11 - Luce

       I wait until the last notes have finished their final echoes, and then wait a moment more, allowing that perfect breath of silence which is a performer's greatest prize. Only then, do I applaud softly, approaching the girl seated on a tiny island of colored stone, cradling a flute in her hands. She is a lovely young thing, perhaps fifteen, just at that age where a girl learns the use of a blush. This she does, on meeting my gaze, which she quickly drops. Her lashes are long, her azure eyes large and round. She is dressed in a filmy wash of turquoise and jade, as the ocean water near the shore. There are cascades of white lace at her throat and wrists, as the foam of breaking waves, and tiny gems are affixed to her skin, winking in the light.
       “I thank you for your kindness,” she murmurs, still hesitant to meet my eyes.
       I smile tenderly, and extend a hand to lift her chin, that I might gaze into those eyes. Lovely. The blue of a summer afternoon sky, reflected in vast oceans, with glints of emerald and sapphire and topaz. “I thank you for bringing such loveliness to our evening. You play with such beautiful shades of tone, that it truly does sound as though it is some siren's song, heard at a distance over the slowly rolling waves.”
       She smiles shyly, glowing a little in pleasure at the compliment. Yet before I can say more, my shoulder is pressed by a warm hand, and I turn to see Mephisto beside me, with David, as ever, in tow. “Dear Mephisto, wherever have you been these past weeks? I have hardly seen you of late!”
       He pauses just a moment too long, as if he is uncertain of what answer he ought to give. Then he waves vaguely, composure retrieved. “The usual pastimes, my darling Luce. Concerts, plays, evening walks in my gardens... There has been little to do since your rose party, I am afraid.”
       “I suppose that is so. But this boy, who hides so shyly behind you! He sang at that party, did he not?”
       Mephisto beams, and places a hand on the small of the boy's back, prompting him to stand forward. He is as proud of this boy as if it were his own creation – though this is hardly the case. I am sure Mephisto has encouraged David to new exertions of his art, and given him the confidence to sing to the full extent of his ability, but he hardly caused the talent to reside within this lovely little frame. “That he most certainly did – and I had hoped he would sing for us this evening, though he is hesitant to do so. David Bennet.”
       The boy bobs his head in a graceless sign of courtesy, and I can only chuckle, unable to be offended by such a poor attempt. “Of course. But, David, there is no need to be shy in this company. We are all aware of your talent, and in fact, there are many who missed your performance in my garden, who are eager to hear something of what they missed.”
       He blushes, and mumbles some dismissive thing.
       Mephisto sighs, and bends to murmur something into the boy's ear. As he straightens back up, he smiles ruefully. “I have yet to fully cure the boy's shyness, my sincere apologies – he does not mean to be rude, he is only unaccustomed to attention from such lofty figures as ourselves.”
       “That's right – did you not discover him in some rough establishment, on a stage which could hardly appreciate such skill as his?”
       “I did – a few old favorites of mine, who have sunk from public favor, though they still retain admirable skill, were to play at that old theater – it was once called Ariel's Playhouse, though I cannot think of what name it is under now. David had a small role, for he was still new to the company, yet even in such a limited part I caught a glimpse of his potential, for there were several songs in which he had verses to sing.”
       “Then – my dear young songbird, you need only think of this as a terribly informal playhouse, in which the stage has been set low to the ground. A terribly rude playhouse, as well, in which the audience will simply not be still and silent to attend to you – you have dealt with such audiences before, have you not?”
       The boy smiles ruefully, at last looking up. “That I have. It is often best to simply imagine the room empty, and try not to listen to the sounds around one.”
       “But of course,” I concur, putting an arm around the boy's shoulders and leading him over to the rock with the girl. He stands awkwardly to one side of it, the girl studying him curiously. He is a lovely young man, though a bit slight in stature, with unusually long dark hair that has been carefully combed back from his high forehead. His face is finely featured, and he often seems as some fine photographic portrait, with his pale skin and dark hair, and lips of bright roses. “Dear girl,” I address her with a warm smile. “Would you mind accompanying our David, as he sings some lovely little thing? I suspect your styles should compliment each other well.”
       She nods her agreement, then leans over to David, to make a brief exchange as to the nature of their impromptu duet. He is quickly put at ease, in conversation with a fellow performer of about his own age.
       Mephisto and I take a few steps back, to allow the two a bit of space. We chat idly for some moments, but fall silent at the first sounding of the breathy flute. It is a song I do not recognize, though Mephisto immediately nods in recognition, smiling at the suitability of their choice. It is undoubtedly from some play – the songs in them rarely hold in my mind, for they often seem so formulaic in their composition, that one is easily interchanged with another. Yet I will admit, this song takes on new life when removed from its setting, and cast anew by such sparse arrangement. It is initially light and cheerful, but dips for a few lines into melancholy minor key, then does not quite resolve, the final line of the tune lingering in the air, as the final notes close where one would not expect. It ought to end in a soothing major chord, but falls instead somewhere short of this, and hangs on the air like a lover's regret. The girl plays it through once, then the boy begins. The flute falls back to a supporting counter-melody, and the boy sings, at first sweet and softly enchanting, then achingly sorrowful, ending in a weary sort of melancholy, fading out in a haunting echo of the beginning. The words hardly matter, for the melodies are so enchanting. The flute dances around the words, waxing where the singer wanes, adding small frills and flourishes during his sustains, falling back to supporting chords where the singer's passions demand all attention. She is quite a skilled musician, especially for one so young – I ought to learn her name, for I think she would be a lovely addition at future soirées.
       “So lovely...” Mephisto murmurs, and I see that his eyes are only for David. I doubt if he hears the girl at all. This saddens me a bit, for I know that he, of all of us, should best appreciate her dexterity and musicianship, but he is blind to the beauty of her performance. Not that the boy is himself unskilled – I am quite pleased by his ability, as well. The song would seem a simple one, were it sung merely as notes on a page. But the boy finds meaning in the aching melody, and the words seem suddenly far grander, taking on depths granted by full-hearted emotion. He does not sing every word with equal intensity, nor is it a simple crescendo throughout, but there is subtlety and delicate gradation among the phrases, and he knows the importance of contrast between dramatic and innocent.
       The crowd nearest our corner of the room as fallen quiet, though conversation can still be heard at some distance. I see Meres approaching – with Claude following behind, somewhat sullenly. Veri is nowhere in sight, but this is not necessarily of much significance, as he often retires from our fêtes early. Several other musicians who have found their way into our company have joined the loose audience, and nod to themselves in silent appreciation. There is one composer who listens with a look of fierce concentration on his face, and I suspect he is taking notes from the children's spontaneous genius, that he might take credit for such harmonies in his own forthcoming work. Such is the realm of the arts! But never will his cynical soul be able to replicate the innocent beauty of these two unpretentious souls.
       I wonder how long they will retain this innocence, in company such as ours? No – even without our machinations and manipulations, they should not last long in the calculating world outside, for the stage and concert hall are filled with the politics of money and hierarchy, and it is a treacherous place for the sincere-hearted to tread. So perhaps it is best, in the end, that their fall into decay should happen here, where at least their talents will be appreciated while they last! For while we demand deference for ourselves, we care little for what the parents of the boy may have said to a duke in some long-forgotten year, and no amount of monetary donation to some frivolous cause will cause us to consider the worth of a spoiled and talentless fool. In some strange way, though we are set so much higher above than the upper class of mankind, we are yet more welcoming to those below, if we see some sort of worth in them.
       Though I really must speak with Mephisto about David's manner of dress – the suit he wears scarcely fits, and he has been tugging at the wrists of his sleeves all evening. He has lost one cufflink, and I think other colors might suit him better.

