Keeping the Fire: Qwimiren

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Polena was certain to arrive exactly when the Djaught Mehethe had requested. Yet, she was not surprised that she was made to wait almost an hour. It was a sign of his power and position that he made her wait. It was also a testament to the multitude of rituals, ceremonial conversations, and extensive preparation needed for what she soon realized was to be a full diplomatic discussion. It was more than she had planned for. Much of Djashar is implied by context. By way of example, one cannot say “good morning,” but instead says “Qwimiren”. Literally it means, “it has become light,” but the suffix "ren" implies uncertainty and begs confirmation. In part this is because it is believed words hold great power. Classical Westin scholars taught that anything that is said certainly is certain, made true by the words themselves. Therefore, Djashar had hundreds of superfluous words, hedge phrases, or empathic so that one could be indirect with poise. Such care was not for peasants, but for high lords or important deeds protocol must be observed. In her heart, Polena was drawn to that part of Fiedjan. 

When finally she was allowed to meet with the Djaught she was taken aback by the surroundings. Certainly she had though that Fiedjan being one of the oldest allies of Fortress Edgar, they would have been given opulent accommodations by the Edgarans. But upon seeing it, the Hall of the Purebloods seemed more like a temple than a barracks. It had its own courtyard, a wide square open to the sky with the two floors above it set with walkways looking down into in. The lotus arched doors were set perfectly to the four directions, and at the corners of the courtyard four great pillars ran from floor to roof. Those stout pillars were spiral carven and set with capitals depicting the legendary beasts conquered by High King Westa. There they were, the great Aurok, nature manifest within a bull to the southwest; the biting winds, mouths full of icicle like teeth, to the northwest; the winged coven of Rhaxmia, the dreaded harpy women to the northeast; and the retched starving men, gaunt figures of the damned cannibals clutched to the southeast. Any one of these carvings was fine enough to have been a temple’s centerpiece, and every carved story panel on dais around the courtyard, every elegant lotus lattice above the doorframes, every thick and vibrant banner set along the walls, each of them seemed a priceless treasure. 

All around her, the Djaught’s staff seemed to be full of activity and in a constant rush. She wondered if it was for her benefit, or if there really was that much work to be done here. At the center of the elegant courtyard sat the Djaught Mehethe awaiting her at a simple table of dark wood built knee high in the Edgaran style. He stared, she supposed purposely, with intensity at an open book of poems, as if he were trying to coerce the pages into speaking. He did not get up when she came to him, nor did he ask her to sit down. Gawking at the wonder of the surroundings she forgot initially that she would be expected to speak first, and it took her some moments before she looked down and remembered her place. He looked up to her slowly, a firm and authoritative glace. Yet, it was at once distant, as if he might look back to his book were she not to say anything or say the wrong thing. It was full of implication. Everything in this visit would be, she could not expect the Djaught to try and bridge the gap between their cultures. She made herself ready to interpret both tongue and heart. She took in breath, and then in a loud, clear voice, asked Mehethe a question that need not asked which served as a greeting that need not be made. 

“Qwimiren,” she said. 

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