I was in such a rut this morning - it felt like one of two scenes should happen next, and they were both ones I'd already written. xp Luckily, it took some setup to reach where I wanted to stick in Azal watching his dancer in the garden.
If that scene seems familiar... It's a re-edited version of "Fuschia", which I posted over on Amaranth and Jasmine whenever it was I wrote it. Unfortunately, I think I had Meres in mind when I wrote it, because I'd originally made a reference to Azal in the thing. A few other minor changes were made this morning, but... it was really pretty. I wanted Azal to have a moment of comfort after all his recent trauma. (Especially as he has more coming, the poor dear.)
I'm not entirely confident it's properly in his voice, but I have more trouble with his voice than anyone else's. Meres - artistic commentary. Veri - whiny. Luce - devious and philosophical. Mephisto - daydreamy and theatrical. (I am still swooned from last night's chapter. I am so in love.) Adir - uh, a non-voice, largely. I still go back and forth as to whether he should get anything from his pov at all, but, I'm a bit attached to the contrast. Also, there's a scene I wrote him (or Nila, or Carey, I forget) for the original 2007 version, coming up soon I think, that had some elements I really, really liked. So, for now, he stays.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
13 - Azal, continued
Ah, my bella incantevole, how gracefully you dance! There is such fluidity and perfection to her every motion, each gesture refined and unhesitant. I had not thought to dally here in the hall, but I find I cannot help but do so, having once glimpsed her nymphean form. I lean now against the wall, half-hidden by the rich damask drapes, my eyes hopelessly ensnared by her visual eloquence. I am certain you do not see me - not only is there a good deal of distance between my third-story vantage and the garden you pirouette within, but my form can be only one more shadow among the shadows of this house. The morning sunlight is drawn all to you, the brightest blossom among so many others. The mist left by dawn's recent passage shimmers about you, as the silken scarves I first saw you in - but there is a chill yet in such latitude as this, and your lithe form is clad in more conventional dress. Yet I can see the flashes of your dark eyes from even this distance... though I will not have them meet mine.
I have tormented myself with the consequences of my - what, rescue of you? I hardly think it that, for I keep you here as a silent ornament, an animate statue. Yet if I did not, and did not keep you secluded, you should have been his instead of mine and he--- Oh but I may in the end do the same, as so often before! But there is something in your gaze, in the steady earthiness and the celestial purity, the richness of soul within those thousand shades of sable... I cannot let such eyes become tainted. I know that were you brought fully into our world, those eyes should become dim and jaded, your motions tired from a thousand late nights and too much wine, your body should grow thin and lusterless from too many demands upon it... No! I will not have it! I have done so to so many others, it is a tiresome form of decay... I will not bring it upon such a delicate flower as you.
I will not allow myself even to come close to you, never to speak to you, for I am certain the decay which consumes me should carry its blight to your flawless skin. And the sheen of your brightness should fall on my hands, and I would carry it into the shadows where the others would see it, and guess at what a virginal secret I keep from them, and then they should look and I do not doubt that they should find you! Ah darling, though your dance threads its golden paths through the thick bushes of honeysuckle, and you linger in the shade of the trellised roses, I know they should find you.
Your impossibly long hair flows in graceful swirls behind you, showing the invisible ripples you leave in the air as you pass, the dark strands a weightless shadow, echoing your every gesture. I know of no names for your sequences of motion, these are no studied poses, no mere repetition of lessons learned by rote. Each movement of pure beauty is an expression of untainted emotion, there are no missteps or ill-suited sweeps of your lithe limbs - there is no break between aesthetic intent and your body's response, so great is your talent. And ah, this morning your dance is of all the beauty surrounding you, it is the sparkling of the dew upon each untouched petal. You need no music performed to ease your artistry, for you find it in all around you, not only in the delicate bird songs but in the drops of white sunlight caught in the veins of leaves, refracted in every petal to shower you with a thousand colors and tones...
