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Little thing that just presented itself, from things I've read and discussed lately. Heh. New Universe, and rather Steampunkish, I think
Title: On Names
Rating: PG
Universe: Flightmen
Characters/Pairings: Arin, an Oil-Man
Summary: On names, diplomacy, and why you should always listen to the cultural expert
Wordcount: 950
Warnings: Pissy men
Claimer: Very much mine. Heh.
Title: On Names
Rating: PG
Universe: Flightmen
Characters/Pairings: Arin, an Oil-Man
Summary: On names, diplomacy, and why you should always listen to the cultural expert
Wordcount: 950
Warnings: Pissy men
Claimer: Very much mine. Heh.
On Names
"I just don't understand what I did wrong!" the so-called diplomat huffed, looking over at Arin with an expression that was far too little beseeching, and far too much arrogant offense. "All I did was ask why they had the same name! What could be wrong with that!"
Arin closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Diplomat, they said. Diplomat his eye! One more day dealing with this supposed diplomatic party, and he wouldn't be surprised if the entire Eyrie up and declared war on the stupid ground-pounders. And then, guess what, he'd get the blame. Oh yes. Of course.
Stupid, arrogant, idiot oil-men.
"You do remember the document I sent around to all of you, on the subject of skymen and names?" he asked at last, when he was sure his tone was more reasonable than hysterical. Opening his eyes, catching the narrow-eyed glare he was getting, the suspicion that he wasn't thinking diplomatic thoughts. Arin resisted the urge to glare back. With difficulty.
"I remember something about it," the oil-man dismissed, waving a hand. "Something about their having more than one, or something?"
Or something. Heaven and He Above help him. Arin ground his teeth, and then, with what he thought was considerable patience, explained.
"They don't have more than one name. They have ... Their concept of 'name' is slightly different to ours. To them, a name is a statement of identity on a very fundamental level, and their 'names' have different gradations that are offered in different social contexts, revealing different levels of their identity as appropriate." He paused, let loose a little of the glare he wanted to give. "I'm sure I explained this to you."
"Bah!" the man huffed, waving at him. "I remember. Something like giving a man your surname only, wasn't it?"
Arin felt his hand drift towards his nose again, shoved it back down. "Something like that," he sighed. "Look, what you thought was his name, wasn't, alright? Or rather, was only part of it, the first and most general gradation of his name. Roughly translated, it means 'He Above', or 'Skyfather's', or 'Of the People', depending on which inflection you get. It's nothing more than a statement of his nationhood, the first and most general layer of his identity. Like calling you a Marcettian. He didn't give you his name yet. You understand?"
"No," the oil-man said, with what he in turn obviously felt was great patience. "I mean, yes, don't have his name yet, got it. But what the deuce does that have to do with him and his friend suddenly running me off the platform in a towering rage?" He huffed, settling back in his chair, but Arin was beginning to see a hint of humour to him, now. A hint of something more than the rampant stupidity and carelessness Arin had been mentally accusing him of. It gave him pause, for a moment, and when he answered, his voice was a lot calmer and less snappish than before.
"You asked him if they had the same name," he explained, more softly, and got a small smile. "They are aware that the way we use names is different, but to them the word still encompasses the whole of their identity. They take name to mean the whole name, all the gradations, a single entity, since that's what it is, for them. So what you asked ... If he had the sense to realise that you only meant the first gradation, then what you asked was 'Are you the same people', which is patently the case, and a stupid question to boot. He might have gotten upset, thinking you were casting aspersions on his nationhood."
"And/or thinking I'm a blithering idiot who deserves running off the platform," the Marcettian cut in, grinning a little now, looking sheepish. A marked improvement, Arin thought, rather vindictively, then shook his head. Oil-men were stubborn. Really, he shouldn't hold it against them that they never listened until too late.
"And/or thinking you're an idiot," he agreed, with a quirk of his own lip. "The worse case, though, and the more likely one, considering the extent of his anger, was that he took your question to mean his whole name. What you asked then, therefore, is 'Are you the same person', which ... implies that he has no identity of his own, save what he shares with another, and is among the gravest insults you can offer a skyman." He shook his head, smiling a little ruefully. "You're damned lucky he didn't declare war on the spot, if that's the case. One can only hope that he took the legendary idiocy of the oil-men into account, and concluded that you really didn't know what you were saying."
"Which, being a legendary idiot, I didn't," the Marcettian cut in, laughing cheerfully at Arin. "Can I then take the long rant I'm sure you've been thinking up, on how us stupid oil-men ought to listen to the translators, as read?" He grinned, eyes twinkling. "Or perhaps we should just let you do the talking, hmmm?"
Arin blinked at him, flushing faintly, vaguely embarrassed all of a sudden. "Listening would do nicely," he muttered. "They would take it amiss if you refused to speak with them. Though ... probably not as amiss as they would if you continued to insult them."
