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For those with no birth and no death things are not so simple. |
| [Introduction]
Mortality. The spark is merely a flash in the pan. Birth, life, and then inevitable death. For those who are mortal this cycle creates the beauty of existence. It's briefness makes the time all the sweeter. For those with no birth and no death things are not so simple. Where does the beauty lie in a life that has no end? From where does joy stem when there are no wonders left to discover and no mysteries left to unravel? |
| Glorious pillars of sunlight pierced through the gray clouds. They peeled away from the blue sky like the very air had given birth and this was its crowning after hours of labor. The smell of fresh rain mixed with the fertile soil of the earth. Karam –simply Kar to some- took his time along the road out northwest that lead to the small town of Marstead. It was something of a bittersweet journey given the circumstances. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be back here in his homeland. Back in the King’s Land. Back in Tysus. The expanse of the kingdom stretched from the Tysian Sea to the west to the Ailian Ocean on the east. North was the country of Whim and its illustrious capitol of Culdenhall while south rested the wilds of the unexplored land also called the Ancient Lands. Karam himself had just arrived from a trip east of the Ailian Ocean itself days of travel by ship away from Tysus. He didn’t smile but still took the time to look at the beauty of the emerging sun pushing its powerful rays through the breaking of the storm clouds. The heavens were active this morning. It was his favorite type of weather to watch. It was change plain and simple. For whatever reason watching that show never bored Karam despite how many years he’d been around to see it. Karam had, in fact; been around for hundreds of years. He hadn’t taken to counting until it was too late, but his memories started sometime near the founding of Sahlgard, the capitol city of Tysus. Everything before that was foggy at best. Nebulous would be a better word. Small inklings and tidbits would float to the surface every so often but nothing concrete. Over the years it got difficult to find a reason to do anything. Life isn’t the same when death doesn’t seem like it will ever be an option. Mortals only have so long to pursue their dreams, find love, raise a family, and pass on their knowledge. For those without birth or death things weren’t so simple. The heavy leather soles of his boots left prominent prints in the soft mud. His clothes were simple leathers and linens with a cape and a hood which was down at the moment. His skin was darker than most in Tysus as the climate there abided the fair. Karam was just a shade lighter than the meat of a walnut and his hair was full on tar in the dark black. It was straight without even a hint of curl and barely to the base of his neck in length often tied up in a ponytail. His face was strongly masculine. He would look handsome to the sort who didn’t fancy burly men. His beard and mustache were groomed well and kept short and thin. His gear was cheap and affordable, but his hygiene gave him away as having money. There was no horse or mule as he hadn’t taken much with him on his journey. A few hours more and he’d reach the town; perhaps then he’d feel a bit better. Karam had left for a reason; several actually. Right now the only reason he had returned was a simple letter. She is getting married. Hours passed in transit. Karam took a deep breath closing his eyes for a moment and then opening them and looking ahead again. They were a bright piercing blue color slowly focusing on the town ahead of him. It was wide awake he could see from where he was. The expectation of the familiar faces there brought a small smile to Karam’s own. For now he was back in Tysus, and if it would make her happy he’d try to enjoy it. …………………………………………………………………………………………….. Amelia Rhodes was gorgeous. Royalty grade sweet fair skin, she was tall, graceful, and curvaceous. Her wit and charm were difficult to rival and though she was common she had worked hard at literacy and achieved said goal. Now it was paying off in the form of a betrothal to a nobleman. She smiled as her sisters marveled at her image in her dress. “Wow sister you’re stunning!” squealed Lily. Mildred the youngest looked a little upset however. Amelia’s smiled faltered for just a moment when she noticed. In an instant she knew why. Mildred had always been partial to Karam. Karam had taught them to read after all, and for next to nothing. He was charming and had all sorts of skills and talents. He was like magic, and for a while it seemed that Amelia and he may have something special but things…didn’t work out so well. That flower just never bore fruit. “Thank you Lily.” Amelia responded quickly grinning at her sister. “Isn’t Mr. Rogelle great? He’s so rich. You’re going to live the fancy life sis!” cheered Lily. She was a short brunette