12 - Mephisto, continued

       Meres hesitates a moment as he reaches for his drink, then sighs as he brings it to his lips. “I had thought, for a moment, that he had forgotten to bring Veri's drink. But once again, he has chosen to remain in his own rooms, alone...”
       “He did not come to see this production you have put so much time into?” I am rather surprised at this – Veri is perhaps the most selfish among us, and yet, he and Meres are so very close. It is quite a slight.
       “No. He gave the usual excuses, but I still do not know what truly troubles him, and I have tired of searching for the answer. He can find it for himself.” His voice is unusually dull, and the flatness is quite obviously covering over a very, very deep emotion. What a pathétique little drama these two are bound in! I sip my wine slowly, letting the richness of ancient grapes soak into my tongue, savoring the rich woody flavor, that strange blend of bitter and sweet.
       “Our young protégés seem to be enjoying your creation quite thoroughly,” I comment as my eyes fall on the box beside ours. David and Claude are seated as close as possible to the railing, apart from the small handful of others in the box, who sit farther back and talk amongst themselves, caring little for the enchanting things on the distant stage. The boys seem entranced - Claude by the artistry in the sets and costumes, the grace of the dancer's motions, the beauty of every curve traced in the air by a well-toned limb. David, it is a little more difficult to discern, but I suspect he is enthralled by the interplay between the music and motions, the way the two compliment each other in their expressions, each making the other grander by association. He has not been to such a grand ballet as this before, and I am eager to hear of his reactions to it. The dear boy lacks for grace in his own motions, but I suspect it makes him all the more admiring of that quality in others.
       Meres smiles as he looks over at the young men. “I am glad of it. Claude's paintings became so prosaic in his years of schooling, I am trying to bring some more exotic flavors to them. His figures are too posed, as well – I hope he shall learn something of the beauty in motion, and perhaps discover some new positions to make use of.”
       I raise an eyebrow at this, the corner of a smile on my lips as I look at Meres. “Are you not able to show him different positions yourself?”
       He laughs, and taps his glass lightly against mine. “Perhaps soon. I worry about overwhelming the boy too soon, you know.”
       “He did seem rather shy at such suggestions, by Luce's account.”
       Meres groans, and settles back in his seat, taking another sip from his glass. “Luce ought to consider something besides his own amusement from time to time. I could hardly get Claude to look me in the eye for a quarter of an hour, before he managed to blurt out enough that I understood what Luce had suggested. A common thing among ourselves, but to such a new entrée in our little clique? He was absolutely distraught, and now I shall have to spend a good deal more energy in reconciling him to such ideas. He was coming along so nicely! That painting of David and Jonathan, he has been doing without any – or, very little – input from myself. But I suspect he has kept from his own conscious thoughts the desires which he has put into their eyes. For though he may have yearnings, so long as he does not name them, he cannot feel guilty about them. I had hoped to make use of this, to bring him into situations he dared not imagine but had longed for nonetheless... but now I shall have to find a new tactic.”
       I nod thoughtfully, smiling to myself. “David is quite similar in that – he will not call a rose by name, but he will indulge in the rich scent of it all the same.”
       We return our full attention to the stage, watching as the dancers swirl around each other. A garish canary, a bold cardinal, and a mocking jay, curl around the stage in procession, moving in perfect synchronization. Their motions are so like that it is as though one watched a single dancer through a kaleidoscope, the image fractured into several of different hue. There is a superb attitude to their motions, making the character of these birds quite clear. They are snobbish creatures, delighting in their own vivid plumage, exuding a superiority over all the world, confident in their own perfections. They snub the poor drab nightingale, darting near her and then quickly away, spinning about her with such speed that she is left dizzy, unable to follow and bewildered in their wake. She stumbles about the stage piteously, and a piccolo cries out in sharp pangs of pain from the orchestra. She slows, then stops, and though the other three flutter around the edges of the stage, it seems that all the world is still. Her presence is so strong that all the attention of all the theater has been drawn to her, and she holds it tight in her motionless frame, binding all to the stillness of herself. The audience, the world, is powerless to her in this moment.
       It is this moment that I most admire. A smile widens across my face, and I wait with bated breath for her to move, that my heart might resume its beating.
       It seems that she smiles too. She takes a few tiny steps, slowly, as if regaining her balance. Lifting to her toes, she stutters in a few looping circles around the stage, her arms lifting gracefully, her body tilting from one side to the other, in exemplars of ballet tradition. She copies the motions of the other birds in perfect measure, then pauses for half of a heartbeat, and leaps boldly across the stage, throwing herself into the air in a fresh burst of passion, as though she had been constrained by such staid motions as those of the other birds, and was now breaking free. She tumbles and whirls around the floor, again with the moves of an acrobat, flying in the faces of the more conservative birds, laughing as she flips and twirls. Flutes duet in an ecstasy of trills and darting countermelodies, and the girl dances as a waterfall, fluid and smooth and unceasing, a tangible power of exhortation in every gesture.
       The other birds cry out in dismay, casting about with stilted motions, but the nightingale flies about them in joyous circles. The other birds soon confine themselves to the edges of the stage, letting the drab nightingale steal all the glory, her purity of heart outshining all their vainglories.
       Such is the opening to the ballet – the lights fall slowly, and the orchestra swells, the curtains flowing across the stage. When they open again, the story will begin, and yet for me, I think the climax has already occurred. This Julietta has entirely stolen the show, and the remainder of it hardly needs heeded, save where she is present. I wonder what the papers will make of her on the morrow? For while I find her exhilarating, I am sure there will be argument against her, for her complete disregard for the refined traditions of the ballet.
       I turn to Meres, and begin to congratulate him on such a coup, when a low growl attracts my attention. My eyes move quickly toward the sound, and I join in the laughter of those around me. It seems Luce arrived at some point during the opening scene, while our attentions were on the stage, and he has brought with him a pet, which has thrown the ushers into fits of consternation. Luce rests easily in a plush chair in the corner of the box, and holds a golden chain studded with topaz, which restrains (so hope the ushers!) a tiger, I suspect not quite fully grown, though it is more than enough to upset the staff!
       The ushers are huddled in a terrified cluster at the entrance to the box, and every few moments one approaches Luce, with some argument that he waves off breezily, petting the tiger absently.
       “But, sir... you must be aware of the panic such a creature could cause.”
       “Only if he is seen by the general public. Which he will not, so long as he remains in our box.”
       “But, sir, the manager of the establishment would not want---”
       “---his financial endowment to disappear, yes, I agree. You will allow me to enjoy the performance in peace then?”
       Flustered, the usher starts to speak again, then abandons the idea and returns to the huddle. Another usher approaches, attempting to look stern. He steps directly in front of Luce, who gazes up at him with all the calm of a child lying peacefully abed.
       “Now, sir, if you would kindly cease such games. We cannot have such a beast in such a refined establishment.”
       “Oh I assure you, he is quite refined! Why, that growl was merely his comment on the sour note the second viola hit in that final chord. Did you not notice it?”
       The usher thinks quickly, seeing that no appeal to the common social rules will work in this case. “Sir. There are no seats for tigers in the building. He has no ticket.”
       “But we have bought the box for the entirety of the season. Are not at liberty to populate it as we wish? I have given you no ticket for myself, nor for my other companions here, and yet you gave us no trouble.”
       Now, the usher seems defeated. He returns to the huddle, and they murmur loudly to each other, entirely consternated.