10 - Adir

       I rest my glass on the piano, and lean to embrace Nila, who laughs lightly at the gesture.
       “You have forgiven me, then?”
       “Whatever was there to forgive?” I query with a smile, raising an eyebrow. “You were simply in error. I have accepted this, and moved on from it.”
       He laughs, shaking his head. “If you insist. I shall not argue with you on it again – the subject has lost its novelty, we ought to find a new one.”
       “I am certain we shall do so.”
       He nods his ascent, and meets the eyes of a naiad carrying a tray. She draws near, weaving through the scattered groups as a dolphin through schools of smaller fish. As she moves, light scatters from her, for the gauzy fabric with which she is draped is set with a thousand tiny crystals and pearls. She is a hazy vision of soft sea green and misty violets, each layer of fabric so thin as to be nearly invisible, wrapped in casual disarray around her slim form, covering her smooth flesh completely or not at all, depending on her motion. A band of netting is wrapped around her throat, strung with still more pearls and diamonds. How long has Meres planned this event, that he has planned out so many fine details! Each girl, in her costuming alone, seems to tell the story of some particular fantastic creature.
       “Sirs.” She bobs in a slight curtsy, her voice a low murmuring brook. Nila takes a delicate crystal flute of palest yellow champagne, the minute bubbles dancing through the glass, as though the diamonds which wrap around the stem have escaped into the lambent liquid. I take one as well, setting the nearly-empty glass from the piano onto her tray. She bobs again, as though in the water, and moves on again through the crowd.
       Nila lets his eyes drift over the crowd, and I can almost hear the notes he makes to himself, recording the myriad details of who speaks to whom, who seems to avoid another, who merely makes eye contact and who is wrapped in sensual embrace, who dances and who is silent against the wall. While Luce is often the corruption of relationships, Nila is in the business of sculpting new ones. He is best of us all at finding new playthings for us, best of us all at knowing which persons should meet and in what circumstances.
       “I see that Mephisto is quite inseparable from David,” he notes with a slight frown. “I had thought he would become infatuated, but this has gone even beyond my expectations.”
       I chuckle softly. “Has it? You know how deeply the theater affects him, and how he lives within those false passions. David is young enough that those passions are entirely real to him – and so, while we all know he is merely young and impetuous, Mephisto believes in the boy's sincerity.”
       “The boy is sincere... though foolish.”
       “All youth is.”
       Nila grins wryly. “It has been so long since we were young... I suppose Meph has forgotten this.”
       “Or simply choses to ignore it, as I am sure he finds more comfort in believing the boy's earnestness.”
       “I suppose he does. Still, I am surprised he has not found fault yet. The boy is a lovely singer, but so naïve, that it is a wonder he has not said something to provoke Meph's wrath.”
       “Mmm. And he does not forgive so easily as I.”
       Nila laughs. “And that is saying quite a bit! For you scarcely let go of a wrong, yourself.”
       “Nila, dearest, however can you say such a thing?” I laugh in return, and finish my glass. Almost at once, there is a fresh one to hand – though this is now a liquid of palest green. Absinthe, I should think. I sip it lightly, and Nila continues his observations.
       “Cerise is doing quite well – I am happy to see she has not lost her charm. She is such an unspoiled white rose, just opening to flower. I was concerned that her sweetness would disappear, in her new pursuit of learning the darker arts. Yet she is as fresh as the day I first saw her – she will dress in no black weeds, nor let her fingers idle in meddling in the lives of others. Have we ever seen a psychic with such a pure heart?”
       “I suppose not. You don't expect she will always maintain that childlike innocence, do you?”
       He sighs sadly, taking a slow drink. “I wish that she might... she is quite a breath of fresh air, in our dim and murky world.”
       “You ought to keep Luce away from her.”
       He laughs bitterly at this. “I ought to keep Luce away from all of my little gifts! But never shall it be. He is too eager. And, I will admit, he is too adept at his own handling of others. Though it pains my pride to see my plans spoiled by his interventions, in the end I am forced to admire his results. Still – I should like to keep Cerise a little longer.”
       We both turn our gazes to look at her, as she sits lightly on a rock beside one of the mermaid girls. They are both laughing, playing with the bubbles the mermaid blows from her delicate loop of wire. Cerise is dressed in a frothy confection of the palest blues, all ruffles and lace, her hands and arms wrapped in silk and ribbons. Her porcelain skin makes all the more dramatic her soft violet eyes. In her hair are woven gauzy ribbons of periwinkle, and tiny crystals are set among the gentle waves of pale blond. Both she and the mermaid seem entirely enchanted with each other, and the murky shadows of the party fade away around their bright circle of innocence. Such a lovely little vision...
       Nila makes a soft sound in his throat, and I turn my gaze to follow his. Meres and Veri stand near each other beside a doorway, and the coldness in Veri's gaze is almost tangible. Claude is at Meres' side, looking up at him in a mixture of timid bewilderment and petulant obstinacy. The boy presses a hand to Meres' arm, gesturing him toward the curtained entry. Meres shrugs him off, and continues to stare at Veri, frowning.
       “Have you any idea what their dispute is, Nila?”
       He shakes his head slowly, continuing to stare at the tableau. “I have a few guesses, but I do not know for certain. They were separated at the rose party for quite some time, and I suspect Veri felt slighted by something in this. Honestly, how he can expect Meres to pass on every little pleasure, in order to attend to his tiresome demands, is beyond me. Veri's selfishness is a constant wonder to me.”
       “Yet Meres continually indulges him.”
       “I know... it is quite strange to me.”
       We sip our drinks for a long moment, and the three figures in the distance remain motionless. Then Claude makes another attempt to attract Meres' attention, and Meres snaps some rebuke to him, causing the boy to shrink away. I would suspect he is near tears, yet he remains at Meres' side. Odd.
       “What has Claude to do with it?”
       “Meres has been lavishing a good deal of attention on that boy – desperate to enjoy as much of Claude as he can before Luce gets to him, I expect. For Luce is eager to play with Father Douglas, and though he will do so directly, he will also use Claude toward this end.”
       “You knew this when you brought Claude to us, I presume?”
       “I did. Yet it has not entirely played out as I had expected... this scene, I most certainly did not foresee,” he comments with a smile. He sips from his glass and watches them as actors on a stage, completely engrossed by every nuance of their gazes and motions. We can hear none of the words from this distance, but it hardly matters – they speak so loudly in their every gesture. Meres has taken a step closer to Veri, and I can see some attempt at reconciliation on his face. Yet Veri continues to stare coldly, and takes a step back. He mutters something short, and Meres appears sad, then angry. He makes a retort, some accusation, and Veri... almost looks apologetic. He replies without rancor, and Meres, though still somewhat angry, appears to accept it. He sighs, shaking his head, looking away from Veri. Veri continues to look at Meres, but a longing creeps into his gaze, and though I have little sympathy for Veri, I can hardly help but feel a pang at such sadness.
       Meres says something – not to Veri, but to Claude, who still lingers near. The boy nearly jumps, his face alight and--- victorious, I believe. Meres moves coolly toward the exit, and Claude almost struts beside him.
       Nila laughs. “Claude believes he has won Meres' affections away from Veri. Such a naïve child! I can hardly believe how blind the boy is, for all his ability with the visual realm. He can paint a flower in every minute detail, yet cannot see how he is being played, as a mere toy in the endless game between Meres and Veri.”
       “Meres will tire of him soon, I suspect.”
       “Quite rightly so. We shall continue to admire the boy for his lovely paintings, but I expect his personality will be soon ignored, once we have gained the priest.”
       I raise an eyebrow at this, smiling. “You really think we shall?”
       He smiles broadly at me, his eyes shining. “We most certainly shall.” He waves over a serving girl, and takes two fresh glasses from the tray, handing one to me. He lifts his glass, and I clink mine to his. “To our future successes,” he comments warmly. We tilt the coral-hued wine toward our lips, and sip it leisurely, watching the endless play unfolding around us.

Languages

I decided, 'way back when I initially wrote this chapter, that Azal was responsible for the creation of lots of languages. (There's a bit in the book of Enoch that tells of the various things the Grigori taught to man - languages were one of them, astronomy, cosmetics, all sorts of fun things.) So I'd always intended to have him slip into different ones at random, particularly in moments of high emotion - only I hadn't the time to look things up that year of NaNoWriMo, and though I'd made lists in the meantime, they hadn't been worked into the text yet. When I wrote the new Azal chapter for this NaNoWriMo... uh, I got caught up in what I was writing, and totally forgot about the language-thing. whoops.

So I've spent an hour this morning slipping in bits of things. I made a list of swear words in various languages yesterday, and I read over my lists of random phrases in other languages that I have in my binder of notes. I'd planned - and keep forgetting - to set up a post in which I a) give all the flowers mentioned and their meanings, which is often why they're present, and b) translate all the random bits of languages. I'm half-tempted not to do so - there are no such translations in the books I read from that time period, presumably because the audience at the time would have understood the bits in French (which I do not). But there are other languages I run into, and they're rarely translated - despite this, they lend a nice atmospheric effect, even when I can't figure out the meaning by context.

Still, I am the kind of person who flips to the back of the book to read eeeeevery footnote. So I will accommodate anyone else who is, too. ;) Also - if anyone notices any of these are waaay off the mark, please let me know. The internet is a sketchy resource at best when it comes to languages! (Japanese, I know enough of to figure if it's right or not. Latin and Italian, sometimes. Spanish, probably. Icelandic, the lines from Sigur Rós songs are right at least.)


bal masqué - French; masked ball
Bλακαϛ - Greek; stupid
Al ta'atzben otti - Hebrew; don't piss me off
Láttu mig í friði - Icelandic; leave me alone
Striapach - Gaelic; whore
endur fyrir löngu - Icelandic; a long time ago
urusai - Japanese (which not everyone has the font for, so I've Romanized); shut up
divooneh - Persian; mad, crazy, insane
Εὐαί - Greek; onomatopoeic - a cry of joy
fête - French; celebration, party
Broðum og drekkum saddir - Icelandic; we eat and drink ourselves full


I'm aware that I'm a little heavy on the Icelandic. This is because: I found good sources for whole phrases of it, it is crazy old, and it looks awesome. ;) It's also, if I recall correctly, very close to the oldest form of English, so given that English is largely what's spoken in the story, I suppose it's sort of fitting.

