Author's Note: Lustrum is a joke referring to the use of the word as both a five-year mark and an old Roman purification ceremony. The choice of words relates to the use of praetor as a rank in New Yevon as well as within the Roman Republic.
The air hits me like a mother's palm when I step outside to winter. Brisk, it whistles down the Lustrates walkways and navigates the high collar of my robe before nipping inside to roost. Poor taste on its part. I hate the yellow stain of the plant dyes used for these formal affairs; even while I walk, my fingers tug relentlessly at the fibers as if they could rip them away so easily and be done.
Yellow and ichor-green. Cuffs overlong to encumber one's hands and lacings that require ten minutes work if you so much as think about trying to embark on bodily functions. Waistlines that cause one to imitate a giant tube, like so much carpet rolled up and bid to march.
Yevon might change its name, but can they not alter their means of humiliating trainees?
The morning is early. Only a few guards participate in walking the watch-heights, their machina slung on their shoulders so that they can cup their hands to their mouths and warm them. Even the birds prefer to sleep rather than brave the dawn, ducking their heads beneath their fluffed wings and clustering thick as summer ticks beneath the roof eaves.
I herald them with a glance; someone kind of heart must be feeding them to have such a flock here in the wintertime. That or the birds are desperate. If I had wings and the freedom to travel, you would not find me roosting in Bevelle.
Particularly not in this section of the Temple. Acolytes who are fortunate enough to achieve the classification of Lustrum are moved to the second level, closer to the heart of the intricate estates and yet separated from convenient escape away. From here, the walk to the inner halls is a great deal shorter and the view allows one full study of the courtyards, ringing outwards in patterns of ritual language spelt out in stone. We watch visitors violate the architecture daily as they cross the inset traceries, leaning out our windows like so many vultures to spy on others' business.
Those of us who take advantage of our improved location to take observation of strangers are deemed necessary to be monitored by the guards in turn. No one fears us jumping, no matter how precariously we dangle ourselves. It would be all too convenient if we did.
Lustrum are what crafters would call journeymen if comparisons were drawn, and from here the advancement to priesthood is almost certain. Bevelle likes to know what manner of minds will bolster its ranks. If there are problems breeding in the skull of an acolyte, it is best to catch them early on. Blood that is too fresh is dangerous; we all know it, we who reside in the Lustrates Halls and wait for promotion.
We can taste the wariness of older wolves who have bedded in these dens for decades.
We can also freeze each morning trying to climb down all the steps to breakfast.
I technically do not belong here. In fact, Seymour's rather unique fall from grace has left me in a position that could have been fatal were it not that I had chosen to separate myself from him beforehand.
I barely saw most of the Guado after my pact with the maester. Such was likely my salvation. Seymour's death throes might drag me down with him yet, but I would cheapen myself at this point if I surrendered so easily.
The only reason I have forced my way into these dorms is because I arrived with the polite insistence from the start that I rightfully belonged. With Bevelle in chaos from the disappearance of the maesters, it was possible to work my way into the cracks. Confident smiles will take you everywhere. That was a trick I acquired from watching Gippal finagle extra helpings of rations during training; sleeping quarters are not the same as carrots, but it is unwise to shirk either.
This will not save me forever. I have begun to acquire names instead, doing small chores for the Lustrum; they are far simpler to influence than the older priests, and view me as their comrade. Most are under the impression that I have business ends to tidy up so that Yevon can recover what Seymour has mangled. A few of them have dared to approach me privately, ducking their heads and whispering in hushed, respectful tones.
What was it like to have to guard the Summoners to Mount Gagazet, what was it like to watch the Sending of all those Ronso? How frightening it must have been to realize the plans of Maester Seymour. What did it look like to see Sin broken at last, how close were you, did you touch it?
I smile, polite, and let them fill in the blanks with their own imaginations.
It is a duplicity that reminds me at times of Nooj. Usually when I'm washing down the bread of my breakfast with hot tea. The taste goes from honey-sweet to bitter, and I set down my mug unfinished.
Time is running out. I need to find someone else to assign myself to, and quickly. It will only be a matter of weeks before suspicion finds itself upon me when the priests are searching for their next sacrifice. No one has yet noticed that I hand in blank reports to an illusionary superior because overt interest in Seymour's affairs is suspicion itself, but soon I will lose that immunity. Curiosity is my enemy.
I will make it my weapon, as is my right. Bevelle raised me by these laws. If I cannot succeed here, then Gippal surely cannot. And Paine will be herself, Paine will be eternally herself, so Nooj will win above us all unless I stick fast to this course.
Sometimes I miss them. Then I continue walking across the archways to the Highbridge.
This desire of mine to advance myself further with Bevelle's plots has nothing to do with how I am starting to hate the ornate uniforms required of the Lustrum. The stiff fabrics do nothing to retain body heat. They itch everywhere imaginable. Visions of burning my outfit have become more appealing by the day, but this is not why I am impatient.
