[P] there is no sugar in the promised land

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות


"I heard the incessant dissolving of silk— / I felt my heart growing so old in real time. / Her heart must be ash where her body lies burned.    / What hope lets your hands rake the cold in real time? / Now Friend, the Belovèd has stolen your words— / Read slowly: The plot will unfold in real time."

Save for the desert blooms braided into my hair – a shock of pastel pink against the ink-black and brown, more unsightly than I would like to admit (but sweetly-scented) -, I have not bothered to prepare for the party at all.

(The flowers themselves only came with some insistence. In the winter, the blooms that are common in summer and spring are considerably more expensive. I thought that they would better-suit my sisters the moment that I saw them, but they had already been prepared – and I felt some small, prickling desire for recognition as an Ieshan, or a noble at least. I had hoped that they would be yellow, which would, at least, be tolerable, but they came out as pink as the sunrise blush; and, even as he braided them into my mane, Ishak had struggled to keep a straight face, and admitted, in the end, that they did not suit me at all.)

I have very little interest in my brother’s parties, illustrious and exciting though they may be. I lack my siblings’ sociability; I know that I am better now at interacting with others than I was as a girl, but I still catch myself forgetting to react to things, to smile when a smile is expected and to force a demure laugh at someone’s attempt at humor, amusing or otherwise. I am grateful, I suppose, that certain social cues are formulaic, but they make me innately aware of all the ways that this world is not built for me. I wish, quite often, that I didn’t possess any desire to adhere to them; I wish that I could finally abandon my futile search for normalcy. I know I won’t, though. Not until I can make myself content with being half-filled.

I don’t like the parties because they are so full of obligations. I doubt that Pilate cares about my attendance; I love my brother, but we have never been close. (And I still remember the way that he – that all of my brothers – teased me relentlessly, when I was a girl. It was Miriam who protected me from them. I don’t think I’ve ever made it up to her.) I love my brother, but I am not sure that we share much more than our family name. If I spent the evening in my room, nose buried in a textbook or sorting through my herbs, I doubt he would even bother to be offended.

But I am sure that Ishak will attend, if only to pry, and I do feel some quiet need to assert myself as an Ieshan. (I have no desire to wane further than I have already.) Besides. There is some, small part of me that longs for my family to act like a family, if only for an evening.

It is another one of those futile things that I hope for. Another obsession with normalcy. I have a feeling that, if my siblings could ever get along, they would no longer be themselves.

The halls are swarmed with servants, busily preparing for the party. The noise is headache-inducing, so I slip outside and into the courtyard, which is no less busy but has the benefit of being outdoors. It is still sickly hot – winters are only cold at night, in the desert -, but I barely notice; I spend most afternoons in the hospital, which is stuffier and hotter by far. I recognize a few of the faces among the servants worriedly attempting to arrange the decorations, largely from Ishak’s anecdotes. If I were them, I’d be worried too. Pilate takes considerable pride in his ability to throw a party, and I am not sure that I want to know how he would react to any failure to meet his (exceptionally high) standards.

I consider them briefly, but it is the figure of Hagar, who seems to be working away at…something…that catches my eye. I have never spoken to Hagar as much as Miriam, but I feel like I have seen less of her than usual lately. I have seen less of all of my siblings lately.

I pause, for a moment, at the edge of the courtyard, and then, possessed by some desire I can’t quite put to words, I stride up to her, eyeing her current project. “Hagar?” I incline my head at her, a moment too late to seem entirely natural; I have to remind myself of what curiosity looks like. “What are you working on?”

I suspect that it is for the party. I have never asked Hagar what she thinks of them, but I suspect that she enjoys them – and, even if she doesn’t, she is Pilate’s twin, so I am sure that she will take part regardless.

I am not sure that I am actually curious – but I am one of the hosts, whether I like it or not, and I’m sure that it would be form to be out of the loop entirely.

---

@Hagar || pre-party thread? || agha shahid ali, ghazal

[Hagar]

HAGAR IESHAN

i must learn to be content
with being happier than i deserve

O

n the day of the party, I am radiant: red as the setting sun and gold as the risen one, waltzing from room to room with vases full of primrose and snowberry branches that I take out of the servants' hands with a wink and set in their places. Some of them smile--most of these are forced in a way that they never quite are with my siblings; it is no small feat to secure a job with out family and I think than often my attempts at grace come across more as an insult to their profession than an act of kindness--but more of them incline their heads and reach back into their baskets, where there seems to always be more cupped primrose, more small but plump snowberries with no end.

Yesterday I saw Adonai, carefully watching our hall of statues, I think choosing the best of the best of them to stand at the front. Sometimes I think of him and it doesn't seem real. Sometimes I look at him, like now, as I cross from the main hall through the door to the courtyard and he is just behind me--still thinking, still staring--that he is still not so different than he was.

This is a lie, of course. Nothing could be more different. We are a fractured family. I think we always have been. I think I was the only one who did not see right away.

I am carrying silk the same shimmering wine as my robe to the corner of the courtyard when Ruth finds me. Hagar, she says, what are you working on? I have always liked our brothers best-- women are complicated and messy and often hard to talk to, even if they are your kind of women, even if they are your family--but I have always liked Ruth the best. Ruth does not ask me hard questions about who I am. Ruth does not challenge me to be any better than I am capable of being.

Ruth sees me and knows, I think, that I am trying. We are trying. It does not matter that neither of us would say this out loud, to each other. We are trying.