9 - Azal

       Oh, Meres has outdone himself once again! The dècor is exquisite, even by his remarkably high standards. He has decorated the main ballroom to appear as a palace under the sea, an Atlantean wonderland, awash in blue and the strange, vibrant colors of undersea life. The chandelier overhead is positively dripping with the brightest crystal, long strands of carefully cut pieces dangling as drops of water - water which seems to hang in midair, as a thousand tiny fairy-lights are scattered about the room, the tiniest lanterns I have ever seen strung about everywhere. And the light is reflected a thousand times again, for there is crystal and fine glass and diamonds everywhere, every surface sparkling as if kissed by dew. The ceiling has been hung with vast swathes of silk and tulle and satin, in shimmering shades of cerulean, azure, amethyst, jade, and a thousand tones in between. The walls are similarly covered, all the way to the floor, draping over the various doorways and arches as well, with more transparent fabrics, which one may pass through as through the mist of a waterfall. Diamonds have been threaded to hang glittering in bursts of sparkling foam and bubbles, hanging from the ceiling and every available place they might gain purchase - the stem of every glass has tied to it a delicate strand of that most lovely of stones. The illusion is carried through to every detail - one would expect no less from Meres! - all the way down to the utensils on the buffet tables, which are shaped to look as bits of coral, the napkins, which are green and filmy, as seaweed. The music is a solo piano just now, generally slow, and gentle, with soft gradations of volume and tone, as the gentle motion of waves, the sparse melodies leaving notes hanging glistening in the air.
       As I move into the room, I am startled by a bit of moisture bursting onto my sleeve - and then look to see a young girl, perhaps fourteen, dressed quite convincingly as a mermaid, and holding a dish of soapy water in her hand, a loop of fine wire in the other. She is seated on a brightly-colored rock, and giggles at my surprise. "Welcome, kind sir," she says politely, her violet eyes sparkling. "Do be cautioned, that one may not remain dry and be a part of our realm."
       I smile down at her, amused, and enchanted by her strange loveliness. Truly, she does not look as one who walks upon the land - her hair is a strange shade of blue-violet, and falls in languid damp curls. Her skin is greenish, but it does not look unhealthy, rather it appears as though it is a healthy flush, only of pale jade instead of light rose. Her lashes are long, and at the end of each is a sparkling bead, I do not know of what. She is clad in some diaphanous material, of the same spectrum as the fabrics which drape the room, and she wears a long strand of pearls, each a different size and slightly different shade - as though she had, in play, picked them up from the ocean floor, and strung them together with childish carelessness.
       We were instructed to come dressed as for a bal masqué, but with a somewhat limited pallete - we had theorized about the theme, of course, from the colors, but as ever, his artistic vision could not have been guessed. It makes for such a lovely setting, though, for though the costumes are of diverse style, the unifying colors make all awash in a glittering spray of ocean water, a thousand sparkling shades blending together and separating again, glistening beneath the warm filtered light. There are lush feathers and sparkling gems, intricate brocades and extravagant swathes of silks and crepes, fountains of lace bubbling up at throats and sleeves. Ah, the delights of costume! For here there is no fear of being out of fashion, here the wildest dreams of what might make for some sort of vision, however lovely or chilling, may be realized.
       A serving-girl, dressed as... not a mermaid, for her feet are visible, but a naiad I suppose, for her long hair is streaked with jade, and her flesh is tinged with aquamarine and lavender, her eyes the sparkling green of a young stream. "May I offer you a drink, sir?" she asks sweetly, waving one hand toward the serving-tray she holds aloft in the other, full of glasses with some concoction of luminescent celadon.
       "Thank you, dear," I reply, taking a glass in hand. "Do tell me, where is our host? I should like to congratulate him on the lovely setting he has produced."
       She glances about, considering. "I do believe he is near the piano. Or that is where I left him, though the current may have drawn him elsewhere." Her eyes sparkle with, what? Excitement, I believe, or perhaps it is only self-satisfaction with her own ability to play her role so well. In any event she does seem to be enjoying herself, and that seems somehow fitting - I do not think spirits of the water should be somber.
       I make my way gradually toward the piano, looking about myself in admiration every moment. It is a great novelty to me just now, to be so surrounded by cool colors, and the mysterious glimmers of underwater. I have been so long in the deserts, tending to my residence there... It is lovely there as well, of course, where everything is rich and leisurely indulgence, the colors warm and spices strong. But my time spent there makes this party all the more unique, for there is a different sort of subtlety about the water than there is in flame. It is deeper, I think, and holds a different sort of darkness. There is sensuality in both, but the water is gentler than the fire... more womanly, perhaps, for it is full of curves and softness, slow rolling surges and ebbs. Things are silver here, where I have seen only gold, blue in place of red.
       "Azal!"
       I smile warmly, and embrace Meres, kissing his cheeks. "Ah, my dearest Meres, how wonderful the place looks! I cannot stop looking about me for a moment, there is such attention to detail - it is a grand success, even for you."
       He smiles proudly back, lifting his chin as he looks around, evidently quite pleased. "Yes, I am quite satisfied I think. Of course an artist is never fully content with his own work - isn't that so, Claude dear?"
       There is laughter, and a young man with dark curls and darker eyes looks shyly up at Meres. "You are quite right... but you understand, then, why the painting you requested of me has taken so long?"
       "Ah, darling, I do. I am simply anxious to see it! I have such high hopes in your talent, and while there will be all the time in the world to view it, I am still eager."
       The boy beams, his cheeks flushing with the praise. This is the first I have seen him, but I have gathered a bit of information on him from various letters and visitors in the past month or so. Meres seems quite fond of him due to his abilities; Luce seems to be engaged by him as well (a somewhat rare and always curious thing), apparently due to some unusual relationships the boy has gotten himself into - a priest, even, I have heard! But one never quite knows when to trust what one hears, especially when there are humans involved, for their memories are really terribly inaccurate. But he seems a fair enough thing, if a bit scheming. I like intelligence, of course, and wit, but I prefer to have those who are beneath my station, act as such. Something in this boy's eyes shows me a hint of presumptuousness, which I really would not have the patience for, though I am sure others find it amusing. Yet there is a naïveté to him still, so I suppose he would not be entirely poor company. Still, I shall leave him for Meres and Luce and whoever else. I am far more interested by the water-girls Meres has employed this evening, they really are of exceeding loveliness.
       I stay awhile and catch myself up on the latest gossip, laughing and jesting with the rest. Veri makes an appearance, and I am glad to see that he looks rather well. Of course it may merely be that his outfit flatters him so well - he is wrapped in shades of green and pale blue, with gentle streaks of blue in his still predominantly light-colored hair. (I must wonder, has he found some dye or bleach to keep it so? For I have tried a thousand things, and yet cannot bring such paleness back into my hair... and his hair retains a shine as well, so it cannot be anything so harsh as my hair would seem to need.) Luce glides into the conversation briefly, to murmur something secretively into Meres' ear, before slipping away again. It is only some minutes later that I notice the boy, Claude, has gone as well - undoubtedly this is not a coincidence.
       Meres calls over a serving-girl, requesting another round of drinks for everyone. She returns in a moment, and hands around the shimmering glasses, the diamonds tinkling lightly against the crystal. As she hands me a glass, her eyes meet mine, and I am immediately drawn to them. The deepest sapphires, sparkling darkly with mystery and silent experience, and they gaze into mine with a delicious mixture of desire and... not apprehension, it is nervousness but an excited one, the tingling sensation of great things expected. When her tray is empty, she moves slowly away... but she does not go far. She pauses at some little distance, glancing back to see if I am following her.
       I believe I shall.
       I slip silently away from the group, they are too engaged in conversation to take much notice, and in any event know well the value of discretion. If I chose to make my encounters private, then they will grant me that privilege (At least until morning, when all hints of any remotely interesting story will rapidly become fodder for discussion.)
       She moves deftly through the crowd, moving first toward the discrete alcove where the servant's supplies are held, to deposit the tray. She does not look behind her again, knowing I am there. I for my part keep a slight distance, that it may appear I am merely walking among the throng at random. It is an obvious game, but I should like to allow her to keep the scrap of mystery about her for a little longer, I find it quite enticing.


