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i think i might be sinking.
Sep. 9th, 2013 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smithereenssomeone told me there's a girl out there
with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair
standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,
telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems
.
“Are you never going to tell her?”
Damiyr narrows his eyes at Shahzadeh over the rim of his mug; to his chagrin, the woman’s grin only widens as Tabazin and Barzayn try not to look too interested in the proceedings, gazes averted and meekly sipping their individual mugs even though he can feel the raptness of their attention on him. They’re too consummately professional to ask the question of him themselves, but that doesn’t stop them from listening in if someone else asks it, someone who has no such qualms.
He glances over at Cleo, sitting some distance away with Arim, wholly focused on their conversation. She smiles and laughs at something that Arim’s said, and Damiyr pulls his gaze away quickly before she notices his stare.
Luckily, Shahzadeh shows uncharacteristic discretion by asking in Nerahati; Cleo might be learning their language, but she is still far away from being able to follow everyday conversation.
“Tell her what?” he says, just to be obtuse.
Shahzadeh rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t see the things that are obvious to the People--your colors, the respect we show to you. She really has no idea.”
“I didn’t expect her to have an idea, Shahzadeh.” His tone is clipped without him quite intending it, but rather than dissuading her, her eyebrows lift in faint surprise.
“You don’t want her to know.” It’s not specifically a question.
It’s also not something he can find an easy answer to. He’s met very few people who don’t immediately recognize his status, unless he goes out of his way to hide it, for one reason or another; the vast majority of people who don’t are foreigners unfamiliar with the ways of his people, the colors, clothing styles, and hallah that herald a Nerahati’s place in their society. She traced with her fingers the damn hallah that marked him as brother to a Shaharin prince and never suspected a thing!
There’s freedom in that. There’s freedom that he’s longed for his entire life, even if it comes by way of a small lie of omission to a person whose feelings he never thought he would consider when he, typically, ignored the inconvenient fact of his princehood.
He didn’t think it was important. He never thought it was important, though his society tended to disagree with him.
“I don’t see how it makes a difference whether she knows or not,” he says finally, testily. He feels pressed back on his heels in spite of his justifications, and it’s not making him feel charitable.
“She calls you by your given name, without honorifics. Like a wife,” Tabazin puts in, almost anxiously. To Tabazin, who loves the inside of the boundaries set by her rules, the implied insult of his name without affectations must chafe at her, each and every time. Only her respect for him has kept her from saying anything before now, he suspects.
She makes quite a pair with Shahzadeh, who doesn’t care much for rules unless they suit her.
“When we find her father, she’ll return with him to Elyium, and it won’t matter at all what she calls me,” he says, frowning around the rim of his mug as if it’s the wine that tastes bitter, and not the future. “There’s little point in doing anything about it now.”
They each look doubtful in their own way, Barzayn with his brows knit, Tabazin with her lips pursed; Shahzadeh looks like she wants to say more, her mouth quirked, but she shifts in her seat and seems to think better of it. Of all people, she knows the limits of his patience, given how often she’s tested them.
“Well, it’ll be quite shocking for her if she does find out,” Barzayn says with his customary good humor, barking out a laugh.
“Yes, quite shocking,” Shahzadeh says wryly, but Damiyr chooses to ignore it and that’s the last they speak of it for quite a while.
with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair
standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,
telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems
.
“Are you never going to tell her?”
Damiyr narrows his eyes at Shahzadeh over the rim of his mug; to his chagrin, the woman’s grin only widens as Tabazin and Barzayn try not to look too interested in the proceedings, gazes averted and meekly sipping their individual mugs even though he can feel the raptness of their attention on him. They’re too consummately professional to ask the question of him themselves, but that doesn’t stop them from listening in if someone else asks it, someone who has no such qualms.
He glances over at Cleo, sitting some distance away with Arim, wholly focused on their conversation. She smiles and laughs at something that Arim’s said, and Damiyr pulls his gaze away quickly before she notices his stare.
Luckily, Shahzadeh shows uncharacteristic discretion by asking in Nerahati; Cleo might be learning their language, but she is still far away from being able to follow everyday conversation.
“Tell her what?” he says, just to be obtuse.
Shahzadeh rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t see the things that are obvious to the People--your colors, the respect we show to you. She really has no idea.”
“I didn’t expect her to have an idea, Shahzadeh.” His tone is clipped without him quite intending it, but rather than dissuading her, her eyebrows lift in faint surprise.
“You don’t want her to know.” It’s not specifically a question.
It’s also not something he can find an easy answer to. He’s met very few people who don’t immediately recognize his status, unless he goes out of his way to hide it, for one reason or another; the vast majority of people who don’t are foreigners unfamiliar with the ways of his people, the colors, clothing styles, and hallah that herald a Nerahati’s place in their society. She traced with her fingers the damn hallah that marked him as brother to a Shaharin prince and never suspected a thing!
There’s freedom in that. There’s freedom that he’s longed for his entire life, even if it comes by way of a small lie of omission to a person whose feelings he never thought he would consider when he, typically, ignored the inconvenient fact of his princehood.
He didn’t think it was important. He never thought it was important, though his society tended to disagree with him.
“I don’t see how it makes a difference whether she knows or not,” he says finally, testily. He feels pressed back on his heels in spite of his justifications, and it’s not making him feel charitable.
“She calls you by your given name, without honorifics. Like a wife,” Tabazin puts in, almost anxiously. To Tabazin, who loves the inside of the boundaries set by her rules, the implied insult of his name without affectations must chafe at her, each and every time. Only her respect for him has kept her from saying anything before now, he suspects.
She makes quite a pair with Shahzadeh, who doesn’t care much for rules unless they suit her.
“When we find her father, she’ll return with him to Elyium, and it won’t matter at all what she calls me,” he says, frowning around the rim of his mug as if it’s the wine that tastes bitter, and not the future. “There’s little point in doing anything about it now.”
They each look doubtful in their own way, Barzayn with his brows knit, Tabazin with her lips pursed; Shahzadeh looks like she wants to say more, her mouth quirked, but she shifts in her seat and seems to think better of it. Of all people, she knows the limits of his patience, given how often she’s tested them.
“Well, it’ll be quite shocking for her if she does find out,” Barzayn says with his customary good humor, barking out a laugh.
“Yes, quite shocking,” Shahzadeh says wryly, but Damiyr chooses to ignore it and that’s the last they speak of it for quite a while.