who seemed to stop growing suddenly at the age of twelve (she was fifteen now). She was plain in most ways but had more spirit than most girls and never really seemed to care what others thought of her unless they earned her respect. Amelia chuckled and avoided Mildred’s gaze again. “He’s quite the charmer for sure. He’s umm…” she started but her eyes caught her baby sister’s face again. Mildred finally piped up. “He’s not Karam.” “Milly!” shouted Lily glaring at Mildred. Amelia swallowed hard and looked away trying to keep smiling. It was true. There was no replacement for Karam, but he’d been gone for four years now. Life was too short these days to skip out that long. Amelia was highly sought after and there was no guarantee he’d ever come back. Besides, it’s not like they had ever spoken of being anything more than friends anyway.. She had several suitors and to just up and leave like Karam did was basically giving up on her. He had his reasons she was sure, but… “It’s true Lily. She’s only marrying him because Karam isn’t here anymore. If he was here…” “But he’s not! Let it go and be happy for your sister Milly!” Lily growled at Mildred flicking her on the arm. Mildred’d jaw dropped and she stared wide eyed at her sister in shock. “Lily why!? Don’t hit me!” Amelia sighed and shook her head hearing her siblings behind her. Then there was a knock on the door. Suddenly everything stopped. Papa was still at the shop and Mother was shopping for dinner and had only left a few minutes ago not to mention she wouldn’t need to knock. Amelia put a cloak over her dress and moved quickly to the door with her two sisters right behind her. In one motion she opened it. Karam met her amber eyes when the door opened and gave a small smile and slight nod. “Amelia Rhodes, it’s been a while.” He said letting his smile grow a bit. She looked utterly shocked to find him standing there her lips parted as if words wanted out but nothing seemed to form. Lily’s jaw fell as close to the floor as it could get, and Milly’s smile doubled the width of her face. “K-Karam?” Amelia whispered reaching out and touching his cheek, “You’re really here..” she said her eyes grew watery for a moment. Karam nodded a little and just as he opened his mouth to say something a sharp slap stung his cheek and the door slammed shut in his face. He had to blink a couple of times to realize what had happened but even when he had processed the even he could do nothing about it but chuckle. “Well, this should be even more fun than I thought,” he said sarcastically to himself. “Tysus always is.” |
| "--After all, Karam said as much..." Iskariot closed the dusty tome with a subsequent plume of dust flinging itself towards his young face. "Who is Karam?.." He looked everyday the twenty-something people mistook him for. The tomes told a different story. Even by his own memory he was three hundred or more years old. As old as many an Elf in the storybooks. But he was no elf. He had not the ears for such a race to be his own. Yet he relished the reading of them; they gave him a sense of hope, small as it may be, for there to be some use in his long years. Even if he was in general afraid of leaving his home in the Underground. He hadn't step foot under the light of the sun in forty years. Iskariot put the tome back on the dusty bookshelf. The library was full of books, some so old he was afraid to touch them anymore; lest they crumble into dust like which covered their bindings. The tome was the last book on it's shelf. Though it was marked as the ninety-third volume it was the oldest volume he had. "Ninety-two volumes of a hundred and thirty-six..." he sighed while running his thumb over the title. Iskariot of Soverra He knew Iskariot was his name, but he had no idea what Soverra was. Regardless he kept the titles even up to his volume. Though the lack of activity didn't exactly make for an interesting tome. Even now it was half full of questions and discoveries the older journals elaborated on. His memory had superbly failed him. He could barely remember more then a hundred and fifty years ago. In it's way it made some things seem new until he realized they weren't. In other ways it only frightened him. "Perhaps I'll read something else." he pondered, "But... there isn't anything else left to read." Iskariot glanced up at the decadent ceiling, coated in gold leaf in elegant swirls. "Perhaps it is time to visit the surface again. Surely after forty years there are a few new books to read." He shuffled from the room, shedding his long train of a white robe from his shoulders. He was nude without it though there was not a soul to see his muscular body. Regardless of how little he was active his body was always fit and strong, The journals had said once that not all were like him in this manner. Iskariot was glad of the luck however; aware that his tall solid frame would possibly keep unwanted aggressors away. He could not remember the last time he had ever been in a confrontation. He dressed in white