12 - Mephisto

       The audience has largely hushed, hidden in the vast shadowed area of the floor. The strings of the orchestra are in full flight, swelling as the lights on the stage come up. The sun rises at the bidding of trumpets, and as the light settles into a warm glow, a solo flute beckons a dancer onto the stage. Her steps are brief and rapid, before suddenly giving way to a leap so light and graceful that there seems no reason she ought return to the ground.
       “Ah! Is that the new girl, Meres?”
       “It is – that is Julietta Shastakovich. This is her first solo part, which I feel is long overdue. I came across her rehearsing alone one day, and--- well! You can see for yourself how perfectly suited she is for the part of the nightingale. I insisted to the director that she have it.”
       I nod my agreement, eyes fixed on the distant figure. “She has just the right sort of wild grace to her movements. She--- oh!” Surprised laughter overtakes the conversations running through our private box. The girl has done a rapid sort of backwards flip, such as one sees from circus performers, not from ballerinas! So scandalous an action, in such a regimented form of dance! But she has carried it through with such a natural elegance of motion, that it is as a bird looping merrily in mid-flight, and she leaps lightly around the exotic scenery of an Indian garden, joy in every gesture.
       Meres' hand in the production is quite evident, for the scenery and costumes bear the mark of his endless attention to detail, as well as his fanciful and exotic tastes. The costume of the nightingale is really quite impressive, for she manages to be humble and drab, and yet dazzlingly beautiful in the same moment. She is dressed in shades of brown, but it is such a fine quality of material – is it silk or satin? - that it wraps tenderly around her slim, graceful frame, and finds beauty in her form. There is a flowing swath of some airy organza over the layers of her skirt, which billows into the currents her dance leaves in the air, a visible echo of her every motion. There are long feathers and a few subtle gems around her neck, at her breast and hips and arms. Though she is all in brown, there are a thousand subtleties in it for the eyes to delight in: The cream of her skin, the sepia of her hair, the beige of her satin shoes and ribbons, her skirt of ecru tulle, covered by tawny silk and all dusted in copper sequins and stones. We are at too great a distance to appreciate every detail, but our sight is better than most – and I am certain we shall see the girl at closer range before the evening is ended.
       She is soon accompanied by a swarm of other birds, all more radiantly dressed than she, and my attention is drawn away for a time by the more attractive profusion of colors.
       Adir and Nila's voices swell over the orchestra for a moment, but I refuse to listen to yet another of their disputes. An usher comes by to take orders for refreshments – he is obviously new, for he has stopped in other boxes before ours, and Luce darkly reprimands him for such a slight.
       Our drinks then appear in impressively short order.

Note

Luce and Meres totally hijacked my plans for that scene. Started in this morning, and Luce decided that taunting Claude was not as fun as it was yesterday. Instead, he heard something, and next thing I knew they were running off toward...

I had no idea what.

Wound up surprising me more than it surprised them, apparently. I had to keep referring back to the last chapter with Azal, to remember what the room looked like, and make sure I wasn't contradicting myself too absurdly. (Explanation: Azal thought he was okay. Ordered some wine to calm himself enough to head back to the party. Kept drinking. Couldn't clear his head, and things got worse instead of better. Kept drinking, and then made poor decisions. wtg Azal.)

