The Beauty of Giraffes

Posted on 06 Feb 2013 @ 1:04am by Raifi Zaren
Edited on on 11 Feb 2013 @ 3:58am

4,130 words; about a 21 minute read

Mission: Episode 03 - Frontier
Location: USS Galileo: Deck 2, VIP Quarters, Zaren's
Timeline: MD01: 1700 hrs

[ON]

The sounds of the klavion danced and twisted, reverberating and winding, as two small picks moved at alarmingly fast speeds across the one hundred and sixteen strings. The oddly shaped, flat board rested across Zaren's knees where he sat cross-legged on the ground, alternately adjusting tonalities and playing with one or both hands. His gaze remained fastened to the strings as he played, the watchful eye of a musician practiced but not yet skilled enough to just let the music play him. He couldn't close his eyes and feel the chords. But he could watch and listen and manage them just the same.

Slowly he wound down to a slower pace and risked looking up to check in with the woman sitting on his borrowed sofa. His duffel bag still leaned against the wall by the bedroom and the table looked like some kind of art project: PADDs stacked in neat piles of differing heights in a particular order. "You can stop me any time, you know," he said wryly, "I could do this for hours. I have."

"I know the feeling," Maenad said, watching the instrument. "What are you playing?"

"Emil enti suuk," he told her. "The dream that conquers memories. It's a story song," he chuckled, "but I don't sing. Never could. I know the plot, if you want to hear it."

Maenad crossed her legs and leaned on her knees with her elbows. "Yes, please," she nodded for him to start.

Zaren stilled the strings, flexed his fingers, and began at the beginning again, speaking along with the music. "There was a traveler on a long road; it was a winding road through a forest that lush and dense. He walked with open eyes and open heart. But he was alone. He'd left his family behind, his home, all that he had loved, driven by a voice from the Prophets. A demand. A sense of demand. He did now know what they desired; only that he must walk. So he did, not bravely, but looking back always.

"On the fifteenth day of his travels, he came across a very rocky slope and began to slip and slide his way down. He was afraid to cry out because the Prophets had demanded that his journey be one of silence. So he tripped and skidded down the long, rocky slope, stumbling from side to side to keep from falling head over heels. Near the bottom of the hill, began to get a feel for the slope, the movement of the planet beneath him, his place as one object in motion stirring others forward. And his stumbling became a dance. A glorious dance of arms held high to the Prophets.

"When the road flattened again, still he danced. Arms and legs akimbo, stirring the very ground with his movements. He came across a flock of verdanis and they joined in his dance, for he was at one with the ground and the sky and knew his place. He came across a flock of sheep, and so it was, the same. Hara, verdanis, batos, zhom, rhiayatis, all danced with him along the road. And their footsteps on the ground made the mother planet sing. They were as one, all unison, all a single entity in praise of the Prophets. The trees reached out to shade them. The clouds offered them rain when they thirsted.

"One day, the traveler and his companions came across a caravan, and the traveler's dance slowed. For there he saw the most beautiful woman, washing her linens in a stream. She watched him. He watched her. And theirs was a match of souls. He came to rest at her side.

"And then," he paused, smiling. "She, too, began to dance. Just as he had done before. Arms raised to the sky, knees lifting as she leapt, to thank the Prophets for guiding him to her. For she had been lonely too, half a broken soul, and yearning for a faith she had long since lost. Together, they made the world shout in glory." As the last notes of the music drifted off, Zaren looked up from the klavion. "It's an old story, but some stories never feel old."

Maenad smiled. She wondered whether Zaren was a religious man and hoped that he wasn't. "Good for him," she said, "But I doubt that his family was happy." She looked at her knees, then looked up at again. "That was nice," she told him.

"I think the story might be better in Bajoran than it is in Federation Standard. There's always a little poetry lost in translation." Absently, he rolled the picks over the backs of his knuckles on both hands. "I'd like to hear you play sometime."

Maenad reddened a little bit. She loved to play. She loved to play alone, she loved to play for audiences. She loved people telling her that they wanted to hear her. She didn't care who she played for, most of the time. But... "I am not as good as you are on the klavion," she said. She really didn't know if that were true. "Perhaps you will," she thought.

"I've had a hundred and forty two years to study the klavion," Zaren said with a mild hitch of his shoulders. "And I'm no virtuoso. Music is music, as long as it's felt. And I haven't heard a piano in a long time."

That shook her up, "You're one hundred and forty-two years old?" she asked, almost incredulous. She had forgotten that she was speaking to a Trill. The spots were hard to make out with the tattoos. "You must be joined, then?"

"One hundred and fifty five, actually. My first host, Velen, was more of a visual artist than a musician." Zaren smiled, "Is it strange? Some find it to be quite a strange idea."

