Lady Diya d'Zefyst (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eugengineer) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
forbarrayar2017-02-22 12:53 pm
eugengineer) wrote in forbarrayar2017-02-22 12:53 pm
Entry tags:
[ she can't see the landscape anymore ]
Who: Diya d'Zefyst
What: Diya receives some unexpected correspondence from the Star Crèche -- from the Handmaiden herself.
When: February 26th
Where: Diya's quarters
Warnings: egregious poetry and perfume, sad gay???
All communications to the base are received through Intelligence first, reviewed and decrypted by analysts, checks against interception or tampering. But communiques from the Star Crèche bypass Intelligence entirely, both parallel and above ghem security protocols. The haut are cryptic even among other Cetagandans.
The message is delivered to Lady Diya's comconsole, the accompanying letter hand-delivered by one of her lab techs. It isn't surprising that the seal on the letter is the screaming bird insignia of the Star Crèche. There's no difference in the textual content of the two messages, but they are hardly the same. The message on her comconsole is rigid, without subtlety save for words, and for haut, even words still say too much and too little all at once.
Lady d'Zefyst, the message begins, and Diya's doesn't flinch, but a muscle jumps in her jaw. Lady d'Zefyst. She would have thought that by now, five years later, she would grow used to her new title. But she has no desire to.
Lady d'Zefyst, swaying in your Snowdrop Palace,
Our Celestial Lady, the brightest star in Degtiar, admires your work
She smiles upon your devotion, as does the sun on blossoms with upturned faces.
She sees in you a tender of gardens,
And in the coming of spring the stars will see the fruits of your labor swell as the two-moon tide of the turquoise seas.
But the snowdrop bears only its morning dew;
The tree under which it once took umbrage alone can bear its weight.
The cutting is bitter parting
Yet the heart of the Celestial Garden knows that its roots continue to grow
A colony unto itself.
The autumn dusk came early for the morning glory,
And it raised its head not for the coming sun
But now faces the earth to which it is bound
And cannot have seen the first falling leaf
That danced to the water to meet its image.
The flowers of the Celestial Garden shall pass no winter,
And spring shall emerge from autumn's fall
To meet the snowdrop before its freeze.
Handmaiden of the Star Crèche
Haut Sei Navarr
Diya realizes she's gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled, and relaxes her breath, letting out a thin, slow breath through her nose. She reads the message again, and again, as though trying to burn a permanent afterimage behind her eyelids.
She knew. She knew the moment her eyes passed over the words swaying in her Snowdrop Palace that had to be Sei. No one else could have chosen those words, that style, those careful references weaved into every line. Sweet turns of phrase made bitter, no rosewater to wash it away. No one else could have struck her a blow so deeply.
The envelope containing the same message lays next to her hand, the seal of the Star Crèche pressed in iridescent wax. She picks it up with slightly shaking hands and runs it under her nose, just once, breathing in deep. A rich, complex blend. Sei never did anything simply.
Diya gently runs her thumb under the lip of the envelope. The wax seal comes away easily, intact, sliding to the tabletop. Hand-delivery was the only acceptable option on base, of course, but she knows at a touch that the envelope is made of natural materials, a soft, creamy brown flecked with fibers. The gentle rustle as she pulls the paper from the envelope tells her that it, too, is naturally made – hand-pressed, bleached white but with watered swirls of the faintest green. The calligraphy, too, is Sei's own hand, done in the style of courtly poets who write of lovers whispering in the dark. Diya would recognize it anywhere. However official a correspondence it may be, there is nothing impersonal about this letter.
She runs a finger down the length of the paper, blocking out all else but the texture against her skin. No ghem could use this paper. When was the last time she had seen paper like this? And the ink – it glistens still, as though it were still wet, crisp, unbled. It carries the scent well.
She lifts the letter to her face again, inhaling deeply the fragrance this time, teasing them out. Her heart is poised to leap for just a fleeting moment when she catches a primary note of cinnamon – no. No cinnamon for warmth; nutmeg. A meeting on the horizon, blended with forsythia for anticipation. The corner of Diya's mouth pulls down, biting down hard on her lower lip. How gauche a choice, to restate the obvious – or perhaps Sei knew that Diya would be anticipating, hoping for a hint of cinnamon in her perfume. Diya's eyes begin to sting.