11 - Luce, continued

       My attention is snatched away from the boy by a silent scream in my mind, a yanking of my heart against my ribs. I look up quickly, my eyes turned accusingly toward the ceiling, but there is nothing there to explain the feeling. I scan the room, but see nothing...
       Azal. He has not yet returned, but I see the girl he was with, circulating the room with a tray of drinks, returned to her duties. Where is Azal? It has been too long, and there is something in the air that is not right.
       “You must excuse me. There is something that I must attend to.”
       Claude looks bewildered and embarrassed, but I care nothing for his comforts, there are larger things at stake, if my suspicions are correct. I slip through the crowd, showing myself unhurried, but stopping for no conversation, my gaze focused on the nearest exit from the room.
       I pass through the shimmering gauze curtains, and stand a moment in the dim corridor, lit by few lamps. The lamps have been given shades of dark blue and violet, but the eerie effect only adds to my discomfiture. Before I have decided which direction to move in, I am joined by Meres. Our eyes meet a moment, and I know that he felt it as well. Mephisto was likely too distracted, Veri too exhausted; Adir, Carey, Nila... I doubt if this was a call they could even hear any more, so prosaic have their consciousnesses become in this late years.
       We move quickly through the shadowed halls, guided solely by instinct, by a yearning of the breast toward our brother in pain. Pain... there is so much pain, that a part of me demands to know why I'm rushing so determinedly toward it. It can have no possible good for myself. But I cannot argue away this imperative, though no more can I explain it. Corner after corner, we turn round, hall after narrowing hall, we pass through, until at last we come to a closed door, which seems almost to burn in flame, such intensity does it strike our eyes with.
       I put a hand to the knob – it is locked, but it is only a moment before I have remedied this. Men's minds grow more difficult to move, but scraps of cold metal are easy enough still. “Azal?” I call quietly as I push open the door, Meres and I slipping inside and locking it quickly and silently behind us. The room is dimly lit, awash in dark sapphire and violet, the shadows merging into strange forms...
       But not all the strangeness lies in the shadows.
       There is a form splayed out on the circular bed, rising and falling as though on ocean waves, but the angles are all wrong... it is as the mutilated form of a shattered corpse, motionless, the bones broken.
       “Azal...” Meres breathes, then rushes to his side, the bed sloshing wildly at the sudden impact. “Azal! Come back, Azal, come back to us... there is nowhere else for you to go, you know this, Azal, do not subject yourself to such torment again!” He moves his hands quickly over the unresponsive frame, and I see his skin darken before he draws sharply back – blood, and something darker, ink I suspect.
       I move toward the bed as well, and my eyes resolve the dark mass into better detail. Azal lies face down on the bed, and his back is covered in an unreadable mass of blood, ink, and torn flesh. The tattoos he acquired centuries ago, hoping by magical means to regain his wings, are barely visible in the mess. I cannot tell what ink is new and what old, for the tattoo seems fresh again, and the old blood flows alongside the new, the old scars are torn fresh alongside new incision. I sit carefully opposite Meres, who is peering closely at the destruction.
       “Oh, Azal... why put yourself through this again? Do not let the pain overtake you like this...” He sighs, and turns Azal's head to the side, that he might look at the face. There is no motion of breath, but Meres lifts the closed eyelids, and seems to consider for a moment. He slides his hand under Azal's chest, pressing it tight over his heart for a long moment. His brows furrows, but at last he nods, and seems to relax a little. “He is returning. His heart beat is increasing, though it is yet faint.”
       My own heart seems to have slowed as well – certainly my breathing has, for I feel the pressure of my lungs demanding more air. I take a deep breath, and gaze pityingly at Azal's back. So foolish. How many times must he attempt the same hopeless task? I take another deep breath – and realize that though I am breathing, my lungs are still unsatisfied, there is something odd in the air they take in. “Meres... the air. Is it strange to you?”
       He pauses in his survey of Azal for a moment to consider. “It is. It is far, far too heavy, even for such a small enclosed space as this.”
       “...how far do you suppose that he went?” My voice is low, for though we are alone, we can take no risk of anyone catching the merest suggestion of this.