Maenad raised her eyebrows. Was it strange? Yes. It was. But it wasn't strange because it was old, it was strange because the concept of death was terrifying to her. She thought frequently about it. What a universe without Maenad would be like. "Well," she started, looking at her hands clasped together over her knee, "You have lived the equivalent of almost five the lifetimes that I have." A loose smile formed on her lips. "If I live to be old and die in my sleep, I have about sixty years left." She sighed. "You will live on to the point where you will hardly remember me at all, and outlive me by many times," she was thinking more aloud to herself than she was talking to him. "I just wish we humans lived longer. I like being here."

"Selik died in his sleep. It was quite peaceful," Zaren offered gently. "I wish I lived longer, too. That is, that each of my hosts could live a longer while. I have so much to say. So did the others." He set the klavion aside, hitching one knee up and resting his chin on it. "Sixty years is a long time. And I have a long memory."

She had to give him an appreciative smile for that. "I know, it's just that..." Maenad trailed off. "You're still you, you're still here. I will be gone and it will be like I had never existed. All that is in my head will be lost forever."

"I'm me, Raifi, yes. I'm not Arjin. Or Selik. Or Velen. Their memories are with me, but they are gone. I felt each of them as they died. I missed them, even though they remained with me in a way. Different lives. Different experiences and perspectives." Zaren smiled slightly. "It won't be lost forever. Your papers will remain. Your thoughts in the people you taught. All of that is a way of living on."

All of this was true, and Maenad knew it to be. But, it didn't make her feel better about dying. It didn't help that she had a potential lethal illness; she realised that she hadn't taken the hypospray Doctor Ni Dhuinn had given her for about two or three days. She shrugged. "I know, I know, but--" Maenad stopped herself. "Those aren't the things that matter," she almost whispered. "I just like being. There will never be another Maenad Panne. This body will never be anyone else's. One day it will not exist. I don't know where I will be, or where my body will be or what will happen to it, but some day it will be gone." Her eyes met his and she held them for a moment. It truly was a fear of the unknown. "I don't mean to sound so ridiculous," she tried to dismiss herself.

"It's not ridiculous," he shook his head and scooched a little closer. "Being is glorious. Far too amazing and unique to spend that time worrying about what comes next." He pressed the picks into her hand, "You've still got so much time to learn and teach, Maenad Panne. Don't let what will be sully what is."

She brightened a little, not wanting to think of death for the time being. "You have a unique way of speaking, Mister Zaren." She felt the picks in her hand, hoping that he wasn't about to start giving belaklavion lessons. She had made enough of a fool out of herself already.

"As do you, Maenad Panne," he grinned. "And it's just Zaren." He paused. "You wanted to see Wretha?"

"Zaren," she repeated. "Wretha?" Had she said that? She didn't know what Wreatha was. Unless, "Your bonsai tree? You named it?"

"If you knew a living creature for over a hundred years, you would name her too," Zaren laughed, stretching to fumble his PADD from the nearby table and open the pictures. "Here she is," he murmured, passing the PADD over to Maenad. The image on the screen was of a lean and yearning aldri nok tree; an arborvitae-like conifer with rich blue-tinted foliage on its slim, willowy branches. And the hand, Zaren's, gently touching its visible roots in the image showed it was probably about a foot and a half tall with a branch spread of 2-3 feet. The trunk curved gracefully, spreading the shade of the branches over one side of its pebble-topped ceramic home.

"That is beautiful," Maenad said with a smile. She couldn't properly appreciate it without being there to see it for herself, but she understood Zaren't affection. "Has it been with you all its life?"

"From the first cutting, yes," he agreed with obvious affection. "She's my constant, traveling with me through every lifetime. But. She's fickle; transporters could do irreparable damage to her so I had to send her to my brothers to look after her until this story is completed." He brushed his fingers over the screen. He missed her already.

"Oh," she said, passing back the PADD. "I think she would have made a lovely addition to the arboretum; I didn't know bonsai trees were sensitive to transporters."

"They're sensitive to everything," he chuckled. "That's what makes it such a pleasure to see them thrive."

Maenad looked away, smiling politely. "I should probably be going," she offered without getting up.

"Why's that?" he asked curiously.

Maenad blinked several times. She didn't know why. Maybe she didn't. But it felt like she should. "Well, I don't want to keep you from your work. I have bothered you long enough, haven't I?" She felt her cheekbones warm. She was making an idiot out of herself again. She was starting to realise, though very distantly, that she didn't know how to act around this Raifi Zaren. She wasn't entirely herself, and she couldn't explain why. It happened so infrequently that she didn't know how to cope when she wasn't acting the way she thought she should, and this was one of those cases where didn't know what the should was.

"My work doesn't technically start until after we have our first official press meeting tomorrow. I'm supposed to be unpacking. Settling in for the ride." He indicated the suite around them, "I didn't have much to unpack and I feel quite well settled." Zaren smiled, "So. If you want. You're welcome to stay. I could make tea. Well... I could replicate some at least."