She recognizes the soft scent of bay beneath the nutmeg. Ah, yes. Glory to the Empire – glory to the Star Crèche – but what glory do those in the Snowdrop Palace bask in? Entwined with the bay is the sweet fragrance of rosemary, and it takes conscious effort not to crinkle the paper in her hands, her grip is so tight.
The last scent is almost insultingly easy to pick out. Lavender is so very distinctive, especially laid against rosemary like this. Grace and serenity. Does Sei think her a fool? Does she think that in these five short years, Diya could possibly have forgotten the nuances of their art, that she could have lost all her self-possession? She bites her lips together, her breath shaky. Nutmeg for a rendezvous. Rosemary for remembrance. Bay for glory and ambition. Lavender for grace...
She narrows her eyes, reads the letter again. Lavender mixed with bay. Is it Sei who has lost something – her trust in Diya? There is no serenity here. Only mistrust.
She reads the letter for a fifth time. The cutting is bitter parting... The Handmaiden of the Star Crèche, who serves none but their Celestial Lady, here? Why would the Dowager Empress send the Handmaiden away from Eta Ceta, from the heart of the Star Crèche? Diya has to set the letter down before she crushes it in her hands, smoothing it instead over the tabletop with shaking hands. She knew that word of the exotics would have reached the Star Crèche by now; she sent it herself, in a letter anointed in fennel and basil and carnation and a hint of peony. She had thought the Dowager Empress would take pride in her accomplishments, in putting not just Cetaganda, but the Ninth Satrapy itself on the cutting edge. Instead, it seems, her Celestial Lady has decided that Diya simply isn't up to the task. That this opportunity is so tremendous – and Diya knows that it is – that it cannot be left in the hands of the mere haut wife. That it must be overseen by the Handmaiden herself. Diya suddenly finds it difficult to swallow. She had not foreseen that her own accomplishments would outstrip her so mercilessly.
The perfume still wafts up from the letter, teasing at Diya's nose, and for a moment she's seized with the urge to burn it, to see how it smells as the fire eats it all up, envelope and all. To burn it as thoroughly as Sei had burned every bridge she could set a torch to. But instead she reaches out a trembling hand to carefully fold it as she had opened it and place it back in its envelope as tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
What: Diya receives some unexpected correspondence from the Star Crèche -- from the Handmaiden herself.
When: February 26th
Where: Diya's quarters
Warnings: egregious poetry and perfume, sad gay???
All communications to the base are received through Intelligence first, reviewed and decrypted by analysts, checks against interception or tampering. But communiques from the Star Crèche bypass Intelligence entirely, both parallel and above ghem security protocols. The haut are cryptic even among other Cetagandans.
The message is delivered to Lady Diya's comconsole, the accompanying letter hand-delivered by one of her lab techs. It isn't surprising that the seal on the letter is the screaming bird insignia of the Star Crèche. There's no difference in the textual content of the two messages, but they are hardly the same. The message on her comconsole is rigid, without subtlety save for words, and for haut, even words still say too much and too little all at once.
Lady d'Zefyst, the message begins, and Diya's doesn't flinch, but a muscle jumps in her jaw. Lady d'Zefyst. She would have thought that by now, five years later, she would grow used to her new title. But she has no desire to.
Lady d'Zefyst, swaying in your Snowdrop Palace,
Our Celestial Lady, the brightest star in Degtiar, admires your work
She smiles upon your devotion, as does the sun on blossoms with upturned faces.
She sees in you a tender of gardens,
And in the coming of spring the stars will see the fruits of your labor swell as the two-moon tide of the turquoise seas.
But the snowdrop bears only its morning dew;
The tree under which it once took umbrage alone can bear its weight.
The cutting is bitter parting
Yet the heart of the Celestial Garden knows that its roots continue to grow
A colony unto itself.
The autumn dusk came early for the morning glory,
And it raised its head not for the coming sun
But now faces the earth to which it is bound
And cannot have seen the first falling leaf
That danced to the water to meet its image.
The flowers of the Celestial Garden shall pass no winter,
And spring shall emerge from autumn's fall
To meet the snowdrop before its freeze.