       Meres sighs heavily, stroking Azal's long hair, which is caked in places with blood that refuses to clot correctly. “I don't know... but certainly something went quite wrong. I know very little of these arts, but...” He traces the air over a particularly deep rend in Azal's flesh, to the left of the spine, above where his heart would be. He seems unusually hesitant to actually touch the patterns of blood and torn skin – he was never so before. “This pattern here, I recall it from something, and this one here...” He sighs again, biting at his lip. “Luce... it was not heaven he was calling toward, in demanding this gift.”
       I nod solemnly. “I suspected as much. The air is too thick, too acrid. Was it his wings, again?”
       “I can't be certain... there are new symbols here, that I do not recognize from before. But he crafts new ones every time, so it's possible this is a different path to his same goal.”
       I turn my glance to take in the room, and notice several things that I had not before. “There were circles laid on the floor – they must have been sand, or something similar, for it seems we broke them as we entered.”
       Meres looks around as well, frowning. “And the lamps – I did not intend to have them burn green in such a manner. The smell it creates is too unpleasant. Nor is that glitter on the floor there by design, it is shattered glass, not crystals or foil.”
       There are heavy stains on the furniture and carpets, I cannot tell at this distance if they are wine or blood, though I suspect it is a mixture of both, for the tang of alcohol hangs in the air, almost hidden by the acrid bitterness of the chemicals causing the green flames, and the musty, cloying atmosphere that leaked out into this realm from that other one.
       There is a low sound from the bed, and I turn my attention back to Azal's shattered form.
       “Azal?” Meres leans close, and we both see the subtle motion as his lungs struggle to gain purchase again on this plane. “Azal... we are here with you. I know the pain is great, but you need not survive it alone.”
       I move around beside Meres, sitting as lightly as I can on the side of the bed, reaching a hand over to stroke Azal's hair. “Shall we have something brought for you, to ease the pain?”
       Azal groans, closing his eyes. “No... deserve it... must go through...”
       Meres sighs, and uses a corner of silk sheet to wipe the smears of blood from Azal's face. “You do not have to go through it. You have paid price enough already, the spirits have gone. We have the means to numb your physical pains, at least, there is no reason not to do so.”
       Azal seems hesitant, but at last manages something of a nod. Meres stands, and crosses the room to the bell pull, and rings for a servant. He steps outside the room, that the servant might see nothing of what lies within it.
       I comb my fingers through Azal's hair still, pausing at each tangle, carefully working them loose. “Azal, you fool... why must you repeat this scene, over and again?”
       He groans, sighing painfully. “Luce... air so thick. Do you not miss the skies?”
       I smile wryly. “They are filled with such smoke and ash, over cities as this – it would hardly be the relief you believe it.”
       He coughs, and it may be something of a laugh. “Luce... have to try. Thought this time, that I had something, I thought...”
       “Azal. Please. It is wearisome to hear you speak of such things, you know I do not understand the languages of these circumscribed spheres. Do you realize what a mess you make of things, when you do these things? It will be months before we can patch your skin back together entirely.”
       “I know... I am sorry for the trouble it causes you. Selfish.”
       I laugh at this. “We are all selfish! But at least we can keep from being altogether stupid. Stop these frivolous quests. If some entirely new art is found, then by all means, we shall try to regain what we can, but... Azal, you have tread this path a hundred times. It leads nowhere.”
       He sighs, chokes a moment, then clears his throat. He lifts a hand weakly, and I take it in mine. His skin is so much darker than mine, though it is yet paler than any of those he has lived among in the deserts all these years. The blood stains it dark, and spills a wine-tinged residue onto my flesh, as I clasp his hand. There is no warmth in the contact, our flesh ever-cold, but his breathing seems easier now. Azal... I know you will not stop in your futile questing. It is intrinsic to you, this unshakable faith in the arts you created. The yearning you succumb to is one that we all feel, though we... though I... have long since given up hope of absolving it.
       Hope.
       ...is that what it is, that you yet have?

