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rainbowfic2013-07-23 02:29 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2013-07-23 02:29 pm
Adamant #1, Summertime Blues #5
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Adamant #1 (Aegis), Summertime Blues #5 (storm clouds on the horizon)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas
Word Count: 1,314
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: There is more to Jarol's assignment than he knows.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
For a year and a half Jarol studied mostly alone, his only contact with Dionos Mara and the rest of her committee just monthly progress reports detailing what he had learned about Vymeth.
He studied everything: the language, of course, but also the island’s history, its religion, the vagaries of its society, its economics. A list of goals, including suggested books, was included in his itinerary every month, and he met every one of them. If there was one thing Jarol knew how to do, it was research.
He even did extra reading, though there wasn’t much. Vymeth having been a complete mystery only two decades before, the libraries held only a handful of books about it, most of which were part of his assigned reading. The rest were essays and reports written specifically by and for the Vymeth committee, which he had to have special permission to obtain. It was given to him, of course. Whatever he thought he needed.
Such luxury and freedom was something he wasn’t used to. But he liked it.
He, to his disappointment, did not see Dionos Mara again after the night she made her initial offer. But he studied the business-like letters she sent him of his assignments, tracing her delicate handwriting, imagining there was something more behind her usual signature of “Regards, etc.,” and amusing himself with trying to suss out hidden messages in her perfunctory lists.
He told himself he knew it was all make believe, that it was ridiculous to think she might hold some affection for him. But after months of this correspondence, he wondered if maybe it could be real, and if it really was wrong to think that.
As the monthly lists of goals continued, though, they took an odd turn: all along Jarol had concerned himself with the Vymethian people and society, the things the delegation would need to know to talk to Vymethian politicians and live a Vymethian life without causing any embarrassing cultural incidents. But in the last few months before the trip, his goals began to concern things of a more martial nature. Vymeth’s armies, how large and how many, their strongholds and defenses. How many ships did they have and how many could be used for fighting. Type and number of weapons, did they have war conveyances such as chariots, what sort of armor, etc.
Jarol thought little of it--just part of learning a full picture of Vymeth--but then, a month before he departed, he was called into Dionos Mara’s office once again.
“Nilis-Angisini.” She nodded at him. Her hair had grown longer since the last time he had seen her, silky curls resting upon straight shoulders. Unlike last time, this meeting took place in daylight, with a high sun shining through the large windows in the back of Dionos Mara’s office. It illuminated her like she was one of the saints from the stories Jarol’s peers had whispered to each other when they were younger. She was wearing the red robe that marked her as a dionos of the Academy, and even that bulky thing seemed to fall perfectly from her curves.
She was waiting for him to respond. Clenching sweaty hands, Jarol returned the nod. “Dionos Mara.” And then, unthinkably, his sense of etiquette already far outpaced by his lovestruck foolishness, he added, “Please, call me Jarol.”
She frowned at him, and Jarol gulped back down the large lump that had jumped into his throat. As her inferior, it was not his place to suggest a more informal address. “I only meant.” He stopped and tried again. “My family name is a mouthful, wouldn’t you say?”
“No more so than other family names.” Her voice was curt, reminding him that he was not special, that his simpler student name had been stripped from him, leaving him in the same heap as every other common citizen of Spirathua. Not an ischikoth, never again.
Jarol’s face burned, and he hated himself for it. Never before had he blushed so often, yet he couldn’t seem to look at Dionos Mara without doing so.
“You are here,” she continued, Jarol’s slip in decorum forgotten, “so that you may learn your purpose once you are on Vymeth.”
He furrowed his brow. “My purpose? I understood I was to act as an expert in Vymethian language and culture for our diplomats to consult.”
“So you are,” said Dionos Mara. “And you will be expected to fulfill that role. But that, in truth, is merely your secondary duty. Your first is assessment.”
“Of?” But Jarol thought he already knew. His most recent study subjects came to mind: perhaps not just part of putting Vymeth into context.
Dionos Mara rolled her eyes. “I thought it would be obvious, for a man of your skills.” She leaned back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. “You will assess the military capabilities of the island, and report directly to the ambassador. Not to anyone else in the delegation, and certainly not to any Vymethian. This is secrecy of the highest order. It took me months to convince the Assembly to even trust you with it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Jarol slowly. Then he fell into silence, afraid to ask the obvious question and chastising himself for it. Never had he bothered to keep his mouth shut. But he had already offended Dionos Mara once today, and he could not stomach the thought of doing it again.
She sighed. “I can see you have a comment rattling around in your skull. Go on, speak freely this once.”
Grateful for the rescue (and loving her even more because of it), Jarol said, “Are we going to conquer Vymeth?” It had been a long time since the Ethilikens went to war, not since the whole continent had been brought under their rule. There had never been any other lands to conquer, not until Vymeth. Thinking of it that way, it made perfect sense, and Jarol couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before now.
She gave him a cold look. “We, as in including you, are not going to do anything. You are going to assess Vymeth. Then we, as in not including you, will examine that assessment. I hope that is clear. If not--” She shrugged. “You can be replaced.”
“I can keep a secret,” said Jarol, sorry he had asked anything at all. He couldn't lose this chance, he just couldn't.
“Remember,” she said, “give your reports to no one but the ambassador. Not his assistant, not his underlings, not any other diplomat or scholar. The ambassador only. He knows to expect regular reports, so you will be admitted to his presence upon request.”
Jarol couldn't help it; he flushed with pride.
“Now, I have other matters to attend to,” said Dionos Mara. Her attention was no longer on him, and he felt as if bereft of warmth and light. “You may leave.”