You raise one leg in a graceful arabesque behind you, leaning to pluck a scarlet lily from the flower bed, and as you rise you weave the blossom securely into your raven hair, just behind one ear. You pause a moment more, considering, as your slender fingers seek out the most flattering position for the flower. Your gaze drifts to the trellis nearby, and the moment the lily is adjusted to your satisfaction you make a sudden leap to the left, using the momentum to guide your body in a spin and another light leap, and as you turn about a circular space in sheer rapture of motion, your dark hand plucks a stem of fuchsias from a trellis, which you catch within your dazzling teeth and hold between your full lips as you fly through paths overhung with trumpet flowers.
I feel a sudden heat on my cheeks as my hand clutches my aching breast. Oh if only I could have you and not bring you to ruin! I cannot watch you more yet I cannot bear to take my eyes from you, I take solace in your momentary absence from view but I cannot bring myself to leave the window...
That this yearning could torment me so! To look upon such beauty, and possess it and yet not possess it, you are kept within these walls and yet I cannot touch you. Ah! it is so early in the day! If only the terrors of memory had not kept me from sleep. I have felt tired for endless days, and the whiteness of the morning light makes my head ache. I see a motion far below and look (far more eagerly than I should like to admit) for you---
But no, it is only the gardener, now making his rounds. I have not watched him at his work before. His hands are gnarled and dry, as twisted dead branches left on a desert floor - yet his rheumatic fingers caress each flower with the delicacy of silk upon freshly-bathed skin. He moves slowly from plant to plant, leaving me to wonder how he ever manages to traverse the grounds in their entirety. Yet it is clear that he does, and lends such tender devotion in every corner of the landscape. Truly, my gardens have never looked so lovely, so I will allow such apparent ugliness as the old man to remain. I must be sure to confirm Luce in his proclamations of the best ways to relegate a garden's care, for his suggestions were quite useful.
...but no, I ought to do no such thing, not carelessly, anyway. She must be well-hidden before any opt to visit my gardens again, to see the results for themselves. I ought to maintain her bounds more closely in any event, to know where she will be and at what time - but no again! To cage this exotic bird, to clip her glistening wings, to curb the freedom of her motions in such a way... Her poise would be spoiled, the moment she felt anything but unfettered---
Oh what nonsense is this! Never again will I rise so absurdly early as this, it puts my mind in such a preposterous state. To be so considerate of a lowly creature's comforts like this is obscenely beneath me. I shall return to my rooms and ring for some warm, soothing drink to be brought me, as I should have done the moment I---
But there is a sudden burst of scarlet and ebony, limned with teak and the sun's golden lace. Ah, she sings! I can hear you but faintly, my pet, though I would scarcely find sense in your strange and ancient tongue, molded by the primal ululations and untamed swoops through half-tones never named. Oh my desert nightingale, my elusive flash of shadow and radiance...
Your hands are now filled with a kaleidoscope of hues, a strange beauty in the haphazard arrangement of them. I was told at once of course, the first time you plucked flowers from my gardens - such trespass being forbidden to most. But I told the servants to let you take any cuttings that you seemed to desire. I could do nothing to curb your comeliness, my dear, and I am certain you miss the warm perfumes of your once-home. ..
So out-of-sorts am I, with the hour and these enchantments, that I do not notice the serving maid until she is nearly behind me. It would not do to have any see me in such a state as this. I hold myself motionless until she has reached me, and turn at the exact moment when doing so will bring her directly before me.
Instantly she halts and drops into a low courtesy, her delicately-featured face turned down."Is there anything you wish of me, Master?"
I have a momentary vision of my desert danseuse in the place of this girl, those words murmured in her low, sultry voice---
"Yes, in fact. Have a glass of something warm – a mulled wine, perhaps – brought to the atrium. Have... let me see. Have Serena sent to me there, and let it be known that I am not to be disturbed in any way after that."
"Certainly, Master." She pauses just a moment more - as all good servants do, in the event the master may have another task to give, as well as to maintain a sense of decorum. I wish my servants to be prompt, but never be seen running or rushing about in hasty disarray. It spoils the refinement of a place far sooner to have servants moving frantically to clean spilt wine, than to have a slight stain left in the carpet.
Once the girl is out of sight I turn again to the window - how could I do otherwise? But you have again left the range of my vision. You must have returned to your chambers (in a wing of the house distant from my own), to fill them with the thousand blossoms so blessed by your touch...