Notes

I am trying to make Claude into a little snot. He was not as much of one in the original story, but, I think he should be one. Poor Luce - I, and thus he, could barely contain massive gigglefits at some of the things the boy said.

(I realized yesterday that I should probably have made it clear earlier on in the story that by "boy", my Grigori mean someone late teens, early twenties. Young man, really. But they're a bit too demeaning for that.)

Luce can be both my hardest and easiest character to write. He likes to ramble on about the psychology of people and that sort of thing. It's really, really intimidating to think about the sheer volume of epigrams that he ought to be spouting, but once he starts talking... it's hard to shut him up.

David is younger than Claude, and I realized this year that they were far too similar in my head, so I'm working on differentiating them better. Unfortunately for you, they're only coming clearer in my own mind as I write them. :p So please bear with.

Originally, I was just going to have this scene cover some general notes on character relationships, and then have someone (probably Luce) observe and comment on a sniping little bitchfight between Claude and David. That fight has yet to happen... and I have to admit, I'm a little upset about subjecting poor little David to it. Claude is a snot, and is going to be terribly unkind, I'm afraid. The purpose of this fight, I have yet to discover, I just know they should have one. (Though, I'm starting to think Claude should instead pick a fight with Veri - the motivation is clear, and it would be FUNNY AS ALL FREAKING HELL to watch him try it.)