       When she has passed through one of the veiled archways that lead from the room, she pauses and waits for me. She stands off to one side, watching me, with a look of... feigned demureness, I think. As if she would gladly take the lead, but knows she ought to wait for a sign from me.
       Amused, I give it. I nod, smiling invitingly. "Lead me where you wish, dear."
       She raises an eyebrow, her face brightening with the loosening of constraint I have granted her. Her sapphire eyes glint with promise, and---
       She does not take me by the hand, but by the wrist.
       Such a small simple thing, but what a show of dominance is caught within it! Quite subtle yet incredibly pointed; she is skilled at her play. I have not yet decided if I shall allow her to maintain this apparent dominance, or if we shall make a game of forcing it out. But there is quite time enough to let things unfold, and decide new direction from wherever they seem to lead. I am in no hurry this evening.
       She guides me through a strange series of passageways - turning often, and soon growing quite narrow. I am not familiar with this building - in fact I am not even sure if Meres owns it, or has merely borrowed it for the evening, I have been so long away! - but it occurs to me that these must be the servants' passageways, designed to be hidden from sight yet connected to all rooms, that the servants may move swift and unseen to wherever they are bidden. A part of me is disgusted, to be moving between walls which were designed to conceal the lower, menial classes. Yet at the same time, I am excited by the thought, I suppose there is some thrill in the novelty of it, as well as the taboo. It is as if I were to walk through the streets of my desert city, shrouded in the black veils of pious women - being myself a man, and, oh earthly delights so far from pious!
       She does not speak, and her slippered feet are silent on the carpeted floor, so that the only sound is the faint rustling of the crêpe and organza and lace and silk she is clad in. For all of the many fabrics she is draped in, she ought to look altogether bundled up, but ah, Meres! Your artistry is flawless. The material is so arranged that it seems as mere waves of water, brushing against her, light and transparent, leaving behind small pieces of seaweed to wrap gracefully around her slim form, scattering droplets over all, which glitter in the light. Her skin is tinged with cerulean, her hair is a dark violet. I would suppose that such effects were achieved with help from Mephisto's theater connections, only the colors seem of such a different quality from the heavy greasepaint of the stage---
       Ah! But I will not dissect the creation of such a creature! I should destroy the novelty by doing so, and it is the novelty which is so appealing. Mere sex, I have had so many thousand times... but with a water spirit, now that is something new, even to me. Ah, Meres, you are a wonder! For not only have these girls the appearance, but also the proper character for the part. I am borne upon rapids, and know not toward what end I am carried...
       She takes a key from - where? I had not thought there was any place of concealment in such a frothy bit of clothing! She opens a door, and locks it again when we have entered - leaving the key in the lock, that it may not be misplaced in the passions which will ensue. (There is such an air of sharp intelligence about this girl; I am certain she was hired this evening for the services I am now employing her in, rather than mere food service or cleaning, or even simple decoration, though she should do well at any.)
       The room is - not surprisingly - all in shades of blue, decorated in a fashion similar to the ballroom. But it is darker, there are fewer diamonds and more swashes of rich violet, even to hints of crimson in the deepest shadows. The room is not very small, but it is made to feel so, with heavy wall hangings and the dark colors, all in a low, diffused light. (The window is blocked by thick drapes of crushed velvet.) The effect is that of a hidden grotto, a private subterranean cave, a place not to be discovered by any man.
       The bed is a low one, large and circular, and as the girl sits upon it, I see that the mattress is filled with water, or some other liquid. For the whole bed is set in motion bu her movement, low waves rippling over its surface. Oh what a thing! I shall really have to congratulate Meres, this evening is truly spectacular.
       And I see right away that this peculiar sort of mattress shall provide all sorts of lovely additions to our forthcoming activities.
       She curls one slender finger, beckoning me toward her. I move closer, but stand just out of her reach, curious as to what she will do.
       Smiling mischievously - almost smirking! - she lies back on her elbows, and extends her long legs toward me. They are able to reach me, and her delicate slippered feet pull me closer, her legs gradually wrapping around my waist.
       I like this one, she is both creative and determined. I let myself be pulled close, trailing my fingertips lightly over her slim and well-formed legs - but what form would a spirit chose to take, but that of perfection? Certainly we did, although after so many years, even our arts begin to fail, and---
       I leap onto the bed, grabbing her, pulling her form close to me, kissing silent her yelp of surprise, my hands running hungrily over every inch of her, delighting in the curve of her hips, the smoothness of her back, the softness of her breasts, pressing my hands hard against her, as if to sink into her youthful skin, losing my aging body in the perfection of hers...
       Her body writhes in a most delicious fashion, curling and arching and spreading, as graceful as seaweed fluttering in an underwater breeze. The waves of the bed press away from and back against us, rushing away under us, pressing into us and pushing us closer still... She pushes my jacket off my shoulders, I force her onto her stomach to find the clasps of her dress - they are hidden on her back, Meres always designs such things to be invisible so as not to distract in any way from the clothing, but easy to remove if one knows what to look for. (After so many years, I well know what to look for.) The dress is a single piece - all she wears now is the slippers and the delicate vine of tiny pearls and gemstones at her neck. I leave the necklace there (the slippers will come free soon enough of their own accord), for it looks quite lovely against her aquamarine skin, and brings out the greenish highlights of her eyes. I give scarcely a thought to the fact that the color of her skin is consistent over all her body. The illusion has been made with such care and detail, that I am able to let myself believe it. (Oh, my gratitude to you, Meres!) The long strands of her violet hair trickle down across her shoulders, and wind delicate patterns over the sheets and pillows beneath her. Her slender fingers unbutton my shirt, my pants, pushing them free of me, replacing the cool fabric with the heat of her mouth, her teeth and tongue tearing pleasure from every inch of my skin. I fall back, and let her ravish me for awhile, throwing all my thought into this moment, this pleasure, letting myself be caught by the naiad's net. I am in her domain now, and subject to her laws and whims - though only, of course, so far as I desire to be, for she is yet a creation of mere earth, and though she may stand above mortal man, she is yet beneath me... though, I suppose not at just this moment, is she so in the literal sense.
       She forces me onto my stomach, pressing her full length against my back, rubbing her body against mine - teasing me, moving just as she would were I turned to face her, and myself inside her. I life myself against her, delighting in the feel of her warm body curling around mine, clinging to me with such hunger for a satisfaction she cannot reach without me. Though she has the illusion of control, she knows it truly rests with me. But I shall let her play...
       Her fingers and tongue have by now found my most sensitive places, having sought them ceaselessly out all this time. She makes full use of them now, scraping her fingernails teasingly against my chest, drawing so near the sensitive places and then dancing quickly away; her tongue darting lightly over the small of my back, lapping hotly at my skin, skimming slowly along the crease - then darting quickly away. My breath comes in gasps, my every nerve alert and begging, pleading for more still more, aching for consummation and yet reveling in the heated yearning which floods all through me... Ah, the pleasures of the flesh! What wonders are to be found here, among the intricate interplay of nerve and chemical, flesh and thought, perception and response. There is still newness to be found here, for though the sensations have come and gone for thousands of years, the touch of every person holds in it some new subtlety, a different scent a different texture of flesh, a different heat of the mouth and touch...
       I am again on my back, and she holds her body low over mine, electricity darting through the humid heat of the air between us. Her skin is flushed, turning it a warm violet. Her hair hangs in damp curls - moist now from the sweat of our entangled bodies, the salt of our skin replacing the salt of the sea. One hand runs lightly over my slick chest, her touch almost tender... Then she lowers herself onto me in one swift motion, her nails drawing blood from my hips, and our voices at last fly free from our throats with the rapture of pleasure redoubled in intensity, all our sense focused on those places in which that strongest of ecstasy is contained, as we reach desperately toward it, our bodies refusing to be held back. No silent seaspirit in woman's form is she, I have set free her siren song...

       It is not long after when we collapse into the waves, our bodies exhausted and still tingling, as we float on the echoing ripples of our pleasure. Sighing deeply, she rolls back toward me, draping her limbs leisurely over me. A low sigh of contentment rumbles from me in answer, and I roll into the waves, resting on my stomach and letting the low ripples massage my front side. It is such a soothing sensation, the gentle motion stroking my still-tingling skin, passing soft hands over it, rubbing away the last jittery explosions from my nerves...
       I am startled suddenly from the doze into which I had fallen, my body tensing hard and rigid. Startled, I open my eyes and force my thoughts back into awareness, trying to sort out what had woken me. She lays beside me, one leg curled around mine, her fingers tracing lightly over my back---
       Her fingers tracing a pattern I recognize, one that sends my heart plummeting into depths I had tried to hard to forget, once I realize what it is.
       I sit bolt upright, sending her tumbling aside, and I reel on her, my eyes flashing dangerously. "Do not touch that!" I boom commandingly, my voice deep and threatening, my body flushing in angry flame.
       She blinks up at me, her eyes dull with languor and blank with confusion, not even fear having quite reached her yet. (So much for the intelligence I thought I saw! But it is my own fault, for having allowed the illusion such control.) "Why not? It is a lovely tattoo, so detailed! I have always---"
       I slap her face, growling threateningly, and she becomes silent, her brow creased with confusion, her lips in a pout and her violet eyes sparkling with sudden moisture. What do I care for her! She is a mere plaything, there are countless others to be had. I have done with this one, she has lost her novelty and thus her appeal.
       "It is no mere decoration," I mutter darkly, leaning over the side of the bed and finding my clothing. "It is a hateful thing, and I will not speak of it."
       "Oh, no! Do not put your shirt over it, I wish to see it!"
       My eyes widen and I whirl on her, almost too furious to speak. "Bλακαϛ! Have I not told you to let it be! Al ta'atzben otti, for you are made of nothing but the dust on the ground, you have no claim to my attentions. Leave me."
       She hesitates, still confused, but the fear finally taking hold. How did I ever believe she was intelligent! What a ridiculous child she is. "Láttu mig í friði! I wish to be alone, and I certainly no longer desire your company."
       She swallows hard - I think the miserable little thing is actually offended! Oh gracious Meres, have you not learned to train these girls? You did such a lovely job on their appearance and personality, but you seem to have neglected a few things... But she does leave, sliding her dress back over her head - though leaving it unfastened, for she cannot reach it herself, and would not dare now ask for my assistance. Striapach. Let her leave in disarray, and be seen thus in shame. As she reaches for the doorknob, she notices the key still in the lock. She pulls it free and throws it onto the floor behind her, then slams the door after her exit.
       I chuckle tiredly to myself, falling back onto the bed, letting the waves swell around me. What a ridiculous little child, so hurt by something so simple... the fact that she had presumed herself more than just an evening's bit of pleasure was quite a laughable mistake. I do not care to learn more of her, and certainly I will not see her again, for she will not return and we should not allow her to. Oh children of earth, what egotistic follies you stumble so easily into!
       And oh, what chasms you knock us back into, when you so stumble, your clumsy motions destroying our balance and sending us tumbling down... I know better than to fight the memories which are struggling against the barriers I have set against them. They will do nothing but plague me until they are let run rampant for a time... and the evening is yet young, there will be time enough to catch them again, and bind them back into the dark place where they will not trouble me.
       I turn onto my stomach, burying my face in the gentle silk sheets. My throat grows tight, and I feel my body curl up, then stretch out abruptly in a spasm of pain, as memory sets my flesh aflame. There is darkness, darkness which seeps into my blood, my blood which already runs so dark, it ran so dark, the blood flowing into my wings and staining my feathers, turning all to blackness and decay...