Oh I will have myself thus tormented no longer! I have no real need for any particular one such as you, little bird, you are no more than these other trinkets, scattered along the walls. You certainly can hold no control over my thoughts, and can always be replaced. I turn sharply from the window, and pace rapidly toward the atrium. It will be sunny there, with its domed glass roof, and the many flowers in bloom there will serve as a safer mirror of those wilder gardens. Serena is a lovely new acquisition, and her dark hair and dark eyes will rest my dazzled sight. I shall distract myself with whatever pleasures I might find in her, or have another sent to me, if I find she does not suit me. That will tire my anxious heart, and then I can sleep for a time. My body is merely restless from lying still so long, and needs exerted before it will relax. How ridiculous of me to have spent so long by the window! If it is beauty of form I desire, I have any number at my call to satisfy me, I need not remain in an open hall, chilled by the lonely expanse of air, and pained by the garish pallor of the morning light. There is a party being held by some associate of Luce's tonight, and there will be excellent entertainment I am certain. I should like to be well-rested, for such an outing is just what my troubled thoughts need. Companionship among my own sort, where I might talk and feel not weary, where I might rest in the comfort of so many shared centuries. Amidst our own company, we shall find some sort of peace to our troubled souls.
I have tormented myself with the consequences of my - what, rescue of you? I hardly think it that, for I keep you here as a silent ornament, an animate statue. Yet if I did not, and did not keep you secluded, you should have been his instead of mine and he--- Oh but I may in the end do the same, as so often before! But there is something in your gaze, in the steady earthiness and the celestial purity, the richness of soul within those thousand shades of sable... I cannot let such eyes become tainted. I know that were you brought fully into our world, those eyes should become dim and jaded, your motions tired from a thousand late nights and too much wine, your body should grow thin and lusterless from too many demands upon it... No! I will not have it! I have done so to so many others, it is a tiresome form of decay... I will not bring it upon such a delicate flower as you.
I will not allow myself even to come close to you, never to speak to you, for I am certain the decay which consumes me should carry its blight to your flawless skin. And the sheen of your brightness should fall on my hands, and I would carry it into the shadows where the others would see it, and guess at what a virginal secret I keep from them, and then they should look and I do not doubt that they should find you! Ah darling, though your dance threads its golden paths through the thick bushes of honeysuckle, and you linger in the shade of the trellised roses, I know they should find you.
Your impossibly long hair flows in graceful swirls behind you, showing the invisible ripples you leave in the air as you pass, the dark strands a weightless shadow, echoing your every gesture. I know of no names for your sequences of motion, these are no studied poses, no mere repetition of lessons learned by rote. Each movement of pure beauty is an expression of untainted emotion, there are no missteps or ill-suited sweeps of your lithe limbs - there is no break between aesthetic intent and your body's response, so great is your talent. And ah, this morning your dance is of all the beauty surrounding you, it is the sparkling of the dew upon each untouched petal. You need no music performed to ease your artistry, for you find it in all around you, not only in the delicate bird songs but in the drops of white sunlight caught in the veins of leaves, refracted in every petal to shower you with a thousand colors and tones...
You raise one leg in a graceful arabesque behind you, leaning to pluck a scarlet lily from the flower bed, and as you rise you weave the blossom securely into your raven hair, just behind one ear. You pause a moment more, considering, as your slender fingers seek out the most flattering position for the flower. Your gaze drifts to the trellis nearby, and the moment the lily is adjusted to your satisfaction you make a sudden leap to the left, using the momentum to guide your body in a spin and another light leap, and as you turn about a circular space in sheer rapture of motion, your dark hand plucks a stem of fuchsias from a trellis, which you catch within your dazzling teeth and hold between your full lips as you fly through paths overhung with trumpet flowers.
I feel a sudden heat on my cheeks as my hand clutches my aching breast. Oh if only I could have you and not bring you to ruin! I cannot watch you more yet I cannot bear to take my eyes from you, I take solace in your momentary absence from view but I cannot bring myself to leave the window...