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Adamant #1 (Aegis), Summertime Blues #5 (storm clouds on the horizon)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas
Word Count: 1,314
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: There is more to Jarol's assignment than he knows.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
For a year and a half Jarol studied mostly alone, his only contact with Dionos Mara and the rest of her committee just monthly progress reports detailing what he had learned about Vymeth.
He studied everything: the language, of course, but also the island’s history, its religion, the vagaries of its society, its economics. A list of goals, including suggested books, was included in his itinerary every month, and he met every one of them. If there was one thing Jarol knew how to do, it was research.
He even did extra reading, though there wasn’t much. Vymeth having been a complete mystery only two decades before, the libraries held only a handful of books about it, most of which were part of his assigned reading. The rest were essays and reports written specifically by and for the Vymeth committee, which he had to have special permission to obtain. It was given to him, of course. Whatever he thought he needed.
Such luxury and freedom was something he wasn’t used to. But he liked it.
He, to his disappointment, did not see Dionos Mara again after the night she made her initial offer. But he studied the business-like letters she sent him of his assignments, tracing her delicate handwriting, imagining there was something more behind her usual signature of “Regards, etc.,” and amusing himself with trying to suss out hidden messages in her perfunctory lists.
He told himself he knew it was all make believe, that it was ridiculous to think she might hold some affection for him. But after months of this correspondence, he wondered if maybe it could be real, and if it really was wrong to think that.
As the monthly lists of goals continued, though, they took an odd turn: all along Jarol had concerned himself with the Vymethian people and society, the things the delegation would need to know to talk to Vymethian politicians and live a Vymethian life without causing any embarrassing cultural incidents. But in the last few months before the trip, his goals began to concern things of a more martial nature. Vymeth’s armies, how large and how many, their strongholds and defenses. How many ships did they have and how many could be used for fighting. Type and number of weapons, did they have war conveyances such as chariots, what sort of armor, etc.
Jarol thought little of it--just part of learning a full picture of Vymeth--but then, a month before he departed, he was called into Dionos Mara’s office once again.
“Nilis-Angisini.” She nodded at him. Her hair had grown longer since the last time he had seen her, silky curls resting upon straight shoulders. Unlike last time, this meeting took place in daylight, with a high sun shining through the large windows in the back of Dionos Mara’s office. It illuminated her like she was one of the saints from the stories Jarol’s peers had whispered to each other when they were younger. She was wearing the red robe that marked her as a dionos of the Academy, and even that bulky thing seemed to fall perfectly from her curves.
She was waiting for him to respond. Clenching sweaty hands, Jarol returned the nod. “Dionos Mara.” And then, unthinkably, his sense of etiquette already far outpaced by his lovestruck foolishness, he added, “Please, call me Jarol.”
She frowned at him, and Jarol gulped back down the large lump that had jumped into his throat. As her inferior, it was not his place to suggest a more informal address. “I only meant.” He stopped and tried again. “My family name is a mouthful, wouldn’t you say?”
“No more so than other family names.” Her voice was curt, reminding him that he was not special, that his simpler student name had been stripped from him, leaving him in the same heap as every other common citizen of Spirathua. Not an ischikoth, never again.
Jarol’s face burned, and he hated himself for it. Never before had he blushed so often, yet he couldn’t seem to look at Dionos Mara without doing so.
“You are here,” she continued, Jarol’s slip in decorum forgotten, “so that you may learn your purpose once you are on Vymeth.”
He furrowed his brow. “My purpose? I understood I was to act as an expert in Vymethian language and culture for our diplomats to consult.”
“So you are,” said Dionos Mara. “And you will be expected to fulfill that role. But that, in truth, is merely your secondary duty. Your first is assessment.”
“Of?” But Jarol thought he already knew. His most recent study subjects came to mind: perhaps not just part of putting Vymeth into context.
Dionos Mara rolled her eyes. “I thought it would be obvious, for a man of your skills.” She leaned back in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. “You will assess the military capabilities of the island, and report directly to the ambassador. Not to anyone else in the delegation, and certainly not to any Vymethian. This is secrecy of the highest order. It took me months to convince the Assembly to even trust you with it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Jarol slowly. Then he fell into silence, afraid to ask the obvious question and chastising himself for it. Never had he bothered to keep his mouth shut. But he had already offended Dionos Mara once today, and he could not stomach the thought of doing it again.
She sighed. “I can see you have a comment rattling around in your skull. Go on, speak freely this once.”
Grateful for the rescue (and loving her even more because of it), Jarol said, “Are we going to conquer Vymeth?” It had been a long time since the Ethilikens went to war, not since the whole continent had been brought under their rule. There had never been any other lands to conquer, not until Vymeth. Thinking of it that way, it made perfect sense, and Jarol couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before now.
She gave him a cold look. “We, as in including you, are not going to do anything. You are going to assess Vymeth. Then we, as in not including you, will examine that assessment. I hope that is clear. If not--” She shrugged. “You can be replaced.”
“I can keep a secret,” said Jarol, sorry he had asked anything at all. He couldn't lose this chance, he just couldn't.
“Remember,” she said, “give your reports to no one but the ambassador. Not his assistant, not his underlings, not any other diplomat or scholar. The ambassador only. He knows to expect regular reports, so you will be admitted to his presence upon request.”
Jarol couldn't help it; he flushed with pride.
“Now, I have other matters to attend to,” said Dionos Mara. Her attention was no longer on him, and he felt as if bereft of warmth and light. “You may leave.”
no subject
I just hope he doesn't get in overhead--at least Dionos Mara's up front with him about his expendability!
no subject
Thanks for reading!
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no subject
Thanks for reading!
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no subject
Jarol's not the only one they plan to send--a lot of the motivation in sending him is that they really are trying to get him out of the Academy.
Thanks for reading!