M. C. A. Hogarth (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} haikujaguar) wrote,@ 2008-04-07 07:36:00 |
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| Entry tags: | ai-naidar, excerpts, the admonishments of kherishdar |
The Admonishments of Kherishdar: PASSION
PASSION
M.C.A. Hogarth
ama [ ah MAH ], (verb) — to long or yearn
It is an Ai-Naidari ideal to love all people equally as manifestations of the same spirit: "aimeth", we say, "oneness." Most Ai-Naidar spend their lives struggling to balance oneness and more singular loves, but I am fortunate: all fathrikedi—Decorations, living statues, bed-warmers—are chosen for this ability to love without jealousy; it is the measure of our beauty, how completely we give ourselves to aimeth. I was twice-blessed, for as a mute I understood implicitly how words can obfuscate the spirit. So exemplary was my practice of aimeth, my Regal made a gift of me to Thirukedi Himself.
But the moment I witnessed Shame's trial I was lost.
When Thirukedi sent for me I prostrated myself, head in His lap and the length of my spine exposed, hands tucked beneath my chest. He cupped my mouth and set the other hand between my shoulder-blades; so we abided.
Presently, He said, "The master of Decorations tells me you wish to serve Shame."
I nodded, resting my face along His wrist.
"He will have to know."
Again I nodded, but more slowly. I had been one of Thirukedi's instruments during the trial. It was one of the memories that lingered, sweat and steel and breath.
Gently, He said, "Passion is a hardship. Do you truly want this road?"
I closed my eyes. Nodded one final time.
The following week I was delivered to the shrine. I feared that Shame would avoid me, knowing my role in his ascension, but he folded me into his retinue without hesitation. His use of me was strictly ornamental—we rarely touched—but those hours he spent seated near me, refreshed by my beauty, were among the happiest of my life. When I was parted from him, my appetite failed... even the sunlight seemed dim.
It was an inevitability that he discovered me. He was Shame, trained to see such things, and in a weak moment I failed to mask my adoration quickly enough. He halted and the shock of his realization froze me trembling in place.
Please, I thought, please, don't send me away.
I assumed he would speak, but instead he caught my chin and answered as I would have been forced to: with his face, with regretful eyes.
It doesn't matter, I thought, resting my face in his hand. I know you don't love me. I would rather serve you in whatever way you will have me than be apart from you.
He eased his hand just low enough to allow the air to separate us. I thrust my cheek against his palm, closing my eyes. I'm sure. Honor my choice, please, please.
His thumb brushed my lower lip. I heard him sigh.
From then on, Shame observed an appropriate distance, never teasing me with false intimacy, leaving me to live with my choice, with the breathlessness of euphoria and despair. Sometimes I think of leaving, but never for long. How cruel yearning, and how false, for who can ever truly possess another? Oh God of Civilization, how true your words!
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The Admonishments of Kherishdar.