Absolutely not.
Three names are assigning themselves on my mental list while I nod to the guards stationed at the cornerbridge between the Lustrates and the Highbridge platforms. One of them, a woman named Gella, has been complaining of long hours researching for the priest who favors her. She does not like books. This will be her failing later unless she can win the eye of the warrior monks; Gella is more comfortable with a weapon in her hands, but her current priest fancies himself a pacifist as a dilettante might stroll a gallery. Violence is the mark of a brute unless it suits him at the time. To his eye, Gella looks better in tight robes that restrict her freedom of movement and so her talents come secondary to his whim.
She hates this. I wonder if she would agree to help me with only the bait of better clothes to woo her.
Another is a woman named Shelinda; she was involved with Bevelle directly after Maester Mika's disappearance and the arrival of the Calm. No one is certain just what she is doing in the Lustrum. Common theory is that it is a mistake, that the priests shoved her in these ranks because she proved herself useful once and now they do not know just how much she learned during Yevon's recovery.
Her temperament would imply harmless ignorance. The priests seem to have no idea what to do with her.
Shelinda can never get her uniform on right--the buttons always slip in the back where they're not properly done--so the rest of us have taken to stepping behind her and remedying the problem as tactfully as we can.
"Why does it always have to be so freezing up here?"
And the last is Dopha.
Frantic, flustered Dopha with his hair irrevocably brushed in all directions save a common one. Brilliant with spatial equations. Terrible at everything else.
I hear his wails before he enters my field of vision, muffled goat-complaints bleating in the thin morning light. "No, no, no! It can't be snowing again?" Scuffed boots stamp themselves in double-time. I look over; Dopha is complaining fruitlessly to the sky, a hand raised to catch and cup the flakes. "By the Fayth! I thought we just finished sweeping the stairways clean, now I'm going to have to get them all cleared off again and it's never going to be done in time--"
"Would you like some help with that?" I start to ask, but my words are trampled underneath the other's fluid ire.
"Lord Trema is supposed to meet with the consol in the afternoon. I've got no time for this." Another plaintive groan, and Dopha glances down, sees me. "Baralai!" From the sound of his voice, I might have spontaneously appeared just a second ago like a particularly subtle Aeon. "I'm glad to see you! Look, I know, I mean, I know it's taking you out of your way, but do you think…"
The question trails off. He fidgets. Receiving no explanation, I look to the bundles of dried twigs he carries in his hands.
"Memorial wreaths." My verdict is curious. Winter habits of ceremony interest me primarily because of how people will be acting during them, rather from any enjoyment of the holidays themselves.
Perhaps I am becoming cynical in my old age, just like Nooj claiming he was dead at nineteen.
"I've got to get them on all the bridges before noon at the latest. Baralai," the Lustrum adds, gripping the wreaths in his hands so he can shake the snowflakes off, "do you think you have any time spare? Just a little? I'll, uh… um…"
It is not as if I have reports that he could compile in my stead. "You can pay me back eventually." I will have to think of something. Maybe not. Goodwill is a currency I will need a great deal of and it will not hurt to bank on it now.
This answer relieves him; I receive an arm's load of branches shoved in my hands before the Lustrum scurries off down the western half of the Highbridge. I assume I am to take the eastern side. Withered perfume keeps my company while I walk to the far end, sifting up from flowers woven with the garlands and vanishing into the winter air.
At first appearance, I do not recognize the type of bloom. Then I lean down to blow the snow away from the pale coral clumps, witness the delicacy of their dottings along each stem. There are flowers the size of my thumbnail that grow with petals miniature--Kilika Poppies, they call them, and these are what have been painstakingly gathered for use of this year's memorials.
I wonder how many infants must have died this year for Bevelle to be resorting to such symbolism.
The poppies are named so because of the claim that the port town's sorrows were eventually reflected by the land itself; in equal grieving for generations of lives lost to Sin's casual thrashings, even the flora of the region sympathizes. Supposedly, the milky coloring of the plant represents young blood that never had opportunity to age red, which is a consideration I privately believe is somewhat morbid.
The flowers refuse to blossom any wider than a babe's eye. They are eternal children for those who have lost their own.
That is what the elders say. Inwardly, I think they are only inventing stories to feel as if their offspring have not died without mark left behind to mourn for them. It cannot be true that Spira itself bothers to weep for us. There have been far too many deaths for the land to trouble itself with self-mutilation for them all.
Besides, if such tales were true, I'm surprised that the snow in Bevelle is white. Red would be a far better color for this place.
Red or black--like ashes sifting from the sky, scraps of paper that are burned in the furnaces and whisper their secrets to the birds. As I help to hang the garlands, I think I expect to see the snow here run through with threads of soot, like the veins of fat and muscle in a hunk of butcher's meat.