Handmaiden of the Star Crèche
Haut Sei Navarr
Diya realizes she's gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled, and relaxes her breath, letting out a thin, slow breath through her nose. She reads the message again, and again, as though trying to burn a permanent afterimage behind her eyelids.
She knew. She knew the moment her eyes passed over the words swaying in her Snowdrop Palace that had to be Sei. No one else could have chosen those words, that style, those careful references weaved into every line. Sweet turns of phrase made bitter, no rosewater to wash it away. No one else could have struck her a blow so deeply.
The envelope containing the same message lays next to her hand, the seal of the Star Crèche pressed in iridescent wax. She picks it up with slightly shaking hands and runs it under her nose, just once, breathing in deep. A rich, complex blend. Sei never did anything simply.
Diya gently runs her thumb under the lip of the envelope. The wax seal comes away easily, intact, sliding to the tabletop. Hand-delivery was the only acceptable option on base, of course, but she knows at a touch that the envelope is made of natural materials, a soft, creamy brown flecked with fibers. The gentle rustle as she pulls the paper from the envelope tells her that it, too, is naturally made – hand-pressed, bleached white but with watered swirls of the faintest green. The calligraphy, too, is Sei's own hand, done in the style of courtly poets who write of lovers whispering in the dark. Diya would recognize it anywhere. However official a correspondence it may be, there is nothing impersonal about this letter.
She runs a finger down the length of the paper, blocking out all else but the texture against her skin. No ghem could use this paper. When was the last time she had seen paper like this? And the ink – it glistens still, as though it were still wet, crisp, unbled. It carries the scent well.
She lifts the letter to her face again, inhaling deeply the fragrance this time, teasing them out. Her heart is poised to leap for just a fleeting moment when she catches a primary note of cinnamon – no. No cinnamon for warmth; nutmeg. A meeting on the horizon, blended with forsythia for anticipation. The corner of Diya's mouth pulls down, biting down hard on her lower lip. How gauche a choice, to restate the obvious – or perhaps Sei knew that Diya would be anticipating, hoping for a hint of cinnamon in her perfume. Diya's eyes begin to sting.
She recognizes the soft scent of bay beneath the nutmeg. Ah, yes. Glory to the Empire – glory to the Star Crèche – but what glory do those in the Snowdrop Palace bask in? Entwined with the bay is the sweet fragrance of rosemary, and it takes conscious effort not to crinkle the paper in her hands, her grip is so tight.
The last scent is almost insultingly easy to pick out. Lavender is so very distinctive, especially laid against rosemary like this. Grace and serenity. Does Sei think her a fool? Does she think that in these five short years, Diya could possibly have forgotten the nuances of their art, that she could have lost all her self-possession? She bites her lips together, her breath shaky. Nutmeg for a rendezvous. Rosemary for remembrance. Bay for glory and ambition. Lavender for grace...
She narrows her eyes, reads the letter again. Lavender mixed with bay. Is it Sei who has lost something – her trust in Diya? There is no serenity here. Only mistrust.
She reads the letter for a fifth time. The cutting is bitter parting... The Handmaiden of the Star Crèche, who serves none but their Celestial Lady, here? Why would the Dowager Empress send the Handmaiden away from Eta Ceta, from the heart of the Star Crèche? Diya has to set the letter down before she crushes it in her hands, smoothing it instead over the tabletop with shaking hands. She knew that word of the exotics would have reached the Star Crèche by now; she sent it herself, in a letter anointed in fennel and basil and carnation and a hint of peony. She had thought the Dowager Empress would take pride in her accomplishments, in putting not just Cetaganda, but the Ninth Satrapy itself on the cutting edge. Instead, it seems, her Celestial Lady has decided that Diya simply isn't up to the task. That this opportunity is so tremendous – and Diya knows that it is – that it cannot be left in the hands of the mere haut wife. That it must be overseen by the Handmaiden herself. Diya suddenly finds it difficult to swallow. She had not foreseen that her own accomplishments would outstrip her so mercilessly.
The perfume still wafts up from the letter, teasing at Diya's nose, and for a moment she's seized with the urge to burn it, to see how it smells as the fire eats it all up, envelope and all. To burn it as thoroughly as Sei had burned every bridge she could set a torch to. But instead she reaches out a trembling hand to carefully fold it as she had opened it and place it back in its envelope as tears begin to roll down her cheeks.