...why are my characters all so sadistic? I'm a nice person! Really! I can barely insult people, let alone plot their moral demises.

11 - Luce, continued

       As the pair reach the closing of the song, the last notes drift in the air for a final endless moment, seemingly caught in the tiny crystals which hang from every surface, the sound, as light, caught and refracted to shimmer in the air. There is light applause, and several of those standing near turn back to their conversations and diversions. A mermaid passes through the corner with a tray of fresh drinks and light refreshments. David begins to shuffle awkwardly, but the girl plays an enchanting fragment of a tune, and he looks back to her with a smile of recognition. She smiles in return, nodding, and then begins to play, and he to sing. Though the audience pays them less heed now – the spontaneity of the thing has gone – there are yet some who remain, enchanted by the lovely sound.
       I see Claude make a motion as if to leave, but Meres lays a hand on his arm, gazing at the two musicians on the rainbow-hued rock, perched as sirens amid the vast ocean of the crowd. Claude visibly pouts, and mutters something that I doubt is complimentary. He casts about for some escape, but sees no-one else that he knows.
       Mephisto is entirely entranced by the two children, and I see it will be of absolutely no use to attempt to speak with him further. Once the two have exhausted their list of shared knowledge, he will undoubtedly scoop David back up, and spend the rest of the evening in doting on him still more than his usual. Tedious to watch, though I am curious to see how the ending of their story will play out.
       I make my way over to Claude, and lay a hand gently on his arm, guiding him to some little distance from the musicians. While we are yet within close range, he sighs audibly in relief. “I thank you for your pity – I cannot see why Meres is so enchanted with such amateurs as they. They are obviously unrehearsed, and the number of mistakes in their harmonies is painful to hear.”
       I chuckle to myself, deciding not to correct him by telling him that is the entire charm of their performance – such skilled improvisation is a delight to see. “Meres is often capable of finding beauty where others should hardly think to look for it.”
       “That is quite true. He once had me make a sketch of a dead rose bush – something which I at first was dismayed at the sight of, surprised that his gardeners had not discarded it of their own accord. Yet as I drew, I realized there was quite a grace to the way the dead buds curled around toward the ground, the gentle flow of the whole bush giving up its endless fight against gravity, and drooping toward the earth. The paper-like quality of the leaves and petals, too, were quite interesting to try my hand at capturing.”
       As he speaks, I can see why Meres is drawn to the boy, apart from his talent – he is capable, when prodded, of seeing the world in the way that Meres himself does. Still, I suspect he is hardly capable of truly confiding in such a child as this, and I am certain he will tire soon. It is obvious that the boy is becoming over-confident, determined to make himself an equal among us... and that, of all things, is entirely impossible for him.
       “...I have never seen any of Meres' paintings, though I know he paints. Are they very bad?”
       It is all I can do to restrain myself from erupting into laughter at such pretension. “Bad! My dear boy, they are absolutely exquisite. There is such depth of detail in every aspect, that were you to take a microscope to the canvas, you would yet find more that your eye had been blind to. His skill with color and composition, you must already know, from his gardens and rooms, as well as from such lovely visions as this.” I wave my arm grandly around at the ocean world in which we are encompassed, passing by a coral reef, glimpsing glints of light above from the sun through the green water, reveling in the dark unknown depths of sapphire below.
       “But why does he not show them, if they are so lovely? His name could be known throughout the city, if not the country, he could sell them at quite a price – my paintings are selling well enough themselves, that if his are anything the like---”
       “Far better.”
       He flushes a little at this, but continues on. “He could command any price, then, I would expect. At the very least, I should think he would have them on display somewhere, if only in his own home.”
       The boy is obviously unaware of just how little of Meres' estate he has been granted access to. There is a gallery, but it is an entirely private one – even I have been allowed to pass through that lavishly decorated hall several times. His paintings capture such heartbreaking pathos, that they are difficult for any of us to view. He would never allow a shallow-minded boy such as this to see them. Whether he would fail to understand them, or would lose his mind in the pain, I do not know, but one of the two outcomes would be the likeliest result.