"Oh," Maenad laughed quietly to herself, hardly making a sound as she looked nervously to the floor, her head tilted to one side. She had a distinct impression that he didn't want her to leave, but she didn't feel trapped by it. "That would be nice," she said instead of standing. An odd part of her didn't want to leave. Something about Zaren was familiar to her, yet very foreign. He was a reporter and therefore a person she probably shouldn't enjoy being around, but she was finding herself quite uncomfortably comfortable. She uncrossed her legs and sat with her knees together, watching him.

"Any preferences?" Zaren touched her hand absently for balance as he rose and crossed to the replicator.

"I like Earl Grey," she said.

"And this is why people are wonderful. Earl Grey," he repeated to the replicator and lifted the cup out, sniffing it. "All right. Another," he asked the replicator and brought both cups back to sit on the floor. "For you," he said, offering her hers.

Maenad smiled again to herself. It was wonderful to be called wonderful by a stranger. "Thank you," she whispered, taking the cup between her fingers.

"Thank you," he held the cup gently between his fingers, his grasp almost elegant as though he were used to holding a tea cup with a woman's graceful fingers. Which, in truth, he was. Neither Selik nor Arjin had been interested in teas at all. Raifi had only discovered he'd liked them after following one of Velen's impulses. "Shall we drink, then, to... new discoveries?"

"Why not?" she asked. Maenad preferred liquor for toasts, but it was a fight she could avoid. She raised her cup to him before taking a sip.

Zaren sipped as well, totally comfortable to just sit on the floor beside her and taste a new tea. It was a little stronger than what he was used to in teas. A little sharper. But not in a bad way. And there was almost a floral hint to it. He sipped again, letting the tea wash over his tongue. Not unpleasant at all. After a while, he leaned onto an elbow, "Why did you begin playing the piano?"

"Oh," she shrugged. "It's not that interesting, really. I did ballet as a little girl. I realised that without music there would be no ballet, and because I liked ballet I thought I should make the music. I was always a little jealous of the pianist while I danced." Maenad shrunk a little, "It seems rather vain, perhaps, but it's the truth."

"That doesn't sound vain," Zaren chuckled. "It does sound like a very good reason to learn the piano. Did you keep dancing?"

"I did," she admitted. "I don't do it very often anymore. I don't think I'm very good at it." Maenad sipped at her tea, trying to remember the last time she performed for an audience.

"Ballet," the Trill mused. "I saw a traveling group - Terrans and Betazoids - perform The Giraffe's Waltz in Hrada. It was quite lovely," his voice softened slightly with Velen's memory. "Well. For the first two hours anyway. After that, Velen was a bit in her cups," he added. "Have you seen that one?"

"I am afraid not," Maenad told him. "But I do like giraffes. Have you ever seen one?"

"In the ballet," he answered. "I understand they're quite tall and spotted. Some of Velen's contemporaries considered being offended by the comparison, but then decided the endeavor of being offended would be boring."

"No, they're beautiful," Maenad insisted, sitting forward as if threatening him to challenge her. "I love them." She drank some more tea before settling back properly. "Can I ask about your tattoos?" Why did she ask that? She wanted to, but she knew better. She pressed her lips together.

Zaren did not even bother to hide his grin as she stood up for the dignity of the foreign giraffe. "Sure, what do you want to know?"

"Why so many? What made you get them?" She said before she could think. She had known people with many tattoos, especially when she was younger, and they had all gotten them because they thought it made them look cooler. Something about Raifi said otherwise.

"Different reasons. I guess... well. Here." He set the tea cup down and tugged his jacket off, pulling the loose sleeved shirt up. "This was my first," he pointed a series of symbols across his lowest rib. "'I am my own,'" he translated, tapping the Trill words. "I was seventeen and stupid and trying to define myself as separate from what my family wanted for me. So I took a needle and some ink and I did it myself. So if I felt like I was losing me, or if I started to and didn't notice it, I'd see that and I'd remember that I wanted something different. More. But then I liked it. I mean, I liked the process. The planning. The design. The pain of the needle, even, was addictive. And I had a lot of friends who were artists, so I became their easel for a while. Their art was beautiful and I wanted to be a part of it. So this," he pointed to a coiled serpent on his side that was wrapped around a series of twined equations, "is two of my best friends from school. And this-" he pushed up his sleeve to reveal the lengthy, magnificent image of a jijari bird stretching from his hand up past his elbow, "was a girl I knew from kala'lazi zpyr named Kiza. Both of those were-" he smiled fondly at the memories, "results of long, involved conversations that..." he laughed. "Well. Then I Joined with Zaren and..." he made an explosive gesture next to his head. "Suddenly I understood what it felt like to be one of those artists. Full of so much vision it feels like it might drive you insane. So many possibilities, colors, perspectives. It becomes so you can either live your life just... in museums all the time. Or you can become the museum. I became the museum." He lifted a brow, "That's the simplest answer anyway. I shouldn't bore you with the histories of the others; suffice it to say... there are too many stories and beautiful things in this universe. And I've always wanted to keep them close."