That this yearning could torment me so! To look upon such beauty, and possess it and yet not possess it, you are kept within these walls and yet I cannot touch you. Ah! it is so early in the day! If only the terrors of memory had not kept me from sleep. I have felt tired for endless days, and the whiteness of the morning light makes my head ache. I see a motion far below and look (far more eagerly than I should like to admit) for you---
But no, it is only the gardener, now making his rounds. I have not watched him at his work before. His hands are gnarled and dry, as twisted dead branches left on a desert floor - yet his rheumatic fingers caress each flower with the delicacy of silk upon freshly-bathed skin. He moves slowly from plant to plant, leaving me to wonder how he ever manages to traverse the grounds in their entirety. Yet it is clear that he does, and lends such tender devotion in every corner of the landscape. Truly, my gardens have never looked so lovely, so I will allow such apparent ugliness as the old man to remain. I must be sure to confirm Luce in his proclamations of the best ways to relegate a garden's care, for his suggestions were quite useful.
...but no, I ought to do no such thing, not carelessly, anyway. She must be well-hidden before any opt to visit my gardens again, to see the results for themselves. I ought to maintain her bounds more closely in any event, to know where she will be and at what time - but no again! To cage this exotic bird, to clip her glistening wings, to curb the freedom of her motions in such a way... Her poise would be spoiled, the moment she felt anything but unfettered---
Oh what nonsense is this! Never again will I rise so absurdly early as this, it puts my mind in such a preposterous state. To be so considerate of a lowly creature's comforts like this is obscenely beneath me. I shall return to my rooms and ring for some warm, soothing drink to be brought me, as I should have done the moment I---
But there is a sudden burst of scarlet and ebony, limned with teak and the sun's golden lace. Ah, she sings! I can hear you but faintly, my pet, though I would scarcely find sense in your strange and ancient tongue, molded by the primal ululations and untamed swoops through half-tones never named. Oh my desert nightingale, my elusive flash of shadow and radiance...
Your hands are now filled with a kaleidoscope of hues, a strange beauty in the haphazard arrangement of them. I was told at once of course, the first time you plucked flowers from my gardens - such trespass being forbidden to most. But I told the servants to let you take any cuttings that you seemed to desire. I could do nothing to curb your comeliness, my dear, and I am certain you miss the warm perfumes of your once-home. ..
So out-of-sorts am I, with the hour and these enchantments, that I do not notice the serving maid until she is nearly behind me. It would not do to have any see me in such a state as this. I hold myself motionless until she has reached me, and turn at the exact moment when doing so will bring her directly before me.
Instantly she halts and drops into a low courtesy, her delicately-featured face turned down."Is there anything you wish of me, Master?"
I have a momentary vision of my desert danseuse in the place of this girl, those words murmured in her low, sultry voice---
"Yes, in fact. Have a glass of something warm – a mulled wine, perhaps – brought to the atrium. Have... let me see. Have Serena sent to me there, and let it be known that I am not to be disturbed in any way after that."
"Certainly, Master." She pauses just a moment more - as all good servants do, in the event the master may have another task to give, as well as to maintain a sense of decorum. I wish my servants to be prompt, but never be seen running or rushing about in hasty disarray. It spoils the refinement of a place far sooner to have servants moving frantically to clean spilt wine, than to have a slight stain left in the carpet.
Once the girl is out of sight I turn again to the window - how could I do otherwise? But you have again left the range of my vision. You must have returned to your chambers (in a wing of the house distant from my own), to fill them with the thousand blossoms so blessed by your touch...