       The darkness had consumed me, had eaten away my wings, they had fallen from me in hideous clumps of putrid decay, the black feathers staining the ground around me. Once, endur fyrir löngu, I had not felt pain; if a feather was caught and pulled away from me, it was nothing. My body was transient, it would come and go and change if I willed it, I had only to will it and it obeyed, it was not bound by the physical constraints of this strange little realm, a world of His whimsy, and, really, His folly... for what sort of existence can come from a construct so bizarre? Who could cobble together spirit with mere flesh, and expect anything at all to come of it?
       But so He had, and we were curious, and so set to watch over these ridiculous little bastard creatures. Yet as obviously subservient as they should have been, there was something about this world of theirs which intrigued us... something which drew us ever-closer... there seemed to be so many new things, always popping up almost unbidden, all over this odd little earth... such newness, such novelty! Our curiosity led us back again and again, and we allowed our bodies to become substantial enough to feel the strange new things which mankind created... and we were captivated, there was such beauty here! And such beauty that we, with our knowledge of All Things, could create, if only we had not to have our every motion heeded by that One with such absurdly concrete rules about every last thing...
       And my memory is washed dry after all these years, I have only faded remnants, for Time has chipped away at us, as we never thought it could... we grow old, though we remain young, we grow weary, though we still walk. Oh that we yet had our wings, and could pull our aching feet from this dirty ground! But wings are not permitted in the world of men, and they were taken from us, taken with such pain and such torment... the pain has washed away all the pleasure that led to it, I do not remember, I---
       No I do not remember, urusai! I will let this ancient lament pass through me, but I will not think of that, I will not remember.
       Ensnared by gravity, we are bound now to this earth, and none know what shall become of us when it passes away, we dare not think of it we---
       I will not think of it! I have torment enough in the present, I do not need to think of what future hell--- oh but that is the answer there, of course, for there is no hope for such as us. Mankind has had its Saviour, we have seen Him come and go, and He held no message of promise for us. (Though you, you! You divooneh, ridiculous little half-breeds, that you should dismiss so lightly the very coming of God! We find it terribly amusing, that so many have decided Christ was a mere teacher, someone with a few apt comments, and easy advice which could be turned into pithy sayings to quote amongst family. Oh you wretched little fools!)
       I feel the scars on my back tug at the skin surrounding - they have never really healed, such huge gashes that were left on me... and I tried, oh, I tried, I---

       We, who have all the time in the world, soon grew weary of the world. This endless drag of Time! It sucks dry all the newness of things, turning all things old and tired, destroying all new and novel things the moment we touch them.
       We have lived in every city, dined at every court, we have tasted the pleasure of every age, and seek endlessly for the next. For novelty is our only merciful friend, pushing from our minds, of only for a moment, that torment which is out existence. Pleasure is all we seek, that it might banish for a moment our thousand pains...
       But oh, my wings! My feet grew so tired, my legs stumble, and I have so longed to feel again the rush of air and expanse of the sky... I am caged by gravity, which quells the song of every bird; gravity which tries every moment to pull me to the earth, and grind my face into the dust, but such is not my place! I was born before the stars took breath, it is the children that are Men who belong to the dust.
       And my wings were so lovely... the largest of anyone's, radiant in the sunlight, the feathers so soft against my skin... and against her skin, oh temptress Eve! that thy daughters should be so cruel! She wrapped herself in my wings, pressed her perfect body to mine, my wings draped gently around us both, ensconcing is in a world of quiet, soft white, a world no-one else would see, a world where only we were needed, for she so fully engaged all my thought in her strange and enticing newness...
       Ah, that I could be so careless! So new to the physical realm was I, so little did I know... and that cursed child was born and all was changed. Cast into darkness, out children twisted and abhorred, and soon slaughtered out of existence.
       Yet we remained.
       And our eyes slowly grew accustomed to the darkness of this realm, we grew to see in this shadow of a world... and we found comfort here, of a sort. Oh, but not true comfort, only distraction, all is and ever will be mere distraction from our shame, our pain, why have we lived so long! We bleed, our fragile flesh tears, our wings are long-gone, yet we will not die. I once felt these lungs could no longer draw breath, I had counted a million inhalations and knew that I had taken billions before, and I did not see that my body could continue its ceaseless labor. A body was not made to live so long. And my lungs ached, they were clogged and dirtied by the air of so many cities of men, breathing in the grime and stale exhalations, stagnant in the heavy air so near the ground. I knew I must die, or find some way to clear the pollution from my lungs. I traveled to the highest mountains, where the air loses some of its weight, but even there gravity chained me, and I could feel it pulling at me, warring with me against every inhalation, holding me still close to the ground of dust. I grew so weak, my lungs felt so heavy, I needed my wings! I had to leave this earth, I had to wrest this body free of its grasp. I needed my flight restored, I needed to breathe the clear, bright air...
       I sought devices made by of the most brilliant among men, but none could sustain the weight of this wretched body. I suffered the fate of Icarus a thousand times, I fell from the sky again and again, each fall an echo of that first and most horrible one... (Though at least I suffered no pain when these false wings were destroyed! Oh that agony which haunts me still!)
       The mathematical sciences of men were desperately lacking, they had not the scope to address all issues at once. Oh that damnable creation of Time! If only it did not so bind me, I knew that I should find my answers... but I could not wait for Man to learn all he needed to learn. My agony grew worse every moment, and none could resolve my pain, none could free my chest of its stiff constraint.
       I turned to the realm of spirits, for I knew they were not bound by man's limitations. But I had been too long on the earth, and could no longer call as loudly as I once could... oh that ease which I once had with such things! To call upon the spirits working the heavens and earth and stars and hell, and to have them answer my every request, with scarcely a thought and certainly without effort.
       But that is a skill which physical beings have to learn, and my body had abandoned the talent it once knew. We had, long ago, taught men some art which could in time approximate our once-latent ability. We had often laughed at their feeble attempts, at the ease with which devils convinced them they spoke with angels. But ah, it was such a beautiful art we created for them, filled with ritual and elaborate signs... incredibly difficult, really, but purposely so. Whenever they seemed to have about learned it, we added another detail to the ritual, another line to the drawing, adding more and more complex elements and rules, simply to see where they would give up in frustration and fail! But Man is such an odd beast, he is able to learn far more than we had expected. Finally we grew tired of the game, and left them to devise their own additional routes, for we had thought them enough to begin.
       I found that they had expanded greatly upon that initial art, and it had changed so much that I could recognize very little of it. The symbols and elements, the words, even the purposes had changed in the passage of generations.
       But I made my way along the secret hierarchies, until I had found one who promised to be the most adept of any in several generations. I could wait no longer, I went to him and gave him my command.
       I wanted my wings returned to me.
       He spent years in research, and I gave him every aid I could devise. He learned more from me than he had in all his long years of study - for I knew the very origins of that strange power he sought, I had helped to create the very channels through which he reached. I had drawn the symbols from which all his were derived. I had lived among the very stars through which he charted his paths, I had breathed in that rarefied air of a realm his fingertips only brushed against...
       And there are none who better understand the speech of spirits than a spirit itself, and I had been so long among men that I could act as a perfect translator between the two. Though I no longer had the power to reach into that stream of pure existence, I could interpret what he found there, I knew the directions in which to seek.
       Sacrifice was made, years were lost, materials and wealth were consumed, and I watched the man age before me. (Such a wretched process! The One who created such a thing has a truly warped sense of aesthetics.) And at last the paths were laid, and the words written out, and the angles and intersections measured. We made ready every preparation, lit the candles in the proper order with the proper incantations, and the maps were laid on the floor for the spirits to follow and be caught between.
       I could feel the spirits grow thick in the room, not a heaviness as of dust but as one of spice and incense, only lighter, as the empyrean air of the mountaintops. My heart raced, my lungs drew breath eagerly, and I tasted the first hint of that clear, celestial air I had sought for so long... ah, how my soul yearned so to immerse itself in it! And it grew so near!
       I was laid on the table, and he drew the symbols on my back, incising the skin and pouring in the ink, that the patterns became a part of my flesh, binding the energies together. The pain was nothing to that which I had felt for such millenia, and I scarcely noticed it, so drunk was I with the nearness of that other plane of being. I could hear the voices of the spirits swirling about us, so faintly but I could hear them again after so long! I wept with the nearness of them, as a mother weeps to see again her children after some separation...
       ...though I should not use such a phrase, not knowing myself what it is to have children. For I never knew that child she bore from me, we were swept apart so soon, and I gave it no thought in those days.
       The paths were laid on my back, the intricate patterns drawn, which should make a path into the past and into places intangible, and draw out again that which I had lost.
       He continued his low chant, the words in tongues he had not known, which I taught him carefully until he spoke them as smoothly as one who had known them all his life. Ancient words, words which Man had forgotten but I had not, for I had brought them into being so long ago. Streams were stirred which had not been disturbed in long generations, and the air grew brighter, thinner, and I do not know if my heart beat faster or if it stopped altogether in its rapture. He breathed heavily, his lungs unused to such atmosphere, but it did not matter for the words were nearly said, I could feel the motion of unseen things tangling in the inscriptions upon my back, I could feel the strange frigid heat of them, the effervescent flames, and again I wept for the joy which seemed so near, and the anticipation I could no longer stand.
       He gasped out the last words, and collapsed to the floor, his breath stolen away by the rush of unearthly air, the spirits flooding the small room, and oh I was again among them! I danced again among the stars my brothers and they laughed for joy at my return, and my wings unfurled, oh the glory of their expanse! Muscles were open again which had been so long unused, I was no longer crippled, oh to be so set free! Εὐαί! My body free and unconstrained! And I soared I soared through open skies...
       And then the laughter changed.
       There was a flash as of lightening, and the smell of scorched atmosphere, and I vomited from the stench of my wings rotting from me no no no not again not again this can not be! I screamed and clutched at the feathers which fell around me but they rotted in my hands and my skin was coated in the slick grime of their decay, I fell I fell and the spirits laughed in derision and perverse mirth, taunting me as I plummeted from them, my eyes cast in vain around me for some sign but all was the scarlet of blood and the black of decay, the room was in flames and blood mixed with the ink in my flesh and all was stench and terror and agony---

