Kherishdar's Exception, Episode 31: The Conversations Begin

You know, perhaps, from your association with Farren that we have two words for special… you can be atain, special in a bad way… or dira, special in a good way. We treasure the everyday, aunera; our goal is normalcy and contentment, not the sorts of highs and lows you seem to find important. Shetil, we call that, and when we say ‘usual’ and ‘normal’ we breathe it with a sigh of relief and pleasure, rather than boredom. It’s another of our aphorisms: Life is made up of everydays. (Yes, we play with our language too, and ‘verb’ words, and make playful nouns out of them, stretch them like soft candy and combine them in unlikely ways. Do you think because our culture looks rigid that our language must also?)

It’s rare for us to call something extraordinary in a good way. But the days that followed, aunera… they were extraordinary. I have thought of them, forever after, as my Conversations, and yes, in my mind I capitalized the letter. (We do that too. More or less.)

I went to the Gate. I set up my office. I crossed over, and over. I had discussions… I took notes. I read Lenore’s.

…and I went home, again and again, but not to Qevellen.

“I spoke to them of unrequited love,” I said to Thirukedi that first of many, many times.

“Pace if you wish, daughter. So… what do the aunera have to say about unrequited love?”

And who would disobey? Especially since I very much did wish? I rose and walked, back and forth, parallel to the step that separated us. “The problem is that if you want to understand their notions about it, you have to understand their courtship rituals. And there’s no understanding their courtship rituals, Thirukedi. They don’t even understand their courtship rituals.”

He sounded amused, though as always he was unmoving on his divan, a sculpture of a benevolent god. “How do they pair, then? If they don’t know how?”

“As far as I can tell,” I answered, sardonic, “By accident.”

That startled a laugh out of him, so soft I nearly missed it. “But now you must tell me more, Haraa.”

“Apparently there is a courtship template for every culture they have,” I said, resuming my travels across the floor. “And every aunerai is a culture of one. Therefore, they make a tremendous number of mistakes. There is a great deal of acrimony. They pair, discover it was the wrong decision, and explode—”

“Hyperbole,” Thirukedi said, gently chiding.

“No!” I said. “Often when they stop being yoked, the process destroys their friendship circles, and disrupts their families. They divorce, Thirukedi, and it is not like how we part ways. It mangles their lives.”

“Perhaps they feel emotions more strongly.”

I snorted. “I feel emotion just as strongly as they do, and I’m not leaving wreckage in my wake.” I paused, ears flattening. “That was the lord of Qenain’s act, and he did it after taking up with them.”

“Do you believe he learned it from them, then? This maien that teaches to destroy when parting with a loved one?”

Had he? I stopped moving, all my fur on end. How good it would be to blame Jaran’s behavior on Lenore and Andrew! I wanted to, and knew it wasn’t fair. “I don’t know,” I said, ears still flat. “I can’t say he didn’t, because… maybe there is some of that involved. Maybe because the aunera think relationships have that potential, then… that potential inevitably enters into anything they do.” That’s a word for us: iqil. Be careful what you assume when you start a thing. “But I think it’s more likely that it was the result of the friction between our cultures. They’re just not like us. When you take the clothes meant for someone short and try to fit them onto someone tall, it chafes.”

“And do your clothes chafe, Haraa?” Thirukedi asked, kindly.

I eyed Him—I couldn’t help it, god or not that was a challenge—and gave up. With a laugh, I said, “Maybe a little. But in normal, everyday ways.”

“Very good. Continue to educate me in the ways of aunerai heartbreak.”

That was the first of many such talks, and they gave me life; you can’t imagine how delighted I was to discover you have that concept. We do as well: misoli, which looks like a singular noun if you are familiar with our tongue because it was once one, and we verbed it (truly, your language is fun, aunera). So what was once ‘little things that make your soul bloom’ became ‘to make your soul bloom.’ Conversations with a god are not small things, but we don’t have the concept of ‘enormous things that make your soul bloom.’ Enormities shock us, awe us, terrify us. They break us open so we can grow, but they don’t water the flowers of our spirits.

And maybe those conversations were also enormities in that way.

The important thing I must say here, though, aunera, is… I didn’t go home. I rode from my office at the Gate to Thirukedi… and then immediately climbed back into the saddle and rode out again.

And to think Farren named me ‘Courage.’ Maybe he should have named me Cowardice instead, but Qurul would have been a much uglier name.