Oh I will have myself thus tormented no longer! I have no real need for any particular one such as you, little bird, you are no more than these other trinkets, scattered along the walls. You certainly can hold no control over my thoughts, and can always be replaced. I turn sharply from the window, and pace rapidly toward the atrium. It will be sunny there, with its domed glass roof, and the many flowers in bloom there will serve as a safer mirror of those wilder gardens. Serena is a lovely new acquisition, and her dark hair and dark eyes will rest my dazzled sight. I shall distract myself with whatever pleasures I might find in her, or have another sent to me, if I find she does not suit me. That will tire my anxious heart, and then I can sleep for a time. My body is merely restless from lying still so long, and needs exerted before it will relax. How ridiculous of me to have spent so long by the window! If it is beauty of form I desire, I have any number at my call to satisfy me, I need not remain in an open hall, chilled by the lonely expanse of air, and pained by the garish pallor of the morning light. There is a party being held by some associate of Luce's tonight, and there will be excellent entertainment I am certain. I should like to be well-rested, for such an outing is just what my troubled thoughts need. Companionship among my own sort, where I might talk and feel not weary, where I might rest in the comfort of so many shared centuries. Amidst our own company, we shall find some sort of peace to our troubled souls.
13 - Azal
I cannot sleep. Yet I cannot allow myself the luxury of consciousness, for borne upon its back is memory, and memory, I have not the strength for. My body, exhausted and pained as it is, refuses to be at rest. My eyes will not close, my muscles will not relax. My palms will grow scarred from the times my nails have made them bleed this night, these nights, this abhorrent stretch of nameless time...
My usual escapes seem useless, their effectiveness worn thin by repetition. Smoke is too nebulous a haze to obscure my senses. Alcohol only amplifies the emotions that rack my tired body. There are drugs I might inhale, drugs I might let mix with my overheated blood, but they are all so fleeting... I have cultivated every plant that mystics have held dear through all the long years, yet their powers are too weak for agony such as this.
My soul is too heavy within me, I cannot stand, I cannot move. I lie here alone, for I do not have the strength to communicate with any other. I have had girls brought to me, that they might attend me, but they scarcely hold my interest long enough to make the effort worthwhile. Their most novel ideas are rarely new to me.
Oh.... if only it had worked! I see now why it failed, and failed so badly, I was too drunk, and overconfident in my command of languages I had not worked in centuries. It was not so much having used the wrong materials – which, in my desperation, I did – but the wrong... the wrong logic, basing my words on the wrong premises. The words were wrought into the right forms, but their core meaning, the structure on which they were built, was faulty, the reasoning flawed. In my alcoholic haze, I did not think in the manner of those spirits on which I called. I offended them, and followed these offenses with rationale they were incapable of understanding. No wonder at all then, that they should throw my demands back in my face! Oh... how could I have been so foolish. I felt so desperate...
And I feel no less desperate now, but there is no heat left to the emotion, all has grown cold. I pull the blankets tightly around me, and move to sit up, my back supported by thick pillows. The first chill light of morning is seeping through the curtains, and I feel so tired at the sight of it... There is nothing worse than daylight that follows a night incapable of sleep, its chill rays burning defeat into one's heart, showing all chances for that blissful escape gone.
Meres has his art, Veri has Meres, Mephisto has music, Luce has... society at large, I suppose, his puppets. Adir and Nila have their social circles, as do many others, and they somehow find it distraction enough... All have their escapes but me. I should not have come back here, I should have remained in the deserts, where the air is dry and clear, free of this rain and smoke, where my thoughts do not become so heavy in the thick atmosphere. I should return there... but, perhaps, not yet. It is terribly weak to think of it, but I cannot ignore the loneliness that I felt, so far from all the rest. There... there are so few of us left, in these late days. Others must yet linger on in the world, but they have found forgetfulness, or gone mad, or refuse memory, or hidden away in absolute solitude, or... None of those options sound at all plausible, even in my own muddled mind. I do not know where they have gone, only that they will not return to tell us. Adir, Nila, I feel shall leave us soon, as Carey and many others. They are too near the common level, they are able to let themselves believe that they are no more than the simple humans they associate with. I wonder how long that façade will remain intact?
I lean toward the bedside, where a tray has been left for me. I pour a cup of tea – some dark spicy blend, perhaps a chai of India. The cinnamon warms my breath, the ginger soothes my knotted stomach, the cardamom brings an odd comfort in its bitter semblance of sweetness. I sip it slowly, letting my gaze fall unfocused, breathing into the delicate china cup, that the steam will billow up into my face, soothing my sore temples, my aching eyes.
