THE VINE & THE RAIN & THE LIGHT

‣ enter SOUNDARYA SUNAR, the face of ACEDIA.

skeleton.  &  app.  &  dynamics.  &  playlist.  &  playlist (b-side).

                    — written by mimz. ( PST, any pronouns, 23. )

TEMPTATION  :   I.  ARCHETYPE — DEFINING THE ‘ SELF ‘

“Who will be lost in the story we tell ourselves? Who will be lost in ourselves? A story, after all, is a kind of swallowing. To open a mouth, in speech, is to leave only the bones, which remain untold.”

Amirah, she murmurs. Good afternoon.

In another world, she imagines this: Daya, unmarred by the sharing of a years-old secret that was never Amirah’s to tell, anyway. She thinks of how Daya, realistically, would have been one of the few she kept in repeated contact with; as close to a best friend as she’s ever had, well, it would make sense that Amirah would wish to keep her in her inner circle… But, it is not another world, and the distance between them speaks volumes. Amirah, Soundarya greets–not Mimi, not Mirah. It shouldn’t smart. And yet…

Amirah looks over her shoulder, casting the Sunar woman a quick look before turning to face her fully. The hum that passes through her nose is amicable, if not a bit restrained; for the first time in what feels like eons, the viper’s fangs are not bared, dripping with poison and she is not poised to strike. Rather, she is soothed enough to be stalled to waiting, to genuine conversation–and that was the part of Daya that drew her in back during their time at Verdamme, wasn’t it? 

“Doesn’t surprise me. What Viviana wants, Viviana gets. It’s probably easier to keep it one way than to change it.” If the De Cervantes matriarch wanted the gardens to remain as they did all those years ago, then the gardens would remain as they did all those years ago. Amirah gives her newfound company a once-over, dark brown hues scrutinizing as she ends her inspection at Soundarya’s eyes.

“But you know, it’s funny… The same thing you said about the gardens could be said about you, Soundarya.” In spite of the bridge she readily burned five years ago, despite her unforgiving and terrible suspicions, Amirah cannot help the way in which the other’s name softens the edge of her tone. She hopes Daya doesn’t notice, and continues speaking so as to prevent any comment if she did, “You seem to be just as…Skittish now as you were then.” A brow arches, accusatory. 

Can you honestly tell me differently? 

It’s funny that Amirah says that Soundarya hasn’t changed, because at some terribly metaphysical level, is that not the conceit of this entire reunion? The mutual suspicion feels like a clumsy, fractal attempt at resolving Theseus’s Paradox. Ultimately, everyone’s scrutiny aims to resolve two questions: who has changed—and who have they never actually known at all? When did these faces stop being familiar? When did the group stop being familiar? By finding the changes in each other, perhaps they can identify the fundamental core of who they are. Perhaps they can even move on to the Hobbesian variant of the paradox, which Soundarya suspects is closer to the actual question they want to resolve: here, the ship was destroyed and its central mast removed. Rebuilt and reunited as they are, are they still the same ship?

It crosses Soundarya’s mind that the barb may have been a taunt. Whatever.

She hums. “Well, you said it yourself: it’s probably easier to keep things one way than to change them.” She allows herself to look at Amirah in a way she has ascetically restrained herself from doing thus far. Even here, subdued and haloed in the soft greens and golds of a quiet afternoon, she emanates a fire that Soundarya longs to touch. Ah, but remember what we said about hands—she will not reach out first. “But am I not allowed to be disconcerted by the circumstances? They’re saying Julian has been murdered, ‘Mirah.” It might be too generous to credit Amirah for the steel underscoring Soundarya’s voice, but the other woman has always had a way of coaxing it out of Soundarya. Is it selfish to say that that was one of the reasons Soundarya was drawn to her? Perhaps.

THURSDAY, JULY 01.          CASTILO DE CERVANTES GROUNDS — late afternoon.                    //     @amirahbotros

Soundarya has spent the afternoon fighting the urge to ball her hands into tight fists. The hands are terribly expressive, see, and nothing exemplifies this quite like the fist. In a fist, the hand conceals, grasps, contains—it’s a signifier of something sequestered within, begging the observer to coax it open and reveal the pearl of emotion hidden within. 

A hand does not make a fist unless it has something to hold, and Soundarya has nothing to hide. Not from the detective, not from her friends, not from herself. Certainly not from Amirah Botros, who has perhaps already seen the worst of her, and . . . well. Soundarya supposes she won’t make that mistake again.

(Had it really only been sixteen days since they arrived at Julian’s home? Had it really only been five years since Verdamme?)

The smart thing would do would be to avoid the other woman, to engage the hunter from the safety of the pack, but Soundarya’s always been a touch foolish when Amirah’s involved.

𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐕. —  𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑭𝑬𝑺𝑺𝑰𝑶𝑵

an exclusive interview with soundarya sunar.