Post by mistrali on Aug 1, 2020 22:14:05 GMT 10
Title: Rituals
Rating: G
Summary: Cleaning her shrine always makes Polyam feel better.
Warnings: Some discussion of ableism/discrimination against Polyam. Same level as in canon.
Author’s Notes: A continuation from my other fic. Many thanks to Gale from the Discord server for their suggestions for items for Polyam’s shrine. ‘Polished, round-cut’ means cabochon, but I’m guessing Polyam doesn’t know/Emelan doesn’t have that word. The descriptions for uniforms are taken from Janissaries’ uniforms.
*****
Tenth Caravan Idaram, en route to The Realms of the Sun, the sixth day of Blood Moon, 1036 KF
After her disorienting supper with the daka, Polyam went, as she did every Firesday, to fill her small brass vessel at the stream. Although some used mimander-purified water set aside for the purpose, Polyam preferred fresh. The ritual of cleaning her shrine always made her feel more at peace, more grounded, and she liked to do it properly.
The walk and the solitude cleared her head; by the time she reached her wagon, her eyes no longer threatened to spill over. Besides, weeping like a child over things that couldn’t be changed did no good.
She ran careful fingers over the shrine’s polished mahogany surface, now whitened and scratched a little with nineteen years’ travel. Mother had given it to her as a fifth birthday present; she’d picked it out from a carpenter’s shop in Lairan, together with a shipment of other, custom-made goods. Polyam had added treasures to it, over the years, things she’d been gifted or had bought.
Each of these objects had to be cleaned with a soft cloth. First came the bracelet of polished, round-cut Olarten rose quartz she’d received at her Tsaw’ha ceremony, then a deep blue bowl painted with a motif of white octopi, a purchase from Tharios. Inside the bowl were six cowrie-shell hairpins and a bronze cloak pin with an inlaid citrine. Next was her wooden figurine of the Hataran soldier, dressed in full autumn-brown frock-coat and the distinctive, tall cap worn by the king’s guard, with a yellow dot of paint to signify a jewel and a turmeric-coloured feather for the long, dangling tail of silk.
The brass god-statues were the most important, so she saved them for last. As she washed them and set them back on their plinth, they looked back at her, their faces as impassive as ever.
“People like Pravunni,” Polyam told them wearily, “march in and think they can fix things.” At least all the others had made no secret of their dislike for her. Once wirok, always wirok. It was unsettling when people shifted allegiances: they tried to make your bitter tea taste sweet.
Is that so bad? asked an inner voice. It sounded like the same one that had questioned the Tsaw’ha’s dismissal of lugsha, back in Gold Ridge. Isn’t it better than being scorned? A little change won’t hurt them, surely, any more than it’s hurt you.
After all, a Trader’s life, like the weights of Koma’s scales or the balance of Oti’s logbooks, was all change, as the gods had decreed. Weather was in flux, trade goods cycled from season to season, even routes varied slightly. It was the strict hierarchies of Trader society and tradition that kept the wheels turning. But if the gods themselves changed those traditions, where did that leave her?
Rating: G
Summary: Cleaning her shrine always makes Polyam feel better.
Warnings: Some discussion of ableism/discrimination against Polyam. Same level as in canon.
Author’s Notes: A continuation from my other fic. Many thanks to Gale from the Discord server for their suggestions for items for Polyam’s shrine. ‘Polished, round-cut’ means cabochon, but I’m guessing Polyam doesn’t know/Emelan doesn’t have that word. The descriptions for uniforms are taken from Janissaries’ uniforms.
*****
Tenth Caravan Idaram, en route to The Realms of the Sun, the sixth day of Blood Moon, 1036 KF
After her disorienting supper with the daka, Polyam went, as she did every Firesday, to fill her small brass vessel at the stream. Although some used mimander-purified water set aside for the purpose, Polyam preferred fresh. The ritual of cleaning her shrine always made her feel more at peace, more grounded, and she liked to do it properly.
The walk and the solitude cleared her head; by the time she reached her wagon, her eyes no longer threatened to spill over. Besides, weeping like a child over things that couldn’t be changed did no good.
She ran careful fingers over the shrine’s polished mahogany surface, now whitened and scratched a little with nineteen years’ travel. Mother had given it to her as a fifth birthday present; she’d picked it out from a carpenter’s shop in Lairan, together with a shipment of other, custom-made goods. Polyam had added treasures to it, over the years, things she’d been gifted or had bought.
Each of these objects had to be cleaned with a soft cloth. First came the bracelet of polished, round-cut Olarten rose quartz she’d received at her Tsaw’ha ceremony, then a deep blue bowl painted with a motif of white octopi, a purchase from Tharios. Inside the bowl were six cowrie-shell hairpins and a bronze cloak pin with an inlaid citrine. Next was her wooden figurine of the Hataran soldier, dressed in full autumn-brown frock-coat and the distinctive, tall cap worn by the king’s guard, with a yellow dot of paint to signify a jewel and a turmeric-coloured feather for the long, dangling tail of silk.
The brass god-statues were the most important, so she saved them for last. As she washed them and set them back on their plinth, they looked back at her, their faces as impassive as ever.
“People like Pravunni,” Polyam told them wearily, “march in and think they can fix things.” At least all the others had made no secret of their dislike for her. Once wirok, always wirok. It was unsettling when people shifted allegiances: they tried to make your bitter tea taste sweet.
Is that so bad? asked an inner voice. It sounded like the same one that had questioned the Tsaw’ha’s dismissal of lugsha, back in Gold Ridge. Isn’t it better than being scorned? A little change won’t hurt them, surely, any more than it’s hurt you.
After all, a Trader’s life, like the weights of Koma’s scales or the balance of Oti’s logbooks, was all change, as the gods had decreed. Weather was in flux, trade goods cycled from season to season, even routes varied slightly. It was the strict hierarchies of Trader society and tradition that kept the wheels turning. But if the gods themselves changed those traditions, where did that leave her?