to cheer herself up, but she was no longer invested in the story. Sometimes it made her think briefly of her time with Yeimicha, but that seemed so far away from her now, like it had been another novel that she had read once, and set aside, and never returned to.
She felt sure that she could have escaped, if only she could feel less terrible. She knew that if she could find a way to lift her spirits she would succeed, and her continued failure to do so made her yet more depressed. Her despair was like a weight tied around her neck, pulling her down and making everything she did difficult and exhausting. She began sleeping in later and later in the day, until she was regularly rising after Qhoroali did, and eventually she was spending more of her time asleep than awake. Qhoroali seemed concerned and made active attempts to cheer her up, which just made everything worse.
She did not have any dreams of Sapfita during this time; the last one had been from before they had taken the train. She wondered if she had missed her chance to escape, and thus had left the timeline in which she could still communicate with Sapfita, and with every passing day this possibility seemed more and more likely, until at last, she found herself in another dream.
She was lying down, as if in a bed, and Sapfita knelt next to her, combing her fingers through Setsiana’s hair. “Don’t despair,” she said. “This dark part of your life is over, tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what day tomorrow is?”
Setsiana had no idea. She’d lost the count of the days when she’d lost the proper rhythm of waking and sleeping. She simply shook her head.
“It’s the new year,” said Sapfita. “Tonight is the last night of 1911. Tomorrow there will be a new ray of hope.”
“How?” asked Setsiana, dully. She’d given up hope that anything in her situation could possibly change, and the new year was ultimately just another day like the one before it.
“You’ll see when you wake up,” Sapfita said. “Take heart, eat some persimmon cakes, light some candles, and plant a flower. Everything will change tomorrow.”
Setsiana lacked the energy to respond, so she simply lay there in the dream, and let Sapfita stroke her hair.
She awoke to the sight of the late afternoon sun coming through the small window, and forced herself out of bed with great effort. As Sapfita had mentioned in the dream, there was a plate of persimmon cakes on the small table. They were a New Years’ treat; round, for the cycle of the year, dusted with sugar for an omen of sweetness for the future, and filled with persimmon jam to celebrate the gifts of the winter that was ending. She went to the table and ate one, mainly because Sapfita had told her to; the sugar slightly revived her spirits and she felt a little better. Next to the plate of cakes was a note in handwritten QuCheanya that said simply: “Candles and flowers in the living room.”
She dressed herself, but after brief consideration, did not braid her hair; it often seemed like too much effort, these days. She took the plate of cakes with her when she left the room, and began to eat a second one as she walked.
In the living room, Qhoroali had shuttered the large window most of the way, leaving the room dusky. She sat at the desk, as always, today with a New Years’ mirror facing her, the already-lit candles on the far side of it lighting her face in alternating flickers of light. She seemed pensive, but looked up as Setsiana entered the room, and then gestured to one of the wings of the desk, where another mirror had been set up and a chair pulled up to face it.
“I’m surprised you celebrate,” Setsiana said.
“There’s nothing wrong with these traditions,” said Qhoroali. “I don’t hate religion, I don’t even hate Sapfita, it’s just a practical matter that she needs to be killed. I like this holiday a lot, actually, it’s about reflecting on yourself and striving to be better.”
Setsiana sat at the chair and put the plate of persimmon cakes on the desk. There was the mirror, the eight small candle holders surrounding the face, the eight little tea lights lined up on the desk, the lamp to light them off of, the pot of soil, the young seedling wrapped in a damp towel, and the cup of water. The tea lights were tiny; designed to burn themselves out in under an hour, so Qhoroali must not have lit hers too long ago. Burning them out was the point — eight candles, for eight regrets, eight sins of the past year, that you burned to ash on the first day of the next.
The first candle was easy to light; that was for her very stupid decision to go with Qhoroali. The second one was also for going with Qhoroali, for good measure. The third was for whatever she’d done to hurt Yeimicha. Could you burn a candle for something you didn’t understand? She decided that she didn’t care, and added a fourth candle for that sin, as well. A fifth was for a time when she’d been rude to Priestess Fyäccheira. A sixth for the argument she’d had with her mother earlier than year. The seventh was for her inability to escape during the last excursion. She hesitated on the eighth, and then eventually decided that it could join the first two in representing her decision to go with Qhoroali.
She gazed at the fully-lit mirror for a moment. It wasn’t as simple as just burning a candle, of course. You also had to go and talk to anyone who you had wronged with these actions and do your best to make it right, before before the regret could really be erased. Would she ever see Yeimicha, or Priestess Fyäccheira, or her mother, ever again? Would she ever really be able to make it right?
She turned to the pot of soil, and the flower seedling. What did she want this New Years’ flower to become? What hopes did she have for the coming year?
There was only one thing, really. She made a hole in the soil with her fingers, and planted the seedling so that its small roots were buried as deep as she could get them, patted the soil flat, and watered it from the cup. “I want to go home,” she said, out loud where Qhoroali could hear it.