I set the empty cup on the tray, and take a few long, deep breaths. I cannot remain here another day, I am so weary of this room, of the softness of this bed. It takes a great effort, and my back flares into flame, but I pull my legs over the side of the bed, and, holding tight to a bedpost, carefully stand. My legs quiver a moment, having spent such time without taking weight, but I stand nonetheless...
I stand, and do not let my eyes cross the room, that I might catch sight of my reflection. I know already how like a cripple I seem, how frail and fragile, like an old, old man, whose body is long past any usefulness. My back is still badly torn, looking like that of a soldier on the field who no medic would bother to touch, knowing any effort would be a wasted one. But still, I stand, useless and beyond hope, and still here... still here.
I move to the window, and part the gauzy curtains, that I might look out into the gardens below. I am caught off-guard by how lovely it looks in the morning light. The sunlight is still cool, casting a soft gray light, which is caught in the pockets of fog still lingering in lower places. It is as though a photograph has been laid out beneath my window, everything caught in a perfect stillness, even the color made motionless by contact with silver and... and strange chemicals, I do not recall what they are. It feels as though the fog has seeped through my skin and into my mind, for I cannot seem to clear it. I pour myself another cup of tea, and gaze out the window, watching for some motion to hold my attention. A few birds flit about, but they are too distant, and their motions are so fitful that they are hardly a joy to watch. Such a pathetic imitation of flight, so brief and low in the air, with such spastic motion of the wings, it should hardly be called by the same word as we used...
My eyes search the grounds desperately for something else.
Several young men move into view, carrying rakes and pruning shears, and though I cannot hear their voices through the closed glass, I can see they laugh and jest together. There is a playful push, a punch lightly thrown, and their motions are light and careless. The group soon disperses, and each sets to work with his task, manicuring my grounds with the greatest care. I do not see the old gardener who is in charge of their work, but I am certain he has given them instruction – young men are rarely capable of noticing a branch half a centimeter out of line with its brethren, or seeing the leaves of a weed creeping in among a jasmine vine. Yet I have had little complaint with the quality of my gardens of late, though I was away from them so long, and they were only rarely visited by others.
My cup is again empty, and I set the rapidly cooling china back on the tray. The room feels suddenly small, after such a wide landscape before my eyes. I move slowly still, but restlessness drives my tired body into motion, and I put on a fresh dressing gown and silk slippers. I rinse my face in cool water, and comb my hair smooth again. Already, I feel a little refreshed, my body finding some relief in a change of physical state. My face in the mirror still holds a great weariness, but it is presentable enough otherwise. The long silk jacket covers all scars, and lies coolly against them.
I move out of the room, leaving the heavy mahogany door open behind me – this is a signal for the servants to straighten the room, refresh the blankets and such. I need no longer communicate such things verbally – word is passed along, from one generation to the next, and my households run entirely by themselves, by habit, tradition, and what becomes cultural memory. There is no need to bother myself about small details of their management, for that is the whole reason one bothers to retain servants.
Slowly, I walk down the hallway, unsure of my destination but glad to be free of the confines of my bedchambers. I wonder how long it has been? Certainly no more than a few days, perhaps a week. Meres remained with me for some little while, though I suspect it was less in compassion, than simply to ensure that I did not attempt anything still more reckless in my weakened state. It was an unexpected kindness, however, and I suppose I ought to find some way to acknowledge it. Some other day, I am yet weary...
The walls of the high-ceilinged hall are painted a warm scarlet, the trim around them ochers and golds. All along them, on small tables and staggered shelves, are trinkets of my endless travels. There are delicately painted vases from the Orient, eerie masks from Africa and the New World, small remnants from the ruins of cities which long ago fell dead in the world, idols and arcane tools. Strange instruments of music and medicine, vessels from the treasure hordes of kings of old, intricate and frivolous little devices of gears and clockwork. I pause before a few of them, letting the cool weight of onyx soothe my burning palm, resting a cheek against smooth marble, losing my gaze in the distorted reflections of beaten gold. But these things are old comforts, and so bring me little help, their sensations felt a thousand times.