       It is some time before I am able to end the uncontrollable weeping, which shakes my body and tears my lungs and burns my eyes. I am exhausted by memory and the expurgation of feelings which it always, always brings forth. I am so tired... oh that wretched girl, to have forced me through it all again! I shall certainly have some torment of even worse degree thrust upon her for this.
       ...oh but what worth would it have, nothing could be worse than the shame in which my existence is buried. I have tried every device known, and nothing will remove the stains upon my back, they shall remain with me as long as the scars they cover. There is nothing to be done.
       And so I sigh, and wipe the streams of tears from my face, and compose myself. I find a hidden bell pull, and ring for a servant. I shall have a glass or two of wine to refresh myself, and then rejoin the fête - I am certain to be missed by now, and am certain to be missing things of interest myself. I shall find diversion there, I am sure, Meres is so wonderful at providing entertainments, and really, the room was too lovely, it would be a shame not to enjoy its splendors this evening.
       I shall never truly forget my pains, but I can hide them away again for a time, covering them over with some little pleasure or another... Broðum og drekkum saddir, burying all beneath our indulgences, and so keep at bay this endless despair.

Resources

Project Gutenberg, wonderful in so many ways, and it's a delight everytime I land on the site. I needed a poem for Veri, and Goethe came to mind. A quick swing by Wiki to make sure I was in the right time period (Eliot, sadly, is too recent for using in this story), and to remind myself what it was by Goethe that I had liked so much. (Sorrows of Young Werther. Why do I not own this book yet?? Adding to Kaboodle list now.)

Snagged a book of Goethe's poems from Gutenberg, skimmed through, and printed a handful of the early ones. (I was more interested in something visceral, melancholy, and.. well, angsty. The younger the writer, the more of that sort they write.)

And I suspect that I, like Veri, will have the line "Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight" running through my head for quite some time. I, also like Veri, have a stronger gut intuition of the lines than actual comprehension, but that only means it can take on a thousand meanings in my thoughts.

8 - Veri

       I should be listening to her. It would pass the time, and if I could lose even a moment of my own time in hers, it would bring more peace than I have had in weeks. But still, I cannot. Her voice is no more than that of a canary, chirping lightly and incomprehensibly. A pretty enough sound, but with no substance whatever. Sighing, I shift my gaze out the window, narrowing my eyes at the rain. While I would find sunlight grating today, this endless rain only adds to my weariness, compounding the dreadful ennui of sameness that pervades my soul.
       I think she has stopped speaking. Undoubtedly she is offended by my lack of attention. This is hardly of concern to me. I lift a book bound in soft olive leather from the table beside me, and extend it toward her, without turning my eyes from the window. “Read from this instead. Goethe. Perhaps I will find the words of a poet more engaging.”
       I can sense the disgust in her at my complete lack of grace. What does her opinion mean to me? It is terribly presumptuous of her to expect me to care about her silly pride. What has she to be proud of? She is pretty, but not astonishingly so. Her speech only parrots the petty gossip of society, without understanding any of the subtleties inherent in it. She is already past twenty, unmarried, and has few prospects left to her. She will die a sad old maid, an unwanted burden on her family, drab and colorless as bitterness slowly takes her soul.
       “I do not care which you read. Poems ought to be read in their original language, for cadence and subtleties are always lost in the translations. But German is such a harsh sound on my ears, I would rather suffer the mis-interpretation of a few words than listen to such guttural noise.”
       A whisper of pages, a quiet clearing of throat. “Preservation.” That is a dreadful title, I fear this one will be tedious. But her voice is quiet and gentle, unassuming, and I am grateful that she tries for no misplaced dramatic airs.

       “My maiden she proved false to me;
       To hate all joys I soon began,
       Then to a flowing stream I ran,---
       The stream ran past me hastily.
       There stood I fix'd, in mute despair;
       My head swam round as in a dream;
       I well-nigh fell into the stream,
       And earth seem'd with me whirling there.”

       ...I am certain the poem will continue on with the appearance of some lovely maiden, whose beauty absolves all of the narrator's pain in a single kiss. Drivel. But in this opening image, I can lose myself for a moment, letting the girl's voice fade into the sound of a rushing brook. The water flows darkly beneath the interlaced boughs of ancient trees, in some far corner of the black German forests. Rushing over the stony ground, steps stumbling on stones and roots, lungs aching with the pleasant pain of harsh exertion, the bright stinging cut of branch and thorn on torn flesh, that strange delight in physical reflections of an emotional torment... The water hypnotic, tumbling endlessly over stones of blue and indigo and violet, the water clear and cold, churning, swirling seductively around the stones. Falling toward the bank, feet slipping on the steep angle, plunging into that icy water, the sharp cold attacking the flushed heat of tormented emotion, the cold uncaring water surrounding the tiny body of burning passions...
       I lie still in cold waters, submerged in the unfeeling chill of nature, the water flowing over my motionless body. Long strands of my pale hair curl into the current, wrapping around the blue stones, moonlit gold and inky indigo. My fingers rest on the smooth bottom, digging past worn stones and burying themselves in the rich mud below. I sink slowly, slowly... my lungs no long strain, my eyes at rest, my heart settles down to sleep...
       A shriek, a crow dipping down to the water's surface, grabbing at me with needle-like talons, tearing my flesh, ripping my eyes open to flood with the icy water. “Help! Oh help! Oh he's stopped breathing! Someone come quickly!”
       I shove the crow away with all my strength, it caws again as it tumbles from the air, falling to the ground, it splashes into the water and flails a moment, churning up the stream, disturbing its soothing turbulent flow. I strike at the bird, and strike again, until it has stopped moving, and sinks into the water, at last silent.
       A gentle knock upon a tree, and now the water is leaving my blinded eyes. “You may enter. Please remove the dead bird, I have no use for it.” The servant says not a word, but lifts the fallen body in his arms, and carries it from the room. I sit back on the divan, soaking into warm velvet, blinking my eyes slowly. The forest has fallen away, and I sigh tiredly. It was a lovely image, while it lasted... yet I fear there are still many more hours remaining to this day. To this day, and the next, and the next... However have we kept ourselves alive for so long? It hardly seems worth the effort.
       I lift the book from the floor where it had fallen, and smooth the pages. My eyes drift from one page to the next, moving quickly past the juvenile praises of sweet young maidens – these idylls have their place, but they lack enough substance for my thoughts today.

       “O'er my sad, fate I sorrow,
       To each dewy morrow,
       Veil'd here from man's sight
       By the many mistaken,
       Unknown and forsaken,
       Here I wing my flight!
       Compassionate spirit!
       Let none ever hear it,---
       Conceal my affliction,
       Conceal thy delight!”