“That’s fair,” said Qhoroali, softly. “I’ve been thinking… I don’t feel right about kidnapping you. And I know you hate me for that, I hate that.”
“Oh? Because you think I won’t help you kill Sapfita when I hate you? I wouldn’t help you do that if I loved you.”
“No. Because I feel like I know you. I feel like I’ve met you before, under better circumstances, and we were friends.”
“You mean when I supposedly told you to kidnap me?”
“No, I mean before that, a long time ago. And ever since I saw you for the second time, much later, I think I’ve always wanted you to like me, or at least to not hate me. Wherever I saw you the first time, it gave me the feeling that there was meant to be some connection between us, and I feel like I’ve been looking to the future, waiting and hoping for that to happen, ever since. And when you told me I should come get you, I just assumed that was going to be how it happened.”
“I’d never seen you before in my life, before you kidnapped me.”
“I believe you. When you live a life like this, you get used to everything happening in the wrong order. Anyway, I just wanted to say, I regret kidnapping you. I lit three candles for that regret. Tomorrow I’m going to take you back to 1647 and make it right.”
“Really?” Setsiana couldn’t muster up a proper reaction to that, to being told that she was really going to be freed. She couldn’t quite believe it was real. There must be some catch, surely.
“Yeah, really. Bring your nurefye, we’ll go right back to where and when I took you, no one will know the difference.” After a moment, she added, “If you want, you can take the book I made out of your papers with you. I’ve already read them all, so I don’t really need it anymore. You can use it when you write them later.”
Setsiana shook her head. “If I do that, they won’t really be my work, and my life would be a lie. You can keep them.” She allowed herself, cautiously, to think about what going back would mean. She had grading to do; she had a paper to finish, that was close to completion. Maybe she could find a way to repair things with Yeimicha, or get into a better standing with Priestess Fyäccheira. The future seemed to open up with possibilities before her.
Story: The Fulcrum
Colors: Ecru #4: Talk, Techelet #4: Tashlich (casting off sins)
Styles and Supplies: Life Drawing, Gift Wrap, Panorama, Stain ("The follies which a man regrets most, in his life, are those which he didn't commit when he had the opportunity."), Novelty Bead ("petting", given here)
Word Count: 1634
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Characters: Setsiana, Sapfita, Qhoroali
In-Universe Date: Night of 1911.9.5.6; 1912.1.1.1
Summary: A new year arrives, and with it, a change of heart.
Setsiana’s rage persisted for maybe another week, but her mind was too agitated to come up with any kind of careful plan for escape. She jumped at a couple of opportunities, but she just wasn’t quick enough, or not strong enough to pull through, and in the close scuffles it was difficult to withdraw the knife from her pocket. After a week, her anger cooled to hopeless frustration, and from there it sunk into the enduring depths of black despair. She cried in her room, and read the last bits of her romance novel to try to cheer herself up, but she was no longer invested in the story. Sometimes it made her think briefly of her time with Yeimicha, but that seemed so far away from her now, like it had been another novel that she had read once, and set aside, and never returned to.
She felt sure that she could have escaped, if only she could feel less terrible. She knew that if she could find a way to lift her spirits she would succeed, and her continued failure to do so made her yet more depressed. Her despair was like a weight tied around her neck, pulling her down and making everything she did difficult and exhausting. She began sleeping in later and later in the day, until she was regularly rising after Qhoroali did, and eventually she was spending more of her time asleep than awake. Qhoroali seemed concerned and made active attempts to cheer her up, which just made everything worse.
She did not have any dreams of Sapfita during this time; the last one had been from before they had taken the train. She wondered if she had missed her chance to escape, and thus had left the timeline in which she could still communicate with Sapfita, and with every passing day this possibility seemed more and more likely, until at last, she found herself in another dream.
She was lying down, as if in a bed, and Sapfita knelt next to her, combing her fingers through Setsiana’s hair. “Don’t despair,” she said. “This dark part of your life is over, tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what day tomorrow is?”
Setsiana had no idea. She’d lost the count of the days when she’d lost the proper rhythm of waking and sleeping. She simply shook her head.
“It’s the new year,” said Sapfita. “Tonight is the last night of 1911. Tomorrow there will be a new ray of hope.”
“How?” asked Setsiana, dully. She’d given up hope that anything in her situation could possibly change, and the new year was ultimately just another day like the one before it.
“You’ll see when you wake up,” Sapfita said. “Take heart, eat some persimmon cakes, light some candles, and plant a flower. Everything will change tomorrow.”
Setsiana lacked the energy to respond, so she simply lay there in the dream, and let Sapfita stroke her hair.