       “Not every artist creates for the public eye. Meres, as many others I have known, paints solely out of his own need to do so. It soothes him, when nothing else is able, I think. Have you never painted something purely out of a particularly driven emotion, and then been shy of showing it to another, knowing they could not possibly see in it the value that you do?”
       He considers a moment, then nods slowly. “Yes, I suppose I have.”
       I doubt this, but allow him to imagine he has deceived me.
       “Still, I should feel sorry for the world to be denied the pleasure of such a lovely work, were it created.”
       At this, I do laugh. “Meres feels obligation to no man! He will do as he wills, he need not feel pity for any mortal soul, which would, in all likelihood, fail to fully appreciate the work of his hands and soul.”
       Claude nods and smiles at this, pretending to agree with such a skeptical view of the world, as if he himself has been a misunderstood artist. He most certainly has not, he has gained everything with almost no real suffering. I know he is of a wealthy family, and attended the finest art schools from the earliest age, with private tutors at every step of the way. That is not to deny nor explain away his skill – he does have an eye for arranging things in a very lovely way, and there is emotion in every image he creates. The passion and pathos in his paintings are not a thing that can be taught – and though they are shallow things, created from the innocent imaginings of youth, they are yet beautiful, and show more depth than most works of late years. There is something to be said of the fresh enthusiasms of youth. Though they often blunder, are often wrong-headed about their notions, they believe in them with such fervor that one can hardly help but feel the passions along with them. This is why poets are always best in their youth – they have had no time to think, but simply feel, and feel with such intensity that their stumbling words spill onto the page with fresh blood still on them. With age comes supposed wisdom, and while their words ring with more truths, they are cold and stale, the dry crumbs of a heart which beats quite slowly among old bones.
       A serving girl approaches, and as she extends the tray first toward me, showing due deference, Claude snatches a delicate crystal flute from it, drinking half the glass at a swallow as I stare coldly at him. Pretentious boy. I will let Meres have his fun for now, but when he has finished...
       He did not see my glare, so I let it pass, for now. I lift a glass gracefully, and thank the girl with a polite smile. I take a small sip, and savor the effervescence of the light champagne, its tiny bubbles bursting into delicate notes of apricot and rose on my tongue.
       Claude peers distractedly around the room, looking for something of interest. “I am rather surprised Meres has not planned more entertainments – there seems to be little to do, besides sip wine and engage in conversation.”
       “Is more needed, in such a wondrous setting as this? It is rather nice, to simply enjoy the flavors and colors, to soak in the exotic atmosphere of a world that can never be visited.”
       The boy sighs, and is obviously not placated by this answer. The evening is about subtlety and savor, but his youth demands action.
       “You might always engage one of the mermaids – Azal left with one quite early in the party, and has yet to return. The girls must be quite skilled in the artistry of pleasure, for one to have held his attentions so long.” He blushes! I restrain my laughter, and merely take another sip of the wine. “Or, if the girls are not to your liking, there are undoubtedly some mermen among their company as well, who might suit you better.”
       He feigns laughter, uncomfortable with what he apparently still considers a heretical notion. “Of--- of course not. The girls are quite beautiful, but...” His mind races for an excuse. “But I should not want Meres to miss me, if he should look for me when the performance has ended.”
       “Oh, I can relate to him any message you wish, if you desire to absent yourself. Would you prefer a genteel allusion to your actual whereabouts, or a more polite invention? Or, perhaps, an invitation for him to join you? I am sure he would be most interested in the novelty.”
       The boy is absolutely aghast by the casualness in which I make these suggestions. I cannot keep my amusement from showing in my eyes, though I keep my face and voice otherwise composed.
       “No! ...I, no, that is, I should prefer to remain out here. Meeting more of your company is always a pleasure,” he demurs lamely, refusing to meet my gaze.

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.