Maenad listened attentively to all that Raifi said. She personally could never allow herself to be someone else's canvas. She loved her skin; to Maenad, altering one's skin was a travesty of sorts. She thought the body was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying, and to draw on it would be somehow defiling. But she could see that, maybe, her thoughts were wrong; Raifi loved his body, it seemed. He did lift up his shirt without any hesitation whatsoever. Maenad wouldn't be able to do that even if she were filled with alcohol.

"You wear them well," she told him finally. But did he really? Did she really think that? Could anyone wear a tattoo? She had never thought so. She felt an odd flutter in her chest, which made her anxiously look into her tea. Maenad should have left when she had the chance. She took another long sip, hoping but failing to finish it.

He laughed. "Well, I think so, but then again I did them for me - never gave a thought to their impact on other people. Apparently the eye is quite disconcerting," he added with a waggle of his brows. "What are you thinking?" he wondered aloud, watching her gaze dip and skitter away from him.

She bit her lip. "That it only matters what you think. It is your body, after all. You need not worry others think," Maenad said what he probably knew already. What kind of advice could she give to someone five times her age, to someone more than a century her senior? She looked back into her cup. But, it wasn't what she'd actually been thinking at all. She was really thinking that she should leave now. She didn't really know why, but she could feel the butterflies trying to get out and she could feel a growing tingle in her wrists and palms. Still, she said nothing.

"I make an effort not to," he agreed, "sometimes that gets me into trouble." He watched her continue to avoid him with her eyes. Had he offended her in some way? He couldn't imagine how. "Your eyelashes are extraordinary."

She tried to hold back a smile as the fingers not holding her tea touched the bone behind her left ear. Maenad had always thought so too, but had never heard anyone else say it. Her eyes found his again. She didn't know if she was blushing anymore, but she probably was. She finished her tea; it was a good thing that it was replicated warm enough to drink without having waiting for it to cool. "You're very kind," she said softly, holding her empty cup in her lap. "Nobody's ever said that to me before," she didn't know why she said that, either. She wasn't looking for pity. She wasn't being herself, and it was starting to bother her.

"I'm honest," he corrected in a gentle tone. "There's a difference." It wasn't nerves. At least, she didn't strike him as a nervous person. But she was flushed and still wouldn't look him in the eye. What had changed? They'd been having a perfectly engaging conversation. "You finished your tea."

"I have," Maenad sat forward to put the cup on the table. She looked at him for a long moment. She told herself to get a hold of herself, which was easier said than done, but thinking it did help. Just because he was being this nice to her didn't mean anything. Even if he was a stranger? Yes. Stop dreaming. She gave him a pleasant smile. "Have you?" was all she could say.

"I tend to linger on new things," he said, not quite apologetically. "Would you like another cup?"

"No, thank you," she said politely. "I really should be going."

Hadn't they already had this conversation? Deja vu? "All right," he said without moving. She was all angles and grace. The universe really was an amazing place, to make Maenads and Justins and Eves and the entire planet of Bolarus all as part of the same breathing, blood pumping mechanism.

Being allowed to leave, she suddenly felt terrible, like she had done something wrong. She knew that she had no reason to leave; she had no plans for the rest of the night. What did she have better to do? She suddenly wanted to slap herself. Still a nervous smile crossed her lips and cheeks. "Thank you," she said into his eyes. The way he sat on the floor, so carefree and so comfortable, even with her there in front him, made her anxious. She stepped past him toward the door feeling like she were going down a drain. She stopped before the doors could open, though, and turned. Her skirt flared a little by its edges. "I..." she started, clasping her hands in her lap. "I-- if you want, my quarters are down the hall. Not right now, but perhaps another time, later even, if you would like to hear my piano--" she looked at the floor, a long finger ticked the back of her neck, "I am usually up quite late, so. You don't have to, only if you aren't too tired. Or tomorrow after dinner, if things are not too busy." She pressed her lips, realising she was yammering on pointlessly, being redundant, wasting time. "Pleased to meet you," she quipped, then stepped out through the doors as fast as she could.

He watched her go with a slightly quizzical expression. Well, he thought, laying back on the floor as the door closed behind her. At least now he knew he had someone to spend time with tomorrow night.

[OFF]

Raifi Zaren
FNN Journalist
USS Galileo
(pNPC Lilou Peers)

Lieutenant (JG) Maenad Panne
Chief Science Officer
USS Galileo

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