She awoke to the sight of the late afternoon sun coming through the small window, and forced herself out of bed with great effort. As Sapfita had mentioned in the dream, there was a plate of persimmon cakes on the small table. They were a New Years’ treat; round, for the cycle of the year, dusted with sugar for an omen of sweetness for the future, and filled with persimmon jam to celebrate the gifts of the winter that was ending. She went to the table and ate one, mainly because Sapfita had told her to; the sugar slightly revived her spirits and she felt a little better. Next to the plate of cakes was a note in handwritten QuCheanya that said simply: “Candles and flowers in the living room.”
She dressed herself, but after brief consideration, did not braid her hair; it often seemed like too much effort, these days. She took the plate of cakes with her when she left the room, and began to eat a second one as she walked.
In the living room, Qhoroali had shuttered the large window most of the way, leaving the room dusky. She sat at the desk, as always, today with a New Years’ mirror facing her, the already-lit candles on the far side of it lighting her face in alternating flickers of light. She seemed pensive, but looked up as Setsiana entered the room, and then gestured to one of the wings of the desk, where another mirror had been set up and a chair pulled up to face it.
“I’m surprised you celebrate,” Setsiana said.
“There’s nothing wrong with these traditions,” said Qhoroali. “I don’t hate religion, I don’t even hate Sapfita, it’s just a practical matter that she needs to be killed. I like this holiday a lot, actually, it’s about reflecting on yourself and striving to be better.”
Setsiana sat at the chair and put the plate of persimmon cakes on the desk. There was the mirror, the eight small candle holders surrounding the face, the eight little tea lights lined up on the desk, the lamp to light them off of, the pot of soil, the young seedling wrapped in a damp towel, and the cup of water. The tea lights were tiny; designed to burn themselves out in under an hour, so Qhoroali must not have lit hers too long ago. Burning them out was the point — eight candles, for eight regrets, eight sins of the past year, that you burned to ash on the first day of the next.
The first candle was easy to light; that was for her very stupid decision to go with Qhoroali. The second one was also for going with Qhoroali, for good measure. The third was for whatever she’d done to hurt Yeimicha. Could you burn a candle for something you didn’t understand? She decided that she didn’t care, and added a fourth candle for that sin, as well. A fifth was for a time when she’d been rude to Priestess Fyäccheira. A sixth for the argument she’d had with her mother earlier than year. The seventh was for her inability to escape during the last excursion. She hesitated on the eighth, and then eventually decided that it could join the first two in representing her decision to go with Qhoroali.
She gazed at the fully-lit mirror for a moment. It wasn’t as simple as just burning a candle, of course. You also had to go and talk to anyone who you had wronged with these actions and do your best to make it right, before before the regret could really be erased. Would she ever see Yeimicha, or Priestess Fyäccheira, or her mother, ever again? Would she ever really be able to make it right?
She turned to the pot of soil, and the flower seedling. What did she want this New Years’ flower to become? What hopes did she have for the coming year?
There was only one thing, really. She made a hole in the soil with her fingers, and planted the seedling so that its small roots were buried as deep as she could get them, patted the soil flat, and watered it from the cup. “I want to go home,” she said, out loud where Qhoroali could hear it.
“That’s fair,” said Qhoroali, softly. “I’ve been thinking… I don’t feel right about kidnapping you. And I know you hate me for that, I hate that.”
“Oh? Because you think I won’t help you kill Sapfita when I hate you? I wouldn’t help you do that if I loved you.”
“No. Because I feel like I know you. I feel like I’ve met you before, under better circumstances, and we were friends.”
“You mean when I supposedly told you to kidnap me?”
“No, I mean before that, a long time ago. And ever since I saw you for the second time, much later, I think I’ve always wanted you to like me, or at least to not hate me. Wherever I saw you the first time, it gave me the feeling that there was meant to be some connection between us, and I feel like I’ve been looking to the future, waiting and hoping for that to happen, ever since. And when you told me I should come get you, I just assumed that was going to be how it happened.”
“I’d never seen you before in my life, before you kidnapped me.”
“I believe you. When you live a life like this, you get used to everything happening in the wrong order. Anyway, I just wanted to say, I regret kidnapping you. I lit three candles for that regret. Tomorrow I’m going to take you back to 1647 and make it right.”
“Really?” Setsiana couldn’t muster up a proper reaction to that, to being told that she was really going to be freed. She couldn’t quite believe it was real. There must be some catch, surely.
“Yeah, really. Bring your nurefye, we’ll go right back to where and when I took you, no one will know the difference.” After a moment, she added, “If you want, you can take the book I made out of your papers with you. I’ve already read them all, so I don’t really need it anymore. You can use it when you write them later.”
Setsiana shook her head. “If I do that, they won’t really be my work, and my life would be a lie. You can keep them.” She allowed herself, cautiously, to think about what going back would mean. She had grading to do; she had a paper to finish, that was close to completion. Maybe she could find a way to repair things with Yeimicha, or get into a better standing with Priestess Fyäccheira. The future seemed to open up with possibilities before her.