I reach a tall window, and pause in the space between its rich crimson curtains, to look out over the garden again. The little time which has passed has brought a great change in their appearance, so changed is the light. It has warmed now, the sun just breaking over the rim of the world, and the silver is slowly turning to pale gold, tangling in the last shreds of morning mist.
Motion catches my eye, and--- oh! My heart rises in delight to see such beauty, for the girl – oh what is her name? I cannot recall. But she has always brought fuchsias to mind, the delicate double-blossoms invoked by the swirl of silken scarves she once shrouded herself in, the poise with which the curving stems hold the elaborate blossoms suspended in air revealed in her every graceful motion.
My usual escapes seem useless, their effectiveness worn thin by repetition. Smoke is too nebulous a haze to obscure my senses. Alcohol only amplifies the emotions that rack my tired body. There are drugs I might inhale, drugs I might let mix with my overheated blood, but they are all so fleeting... I have cultivated every plant that mystics have held dear through all the long years, yet their powers are too weak for agony such as this.
My soul is too heavy within me, I cannot stand, I cannot move. I lie here alone, for I do not have the strength to communicate with any other. I have had girls brought to me, that they might attend me, but they scarcely hold my interest long enough to make the effort worthwhile. Their most novel ideas are rarely new to me.
Oh.... if only it had worked! I see now why it failed, and failed so badly, I was too drunk, and overconfident in my command of languages I had not worked in centuries. It was not so much having used the wrong materials – which, in my desperation, I did – but the wrong... the wrong logic, basing my words on the wrong premises. The words were wrought into the right forms, but their core meaning, the structure on which they were built, was faulty, the reasoning flawed. In my alcoholic haze, I did not think in the manner of those spirits on which I called. I offended them, and followed these offenses with rationale they were incapable of understanding. No wonder at all then, that they should throw my demands back in my face! Oh... how could I have been so foolish. I felt so desperate...
And I feel no less desperate now, but there is no heat left to the emotion, all has grown cold. I pull the blankets tightly around me, and move to sit up, my back supported by thick pillows. The first chill light of morning is seeping through the curtains, and I feel so tired at the sight of it... There is nothing worse than daylight that follows a night incapable of sleep, its chill rays burning defeat into one's heart, showing all chances for that blissful escape gone.
Meres has his art, Veri has Meres, Mephisto has music, Luce has... society at large, I suppose, his puppets. Adir and Nila have their social circles, as do many others, and they somehow find it distraction enough... All have their escapes but me. I should not have come back here, I should have remained in the deserts, where the air is dry and clear, free of this rain and smoke, where my thoughts do not become so heavy in the thick atmosphere. I should return there... but, perhaps, not yet. It is terribly weak to think of it, but I cannot ignore the loneliness that I felt, so far from all the rest. There... there are so few of us left, in these late days. Others must yet linger on in the world, but they have found forgetfulness, or gone mad, or refuse memory, or hidden away in absolute solitude, or... None of those options sound at all plausible, even in my own muddled mind. I do not know where they have gone, only that they will not return to tell us. Adir, Nila, I feel shall leave us soon, as Carey and many others. They are too near the common level, they are able to let themselves believe that they are no more than the simple humans they associate with. I wonder how long that façade will remain intact?
I lean toward the bedside, where a tray has been left for me. I pour a cup of tea – some dark spicy blend, perhaps a chai of India. The cinnamon warms my breath, the ginger soothes my knotted stomach, the cardamom brings an odd comfort in its bitter semblance of sweetness. I sip it slowly, letting my gaze fall unfocused, breathing into the delicate china cup, that the steam will billow up into my face, soothing my sore temples, my aching eyes.
I set the empty cup on the tray, and take a few long, deep breaths. I cannot remain here another day, I am so weary of this room, of the softness of this bed. It takes a great effort, and my back flares into flame, but I pull my legs over the side of the bed, and, holding tight to a bedpost, carefully stand. My legs quiver a moment, having spent such time without taking weight, but I stand nonetheless...
I stand, and do not let my eyes cross the room, that I might catch sight of my reflection. I know already how like a cripple I seem, how frail and fragile, like an old, old man, whose body is long past any usefulness. My back is still badly torn, looking like that of a soldier on the field who no medic would bother to touch, knowing any effort would be a wasted one. But still, I stand, useless and beyond hope, and still here... still here.