I smile at her, holding one square of neatly folded fabric out to her. "Carrying these over there," I answer, already walking toward the abstract shape of a booth made out of the same bony white trees that Pilate brought in to hang baubles and lights from. I don't stop to see if she takes the fabric or if I'm still holding it when I arrive-- I am too busy giving my work an appraising look. "I figured we could use a party game. Somehow, Pilate agreed truth or dare would be fun."

I give her a sidelong glance, smiling conspiratorially.

"And you're...?"

@Ruth

[Ruth]

☼  RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN  ☼
רות


"I heard the incessant dissolving of silk— / I felt my heart growing so old in real time. / Her heart must be ash where her body lies burned.    / What hope lets your hands rake the cold in real time? / Now Friend, the Belovèd has stolen your words— / Read slowly: The plot will unfold in real time."

Hagar smiles at me, gentle-sweet, and she extends some of that precious silk she is working with. I take the fabric and follow her towards the cobbled-together booth that she is setting up in a particularly secluded part of the courtyard, my eyes trained on her as we walk. She informs me that she is setting up a game of truth or dare for the party tonight, with Pilate’s approval.

(It sounds like them.)

“Ah,” I say. “I’m sure he’s right.” That is not strictly true or false. It seems like the sort of party game that guests would enjoy, particularly with alcohol in their systems – but it is the host who makes me wonder about how well this will go over for the participants. I’m not sure that it will be fun for the people involved. Hagar has always had a way of getting what she wants – I’m not sure how, but I have my suspicions. (But I don’t like trouble, so, like all of my suspicions about all of my siblings, I never put words to them, never give them more substance than a lingering doubt in the back of my mind; I turn my head, and I look away. I live my life by keeping my eyes closed.)

She asks me what I am doing, then.

“On lunch, technically,” I say, with a faint - very faint – shrug of my shoulders, “but I’m supposed to take the rest of the day off for the party.” Which means I have plenty of work left to do, technically. Solterran parties are always at least a bit of a mess, and no amount of careful planning on Pilate’s part can prevent that. There’s almost sure to be a few cases of alcohol poisoning, and, at any Solterran event, I can’t rule out the possibility of a case or two of the more ordinary variety of poisoning. At least a few foreigners will be struggling from some form or another of heat-sickness, and someone will have an undiagnosed allergy to something that we’re serving at the buffet, and someone will certainly stumble while dancing and injure themselves in the process, which is liable to turn into a bloodbath if we have any carnivorous attendees. Arguably, my stint this morning was less work than this evening might be, particularly since I am sure I’ll have to try to look the part of a proper Ieshan as well; at least all of the patients were in one place.

Still. Beyond making sure that I have a first-aid kit in my room (and I always have a first-aid kit in my room), there is not much I can do to prepare for the party, and idling puts my teeth on edge. I don’t like many things – but I like the gratification that comes from being useful. I suspect it is why I enjoy my job, in spite of its long hours and gory work. “Would you like some help?” Technically, I am already helping her; but further instructions would be useful.

(Besides. Hagar is the artist of the family – I don’t have one-half of her vision.)

---

@Hagar || <3 || agha shahid ali, ghazal

[Hagar]

HAGAR IESHAN

i must learn to be content
with being happier than I deserve

I

don’t understand her. I can't imagine what possesses a person to do what she does, and as often. I am tired just considering it.

I can tell Ruth is worrying, as much as Ruth can. There is a sort of thoughtful droop to her face that I recognize as one of her few actual expressions. It would look like nothing if I made that face: sharp eyes unfocused, a mouth that just barely draws down in the corners, ears that tilt back like she’s thinking. The only reason it looks like anything at all on the face of my sister is because we are so used to seeing her look like a doll, beautiful in her own way but rendered in hard porcelain. Sometimes the light moves around her face and the shadows make it look different but the face itself never changes at all.

I ask what she’s doing, sweetly as I can, as we breeze past servants slicing oranges into halves, musicians carrying their instruments in black leather cases through the halls toward the individual stages set up, flush against the walls. She answers with a shrug: on lunch, technically, but I’m supposed to take the rest of the day off for the party.

I’m ashamed to admit that I almost laugh at her, trying to imagine a conversation in which either Ruth walks up to her supervisors (men, I imagine, in long, dark coats, pushing carts full of herbs and salves– and always very serious, of course. This is the lynch pin of the aesthetic.) and mumbling something or other about the party.

Minimizing it, I’m sure. Whatever gives them room to say no.

Funnier still is the idea that they sent her home without her even asking. “Then take the day off, Ruth. It won’t kill you to have fun, I promise.” I smile again, wider now, but it feels hollow and hurts my cheeks.

“Do you even want to go to the party?” I ask, perhaps more solemnly than I meant to, and certainly more solemnly than I thought I was capable. I blink at her, and turn back to the booth.

It is just ugly bones, at the moment, clean but not freshly cut wood, bleached just a little with age. When I look at it I imagine something spectacular in its place: a fortune teller’s tent, maybe, with layers of fabric to keep out the cold, dry night air and gold cords hanging from every possible impractical place. In reality it is quite boxy, or at least more than I want. The angles are off but not too off, just enough that I see it.

I am almost sure it, like Ruth’s face, would go unnoticed by most until it is seen next to its perfect angles. I pull a bolt of fabric out of her grasp, unwinding it as I hold it up and tack it in place to see.

Ruth asks if I’d like help. I take a few steps back to stand next to her, looking again at the booth. “What? No, that’s alright. What do you think of it?” I don’t like to think I sound as unsure as I do. I like to think that I ask her with the same sort of poise and elegance that I employ as I dig through a wicker basket for scissors.

I open them twice in my hand, listening as they shing closed, and start cutting scalloped edges into each length of chiffon. “I could use the company, though. Tell me how your day was.”

@Ruth