       I let my eyes linger here, reading it over again, lingering on each line, as a lover lingers over a kiss. Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight... I know not in what context the poet wrote the lines, nor do I feel troubled to fully comprehend his intentions in writing them. I need not bother with the specific meaning, for it is the feeling of the phrases that eases the knot within my breast. The sense of the words, far more than their definition, is what brings me... comfort, I suppose. Veil'd here from man's sight by the many mistaken, unknown and forsaken...
       Though I could have any companionship I wished, I should always feel alone and disconnected. I do not know how the others can find such diversion in the games of society, in seduction of mind or body, in fleeting physical sensation. They last but a moment, and pass so soon, and the emptiness only returns the harsher for its momentary absence. It takes such effort, for so little reward, whyever do they bother with it all?
       Meres. You are still capable of finding beauty in this old, old world. How is it your eyes retain the energy to see things anew? I am still angry with him, but there is time enough for that anger to fade. In his company, time does not stagnate so much as it does when I am alone. There is something of comfort, if he is only near, for I suppose I have known the closest thing to contentment while in his society. Meres... I suppose he stays away for fear of angering me further, and yet I should have thought to have a letter from him, at the least. Some small note or gift, that I might know he at least acknowledges the slights he has given me.
       I rise from the divan, my limbs feeling strange and distant, as though they had remained too long in the cold stream. In one corner of the room is a small writing desk, with delicately watermarked paper laid upon the mahogany surface. I sit, and dip a pen into the ochre jade inkwell.
       “Do not remain long from me. I ache for the comfort of your presence. You have wounded me, yet I fear you are my only relief.” I fold the page carefully, then fold a blank page around it. Heating some wax over a candle, I press my intricate seal onto the opening, ensuring none but the addressee shall read it.
       A fresh sheet of paper, and a brief list of instructions. I reach for the bellpull hung from the wall, and wait for a servant to appear. I hand him the instructions, and the note addressed to Meres. He bows and retreats soundlessly.
       I ought to have paid more heed to Azal's studies of hypnotism and the like – speaking with the servants is tedious enough, and writing is little better. If I could simply think of my desires, and they understood in an instant, without even the sight of them being necessary... but I fear such talent has been lost to us, it has gone so long unpracticed. Perhaps Luce has retained a little of it, but, what games he would drag me through before instructing me! I have no patience for him.
       I walk from the empty room, and pass through empty hallways, past more empty rooms. I should have guests brought in - they might provide diversions. But it is so tedious to deal with guests, to have to pay them courtesies and ensure their needs are met. I should have to dine with them, and converse with them, and probably not ignore them as much as I would like to. There must be some solution to this... Azal seems to deal best, I think, with fleeting acquaintances. He picks up a new interest, and keeps it in possession only so long as it amuses him, then he casts it aside lightly – and yet, seems to offend few. I shall have to inquire of him.
       I pass down some stairs, through more silent halls, and turn into the aviary for a few moments. The birds are vibrant in a thousand colors, and the sound is a delightfully engaging chaos. Meres brought many of them to me, and arranged their delicately wrought cages just so, for the best effects of color and sound. He brought in plants, trees and large pots of flowers that mimic the rainbow plumage of the birds, cascading in quiet radiance alongside their more vocal companions. I stroll along the path, letting my fingertips brush a feather here, a petal there, my ears relaxing into the impossible cacophony. I catch a phrase here, a cascade of melody there, and the bright flashes of sound echo in my mind as scraps of poetry, not quite comprehended but understood all the same. Then to a flowing stream I ran... my head swam round as in a dream... The birds call to each other in light gossip and dark threat, the birds call to the sky in welcome and despair, in love and desperation... Conceal my affliction, conceal thy delight...
       In a half-dream filled with the thousand colors of gemstones in the sunlight, I pass through the room and continue on, the thousand melodies of the birds echoing in my mind. Here I wing my flight. A melancholy tune, mimicking the songs of Araby, sliding into strange half-tones along a rapidly undulating path, regret and loss in this place of cold rain and no sun. And then, a shaft of sunlight, as another speaks of fresh dew on a spring morning, the delight in chill rain after a humid summer day, the sparkling light of a winter moon. I follow their conversations from one image to the next, hearing their songs and the sense of the words, and I see the beauty of silent nature, as it covers the cold earth in robes of exquisite embroidery.
       I cast aside my clothing, and slip into a warm bath, the steam rising to cover the tall windows, and hide away the gray of the day. A flute plays from some room beyond, and I catch phrases repeated from the aviary. Veil'd here from man's sight... to each dewy morrow... I close my eyes, and let the water pass over me, the birds carrying on their wings the visions of worlds other than my own, worlds in which I can, for a few scant moments, find escape.

Notes

Back-dated the previous post - I worked a day shift, and when I got home, a fabulous dinner needed to be made. Pasta, homemade meatballs cooked in a yummy sauce, italian bread with dipping oil, some badly-smelling but yummy-tasting cheese...

After dinner, two episodes of Farscape, and some sips of a little bottle of Irish Whiskey (which was surprisingly yummy), the boy and I were too sleepy. But I needed to write. I was cranky and had no idea what to write, and we were both tired, but I wanted to get something down.

Tom was doing a bit of coding (his November project is learning to code for the Droid phone - he wants to make a Sabacc game, to be played on the R2-D2 Droid). But I interrupted his audible conversation with the computer screen to plead for an idea.

He told me I should have one person get stuck in the mud, and then two others fight over who has to stay with the whiny little bitch while the other goes for help.

While this made me laugh, it also struck a chord. That could actually work. I'd been flipping through my binder of notes, and stopped on the page listing the seven sins and their Latin names. Sloth. I could work with that.

But as I started in writing, I decided Claude would injure his hand, and be unable to paint. Meres would neglect to attend to him. And then I realized what I had written earlier - that Meres was using Claude's art as a substitution for his own. If Claude was hurt, that plan wouldn't work anymore. So, on seeing Claude hurt, Meres can just wander off to go do his own painting - and thus, not give a crap about Claude any more that day. (Not that Phistos need an excuse to be self-centered. It's basically the core of their nature.)

A few minutes later, I suddenly realized something, and actually gasped aloud and clutched at my heart, because I realized Claude's little painting should be destroyed. And it hurt me to think of doing it. My chest ached at the thought. Tom, I think, looked at me like I was crazy, but this was not something I needed his input on - if it hurt me that much, then it was a strong enough image that I had to put it in there. damnit.

I pounded through until I got to the end of the section, and though it fell short of my quota yesterday, it was something, and I hadn't the energy for more. I'm not working today, so between massive stacks of dishwashing, baking goodies for a baby shower, and going to said baby shower, I am going to get caught up.

Really.

As soon as I figure out wtfh I'm writing next.

7 - Meres, continued

       His first strokes seem hardly more than water on the page, so light is the color. But after a few dozen passes of the fine sable hairs across the textured page, the color begins to show, glowing faint as a spring sunrise. I continue watching for some time, and the rose blossoms before me, as fresh and lifelike as the petals suspended above the marble pedestal. I smile warmly at the boy, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It is lovely work... for such a brief sketch, you have captured the color and sense of it perfectly.”
       Claude beams proudly, looking up into my face eagerly, with both gratitude and... a bit of avarice, I suspect. He drinks in praise as a fool quaffs wine, losing his sense in the heady brew. I have caught glimpses of this in him before, though I am now more certain of it. This, more than his innocent inquiries into the perverse areas of nature, will be his downfall. A connoisseur is only in danger when he loses his mind to the things he tastes – Claude tastes them and is intrigued, but takes nothing to heart, and so remains untarnished, though he walks through the coal-dusted alleys of sin. But pride, that superbia which has brought the greatest kings to ruin, is soaking through the boy's skin...
       He darts the brush into the crystal vase, swishing it rapidly, not wishing to lose that flow of semi-lucidity that allows the artist to properly convey information from the eye to the hand. And – I see it the moment before it happens, though I do nothing to prevent it – his hand knocks the vase over, he gasps and makes a futile grab for it, the crystal strikes the edge of the marble pedestal and sparks of light scatter in the air, one hand swipes through the air again, the other clutches frantically at the sketchbook, he throws himself off balance and drops to the marble-tiled ground, the pedestal and the rose pot falling alongside, his limbs forced to odd angles, a loud cry from his throat.
       “Ah! Meres, I'm so sorry, I'll find a replacement--- oh! Oh, Meres!” His voice chokes into a sob, as his trembling fingers let fall a portion of the page with the mirrored rose. The book fell away from his hand as he fell, and his grasp ripped the lovely little painting into pieces. The plant which had been his muse has splayed itself painfully on the cold marble floor, dirt scattered among now-dead leaves and petals, torn from the tiny bush which had been so beautiful. His world had shrunk as he painted, all that had existed was the canvas and his subject, all that had existed was that invisible mirrored link, that transmutation of his vision into a vision which others could see and perhaps comprehend. That beauty which only he saw, and only he could capture and bring to the world in such a way... that beauty grows to the size of the universe, and when it is torn away, we lose our whole world...
       To have grasped, even for a moment, some form of perfection, even if it is only the realization of a moment's wild vision, is to taste fulfillment in one's very soul. And that... that is not a gift which can be lost without pain. It tears the very soul, and the wound never quite leaves. Though the drawing was small, Claude will never be able to recall it without a pang deep in his chest, where no panacea can reach.
       He will paint no more flowers today. And I will not paint another image such as the one I have lost. We shall both suffer the pain, and the only relief is diversion from the memory.
       I turn to walk away, the boy's cries now silent in my mind. A servant will be along soon enough to tend his wounds, I need not trouble myself. The inner pain, nothing will heal, and it is a lesson he will simply have to learn. I wonder vaguely if he will continue to paint, or if the very thought will hurt him for some time to come.
       “Meres! Where are you going? Meres! My hand, I've cut it, I'm--- How can you just walk away from me? Meres!”
       I lift a scarlet poppy from a windowsill. It is potted in a lovely old vase of Chinese lacquer work, the black and gold and scarlet designs a pleasing compliment to the vermilion petals. The colors will be a nice antidote to the gray day, and I shall soon forget it all as I paint.