"Got it!" The oil-man laughed, reaching over to clap Arin on the shoulder with one huge hand, not minding in the slightest that Arin blinked at him as though he were insane. Amazing gesture! Didn't he realise that flightmen like Arin didn't do casual touching, outside of very specific situations ...
Arin blinked, sighed. Oil-men. Of course he didn't.
This was going to be a long bloody mission.
"I just don't understand what I did wrong!" the so-called diplomat huffed, looking over at Arin with an expression that was far too little beseeching, and far too much arrogant offense. "All I did was ask why they had the same name! What could be wrong with that!"
Arin closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Diplomat, they said. Diplomat his eye! One more day dealing with this supposed diplomatic party, and he wouldn't be surprised if the entire Eyrie up and declared war on the stupid ground-pounders. And then, guess what, he'd get the blame. Oh yes. Of course.
Stupid, arrogant, idiot oil-men.
"You do remember the document I sent around to all of you, on the subject of skymen and names?" he asked at last, when he was sure his tone was more reasonable than hysterical. Opening his eyes, catching the narrow-eyed glare he was getting, the suspicion that he wasn't thinking diplomatic thoughts. Arin resisted the urge to glare back. With difficulty.
"I remember something about it," the oil-man dismissed, waving a hand. "Something about their having more than one, or something?"
Or something. Heaven and He Above help him. Arin ground his teeth, and then, with what he thought was considerable patience, explained.
"They don't have more than one name. They have ... Their concept of 'name' is slightly different to ours. To them, a name is a statement of identity on a very fundamental level, and their 'names' have different gradations that are offered in different social contexts, revealing different levels of their identity as appropriate." He paused, let loose a little of the glare he wanted to give. "I'm sure I explained this to you."
"Bah!" the man huffed, waving at him. "I remember. Something like giving a man your surname only, wasn't it?"
Arin felt his hand drift towards his nose again, shoved it back down. "Something like that," he sighed. "Look, what you thought was his name, wasn't, alright? Or rather, was only part of it, the first and most general gradation of his name. Roughly translated, it means 'He Above', or 'Skyfather's', or 'Of the People', depending on which inflection you get. It's nothing more than a statement of his nationhood, the first and most general layer of his identity. Like calling you a Marcettian. He didn't give you his name yet. You understand?"
"No," the oil-man said, with what he in turn obviously felt was great patience. "I mean, yes, don't have his name yet, got it. But what the deuce does that have to do with him and his friend suddenly running me off the platform in a towering rage?" He huffed, settling back in his chair, but Arin was beginning to see a hint of humour to him, now. A hint of something more than the rampant stupidity and carelessness Arin had been mentally accusing him of. It gave him pause, for a moment, and when he answered, his voice was a lot calmer and less snappish than before.
"You asked him if they had the same name," he explained, more softly, and got a small smile. "They are aware that the way we use names is different, but to them the word still encompasses the whole of their identity. They take name to mean the whole name, all the gradations, a single entity, since that's what it is, for them. So what you asked ... If he had the sense to realise that you only meant the first gradation, then what you asked was 'Are you the same people', which is patently the case, and a stupid question to boot. He might have gotten upset, thinking you were casting aspersions on his nationhood."
"And/or thinking I'm a blithering idiot who deserves running off the platform," the Marcettian cut in, grinning a little now, looking sheepish. A marked improvement, Arin thought, rather vindictively, then shook his head. Oil-men were stubborn. Really, he shouldn't hold it against them that they never listened until too late.
"And/or thinking you're an idiot," he agreed, with a quirk of his own lip. "The worse case, though, and the more likely one, considering the extent of his anger, was that he took your question to mean his whole name. What you asked then, therefore, is 'Are you the same person', which ... implies that he has no identity of his own, save what he shares with another, and is among the gravest insults you can offer a skyman." He shook his head, smiling a little ruefully. "You're damned lucky he didn't declare war on the spot, if that's the case. One can only hope that he took the legendary idiocy of the oil-men into account, and concluded that you really didn't know what you were saying."
"Which, being a legendary idiot, I didn't," the Marcettian cut in, laughing cheerfully at Arin. "Can I then take the long rant I'm sure you've been thinking up, on how us stupid oil-men ought to listen to the translators, as read?" He grinned, eyes twinkling. "Or perhaps we should just let you do the talking, hmmm?"
Arin blinked at him, flushing faintly, vaguely embarrassed all of a sudden. "Listening would do nicely," he muttered. "They would take it amiss if you refused to speak with them. Though ... probably not as amiss as they would if you continued to insult them."
"Got it!" The oil-man laughed, reaching over to clap Arin on the shoulder with one huge hand, not minding in the slightest that Arin blinked at him as though he were insane. Amazing gesture! Didn't he realise that flightmen like Arin didn't do casual touching, outside of very specific situations ...
Arin blinked, sighed. Oil-men. Of course he didn't.
This was going to be a long bloody mission.
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