I move to the window, and part the gauzy curtains, that I might look out into the gardens below. I am caught off-guard by how lovely it looks in the morning light. The sunlight is still cool, casting a soft gray light, which is caught in the pockets of fog still lingering in lower places. It is as though a photograph has been laid out beneath my window, everything caught in a perfect stillness, even the color made motionless by contact with silver and... and strange chemicals, I do not recall what they are. It feels as though the fog has seeped through my skin and into my mind, for I cannot seem to clear it. I pour myself another cup of tea, and gaze out the window, watching for some motion to hold my attention. A few birds flit about, but they are too distant, and their motions are so fitful that they are hardly a joy to watch. Such a pathetic imitation of flight, so brief and low in the air, with such spastic motion of the wings, it should hardly be called by the same word as we used...
My eyes search the grounds desperately for something else.
Several young men move into view, carrying rakes and pruning shears, and though I cannot hear their voices through the closed glass, I can see they laugh and jest together. There is a playful push, a punch lightly thrown, and their motions are light and careless. The group soon disperses, and each sets to work with his task, manicuring my grounds with the greatest care. I do not see the old gardener who is in charge of their work, but I am certain he has given them instruction – young men are rarely capable of noticing a branch half a centimeter out of line with its brethren, or seeing the leaves of a weed creeping in among a jasmine vine. Yet I have had little complaint with the quality of my gardens of late, though I was away from them so long, and they were only rarely visited by others.
My cup is again empty, and I set the rapidly cooling china back on the tray. The room feels suddenly small, after such a wide landscape before my eyes. I move slowly still, but restlessness drives my tired body into motion, and I put on a fresh dressing gown and silk slippers. I rinse my face in cool water, and comb my hair smooth again. Already, I feel a little refreshed, my body finding some relief in a change of physical state. My face in the mirror still holds a great weariness, but it is presentable enough otherwise. The long silk jacket covers all scars, and lies coolly against them.
I move out of the room, leaving the heavy mahogany door open behind me – this is a signal for the servants to straighten the room, refresh the blankets and such. I need no longer communicate such things verbally – word is passed along, from one generation to the next, and my households run entirely by themselves, by habit, tradition, and what becomes cultural memory. There is no need to bother myself about small details of their management, for that is the whole reason one bothers to retain servants.
Slowly, I walk down the hallway, unsure of my destination but glad to be free of the confines of my bedchambers. I wonder how long it has been? Certainly no more than a few days, perhaps a week. Meres remained with me for some little while, though I suspect it was less in compassion, than simply to ensure that I did not attempt anything still more reckless in my weakened state. It was an unexpected kindness, however, and I suppose I ought to find some way to acknowledge it. Some other day, I am yet weary...
The walls of the high-ceilinged hall are painted a warm scarlet, the trim around them ochers and golds. All along them, on small tables and staggered shelves, are trinkets of my endless travels. There are delicately painted vases from the Orient, eerie masks from Africa and the New World, small remnants from the ruins of cities which long ago fell dead in the world, idols and arcane tools. Strange instruments of music and medicine, vessels from the treasure hordes of kings of old, intricate and frivolous little devices of gears and clockwork. I pause before a few of them, letting the cool weight of onyx soothe my burning palm, resting a cheek against smooth marble, losing my gaze in the distorted reflections of beaten gold. But these things are old comforts, and so bring me little help, their sensations felt a thousand times.
I reach a tall window, and pause in the space between its rich crimson curtains, to look out over the garden again. The little time which has passed has brought a great change in their appearance, so changed is the light. It has warmed now, the sun just breaking over the rim of the world, and the silver is slowly turning to pale gold, tangling in the last shreds of morning mist.
Motion catches my eye, and--- oh! My heart rises in delight to see such beauty, for the girl – oh what is her name? I cannot recall. But she has always brought fuchsias to mind, the delicate double-blossoms invoked by the swirl of silken scarves she once shrouded herself in, the poise with which the curving stems hold the elaborate blossoms suspended in air revealed in her every graceful motion.
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