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.