7 - Meres

       “I simply cannot paint on days such as this!”
       Claude storms about the room in a perfect picture of artistic fury. He pulls at his wild curls, grinds his teeth, and swats at pots filled with brushes, scattering their contents across the room. “I have had every lamp in the house lit all morning, and yet it is too dark. I cannot see any of my colors correctly – any time I set a brush to my canvas to continue on, I find the shade is wrong, and I have to quickly wipe it away before it destroys what I have already done!”
       The lights are indeed blazing in the room – there are half a dozen lamps set in the wall, and the boy has had perhaps another dozen brought in, standing on every possible surface... including a few that I realize, on closer inspection, are really quite dubious. Resting a lamp on a few books is one thing, but to leave one unattended upon an unwieldy stack of pottery, books, and discarded canvases, tilting as the camponile in Pisa... I find myself somewhat concerned for the safety of our young protégé, given the particularly flammable nature of his paints, their various mediums and cleaning solutions.
       His easel has been pulled as close to the window as it might be, still allowing him some access to it. Another lamp is blazing with a flame dangerously high, his delirious palate beside it, brushes scattered across the windowsill. But the sky remains obstinately gray and brooding, allowing little light to filter through, though it is not far from noon. It is more than enough light to see, but given the dingy nature of the external light, and overly golden quality of the lamps, it is quite clear to me how his difficulty has arisen.
       “You poor boy... has no-one yet provided you with an electric light?”
       He pauses in his rampage a moment to stare blankly at me. “A what?”
       I chuckle, and step gingerly across the cluttered studio floor toward him. “A new sort of light, becoming quite the fashion among the Americans. We shall have to set one up for you. The light seems very cold to most, though it is far brighter than our gas lamps. Still, I think it would suit you nicely on days as this, for its color is much closer to sunlight. But here – are there any sketches you might work on today? I will bring you to my greenhouses, that you might find something to ease your frustrations.”
       Claude sighs petulantly, casting about him for a battered bound sketchbook. “I suppose... there are so many flowers to be put into this painting, and I have little reference here. Every flower I have brought into the house has faded within a day, and no plant seems willing to stay alive within my walls.”
       I smile calmly at the boy, and reach out a hand to smooth down some particularly disturbed curls. “We shall find you something, my dear. I have even some plants which require no soil, very little water, and only air on which to live – you might do well with one of these, at the very least.”
       He laughs at this. “Perhaps! Do give me a moment, let me find some pencils...”
       I turn toward the door, to call for a servant, that my carriage might be brought round – though it has been scarcely quarter of an hour since I arrived in it. “Anything you cannot find, do not trouble yourself over – I have quite a number of materials myself, and you are more than welcome to them.”

       Though our exposure to it is brief, the weather is nonetheless unpleasant. The rain is steady, beating unceasingly on everything it touches. The wind has risen, and gusts in foul temper through the narrow channels between tall brick edifices. The carriage is warm, at least – the servants must have brought fresh hot coals in from Claude's residence, for the iron boxes at our feet are hot to the touch. Yet by the time we have reached my estate, a chill has settled within me. Indoors it is quite warm, and the greenhouses are still warmer, but I have a fresh pot of tea brought to a table in the orchid room, that I might enjoy it at my leisure.
       I give Claude a brief tour of the several glass-walled rooms, and he looks about in pure admiration. This pleases me – for I see that it is not only wonder at the variety of plants kept in perfect health, but appreciation of the arrangement of the myriad colors and textures. He can hardly recognize the intricate combinations of meanings as well, but the visual aspect is sufficient for him to know.
       I seat myself among the orchids, and pour tea into a china cup, the porcelain thin as an eggshell. I hold the cup up to the light passing through the glass panes above, and admire the red-gold liquid within. I breathe in the warm scent, and am pleased to recognize the exotic blend so recently acquired. Redbush tea, rooibos from the farthest reaches of Africa. This one is blended with cranberry for warmth and orange for brightness, the tea itself mild and spiced, tasting just as it ought to given its coloring.
       I let my gaze fall idly around, eyes soaking in the rich colors and strange forms of the orchids in blossom, hanging in their strange way from branches and trunks of other trees. Large white moths with fuchsia lips, small yellow bees with vermilion freckles, spindly dragonflies of unreal chartreuse, motionless hummingbirds of rich claret purples that are nearly black...
       Claude has brought a stool over to a trellis of tumbling jasmine flowers in the next room, and he rests the sketchbook upon his knees, resting the handful of pencils on a marble pedestal, which also holds a delicate urn overflowing with coral tea rose blossoms. He leans close to the jasmine, and I see his brow furrow as he tries to capture the sensual curve of the deceptively simple flowers. There are several plants twined together on the arching trellis, and the small stars are both white and yellow, tumbled together. I never tire of their warm, spiced fragrance – I often have some brought into other rooms, for their fragrance is as potent, yet gentler to the senses, than any incense. Veri often finds them soothing---
       Veri.
       I have not seen him in some days. I fear he is still cross with me, for he has not visited, nor sent me any word, since we stayed at Luce's some weeks ago. I suppose he feels he suffered some neglect at my hand – but I left him well-attended, and saw to him on my return from the gardens that night. He can hardly have expected me to remain at his side the entire time.
       My cup is empty. I refill it, and drink without tasting.
       Jasmine, meaning sensuality, ecstasy. Tea rose... always lovely. Heliotrope, on a shelf nearby, infatuation. Fuchsia, in a hanging planter, the heavy blossoms of white and cerise kissing the violet clusters of the heliotrope – the ambition of my love thus plagues itself. A complex meaning for a simple flower to hold, though the blossoms fold in on themselves, flowers within flowers, a claustrophobic existence, one thing wrapped so tightly around the other, binding the two so closely together...
       “Meres? Have you any water colors? I should like to get the shade of this rose...”
       Startled, the cup slips from my fingers, and shatters on the floor. The thin china is almost lost against the delicate grays of the marble tiles, and I stare thoughtlessly at the contrast of the sharp, angular pieces, and the round form of their displacement.
       “Oh! I am sorry... I didn't mean to startle you...” The boy sounds nervous, almost frightened. I only sigh, and stand, trying to bring my head above the surface of the heavy thoughts which had threatened to suffocate me.
       “It is no trouble. One cup is hardly of importance.” A servant has already appeared from invisibility, and is picking up the pieces. “I have a few paints in another room – I shall bring them to you.”
       Near the koi pond in another room, there is a small sitting area, with an intricately carved box of rosewood for a side table. Inside, I keep a small supply of art materials, that they will be near if the mood strikes me. I retrieve a set of water colors and a few brushes. On another table stands a vase of cut crystal, and I dip it below the surface of the pond, letting it fill with cool water. The koi twirl lazily in the depths of the water, out from beneath the lily pads, seeking what little sunlight falls between them.
       I have not painted in some time... The last came to such an upsetting result, that I can hardly think on it yet. Such a lovely composition of ivory and scarlet, such fine details... and all destroyed, by small minds and loud voices and hysterical hands. I should have---
       I should have not allowed myself to think of it. I am still entirely irrational about the matter. I will bring the boy paints, and he will create something lovely for me to admire. I need not bother to do so myself, when I have him to do so for me.
       I bring him the paints, and seat myself near him. His fingers move in such minute motion, the lead of the pencil seeming to wrap itself around invisible curves, tracing out the forms of the thousand-fold ruffles of rose petals. The pencil rasps almost silently across the paper, and it whispers of secret things: The transmutation of three dimensions into two, the mystic properties which deceive the eye, the displaced mirror which, through the motions of a hand, relocates that flower from its place on the bush to the artist's page.
       Dabbing bits of scarlet and saffron into the stained lid of the paint set, he thins them with more water, making small tests along the bottom of his page, until he is satisfied with the shade. The coral of the blossom is both warm and cool, flushed pink as a maiden's blush at the throat, cooling with faint pale frost at the edges.