Instead, the world is pure anew with each attack of flurries. Yevon looks white. White as my hair when I wake choking in it, turning to shades of grey through the cloud-fog descending.
I wonder if Gella will be sneaking into the second floor gardens today for practice in this kind of weather.
These thoughts occupy me while I work to meet Dopha halfway. Questions have created themselves in my mind and had plenty of time to sort themselves out during the task. It is difficult to not appear misinformed when you are ignorant to begin with, but there is another round to embark on with the wreaths; unless we tie them securely to the overhangs, the snow will gather so thick as to cause them to drop like overripe fruit.
More than enough time to discover who and what has set Dopha to this task.
The first query presented is easy enough to predict. "Tell me," I urge the Lustrum gently as I wait for him to untangle the wads of cloth ribbons, watching handfuls yanked out of pockets and most dropped on the ground. "Why is there such trouble being made over a meeting?"
"You mean you didn't hear?" In his surprise, Dopha fumbles with a skein of blue-lined ribbons. I catch them for him. We are meant to tie each of the colors in a specific order on the garlands to symbolize the age and gender of any deceased, but I find myself impatient with mourning customs when I might be next.
"The village these came from, Larsolia?" Dopha waits for my recognition. The name is unfamiliar to me, but I nod anyway. He continues. "They were holding spheres in collection for us. But there got to be so many that fiends... they attacked the village and almost wiped it out. The survivors of Larsolia aren't happy. They're blaming Yevon--New Yevon, I mean," he corrects himself, "and putting us at fault. Some of their elders are going to be visiting soon and if the Temple doesn't look like we want to make restitutions, it could be a real mess on our hands."
"Spheres," I observe, a single-worded understatement.
"All kinds," Dopha confirms with a nod, stooping to fetch up a fallen scrap of ribbon. "I had a look at the crates when they were carrying them in--just a quick one!" he laughs, a hushed sound like a dehydrated corpse chuckling. "They didn't look like the common use spheres. I thought I saw a blue one, some green ones… even one that was red as blood, I think."
I am an incarnation of indifference. I am Nooj, only with personality. "Oh?"
"From what I heard," he adds, dropping his voice like a masterspy towards me, "Lord Trema's trying to get the crates categorized before Larsolia's elders arrive. That way everyone might forget about the spheres, right? The priests are going to examine the shipment during the meeting and then pretend they never got it at all."
After noon. Dopha's revelation has given my day a shortened lifespan. It has had its throat cut in its crib.
"Who's on attendance?"
"Me, of course." With that, the Lustrum finishes sorting out the cloths properly and dumps my allotted colors in my hands. "But with all this work... I'm never going to get it done right."
Possibilities of my future collapsing dance like an insane summoner in my brain. I do not like this.
Instead, I focus upon the mixing of greens and violet in my fingers. These are mementos of lives in my hands. I will not join them. "Would you like me to take over for you this afternoon?" My suggestion is far calmer than my stomach feels. "I had business I wanted to speak with Lord Trema about, and I might be able to catch him after his meeting. How does that sound?"
Naturally I have no intention of such a thing. Trema is the flagship of New Yevon, and to associate directly with him is as good as if I stood on the Highbridge and shouted allegiance to Seymour. Dopha's face, though, lights up with every inch of his belief in me and my nonexistent sacred affairs.
I try to ignore his expression.
"Would you really, Baralai? That would… that would give me all the time I needed. A fifty percent margin across twenty square floors would--it still won't be enough." Calculations stop there, terminated faster than their owner's mouth could speak them in full. "What should I do about the ceremony decorations for the gateways?"
My mind is blank. I am no priest to consult. A confident smile will get you everywhere save where you want to be, at times. "Ask Shelinda?" Shelinda never says no. She is a sure bet for assistance; I can direct Dopha to her without guilt. "You might be able to catch her in the dining halls if you hurry."
"I'll do that." Dopha's nod is enthusiastic. It causes a dusting of flakes to scatter from his head. While we have been standing here in conversation, the weather has merrily coated us both under a blanket of white.
This is sign to resume our work. I have a double handful of mourning ribbons to apply, and the sooner I am done with them the sooner I can scout out the hall that Trema will be using. All I need to do is to remain as discreet as possible; so long as I can slip any incriminating spheres away before they are viewed, nothing else about the meeting concerns me.
"Baralai?"
Already halfway to proceeding for my half of the eastern wreaths, the other's voice halts me as neatly as the click of a machina's sights. "Yes?"
"Thanks." Hazel eyes crinkle at the corners; Dopha's gratitude shines through the curtain of winter drawn between us. "You're a real lifesaver."
I smile, as carefully as I can. Then I turn and walk into the snow.