and grey. Avoiding the more luxurious and flowing attires for a simplified tunic, trouser, and boots. He glanced into the mirrors, his hair was just as pure white as his attire, his eyes, lined in heavy shadow, just as grey as the silver clasps. Even the white markings that trailed up his neck, reaching across his jawline, seemed pulled to view by the contrast of his olivine skin. Even the slight scruff of a beard never realized added to the oddly beautiful yet dangerous appearance he was proud of. "I wonder if people look very different these days." he pondered as he reached for the large tote capable of holding 40 books if he packed them right. Though he wondered if he could find so many that he hadn't already read. Iskariot opened the long sealed door into the Tysus catacombs and took a long breath before braving forth to the world above. A warrior or not he gripped the hilt of the broadsword slung across his back. Who knows what terrors are aloft in the world now days! he thought. Besides people are less likely to attack someone armed... At least they used to be thus... I want to go home... he sighed and continued through the damp tunnels. |
| I am not a young woman. Even my long-ago memories, which stretch back to the dawn of our age, do not see my childhood, cut off as they are from the rest of me. When I close my eyes and dream waking dreams of the past, I see always a woman full-grown, never a child. The far past—the time beyond this epoch—is gone, excised from my mind with all the surety of the finest surgeon's blade, and it is as the missing limb to a soldier, naught but a ghost, an imagined wholeness betrayed by its own ephemeral shadow. But, much as the wounded veteran can feel the itch in his long-lost arm, I too feel stirrings of what I have lost and cannot hope to find. Ah, but I become maudlin in my old age. Where once something existed, the pathway remains. And so too will it prove with my memories. I believe—I construe, from the little I know and can extrapolate—I am an immortal of some kind. What kills humans, what drives them to live so fully and with such abandon, does not exist within me. My flesh does not wither, and it does not decay. There are no gray hairs upon my head, nor wrinkle upon my brow. If I were a vain woman, I would be proud of my youthful vigor; of the way my breasts sat high and firm, my muscles remained taut, and my skin clear. I am given to believe I am an eminently desirable woman; my shelves are full of poetry likening my eyes to the summer sky, my lips to sweet berries, and even my nethers to the warmest bed of sin. I confess, I do not much care for poetry. It is the palest imitation of feeling; words without sound, music upon the senseless ear. But the sentiments are nice, and I have been known to bed a poet or two when my preferred musician could not be had and when the words were musical enough to stir the melodies within. Perhaps I seem too eager to share in the joys of the flesh, or too unstinting with my favors, but that is the judgment of the mortal, for whom the very nature of existence creates need for such moral exactitudes. Think, too, that mortal life is given meaning by its brevity, whereas the immortal must be ever vigilant against the decays of emotionless torpor and lassitude. We must always seek to strengthen the bond between our flesh and our psychological need for life. And this is perhaps the greatest conundrum of my existence: the immutability of everlasting life is—so very ironically—inversely correlated to worthiness of that life. For mortals, the struggle to live is a febrile thing, fraught with tension and exhilarating in its transience. Life, then, is inherently meaningful because it remains ever full of wonders. This is not so for the immortal. We must constantly search for wonder, excavate ever deeper to find the few mysteries left to us. Is it any wonder, then, that I have turned to mortals? That I seek to steal some small measure of their amazement for myself, to see for the briefest of instances the universe they experience, to share a single moment of connection to fulfill my increasingly desolate existence? I cannot begin to understand mortals, but I can share with them the taste of my immortal flesh, if only for an instant and in the most literal sense. And one does need some amusement to wile away the years. Lest one believe that my existence consists solely of sexual abandonment and lechery, I spend very little time amongst the mortals of this world. It is only, I suppose, when the rot sets in, and the decrement; when I begin to forget what it is that keeps me going, and despair wraps its coils about my soul, that I turn to fleshy congress with a mate. Man or woman, it doesn't particularly matter. Truly, it isn't about attraction or libidinous desire; physical touch is merely a means to an end. A leg up, a booster shot, a stepping stone to keep me going for just a little while longer. An inculcation of necessary vitality, meant to invigorate my most immortal psyche. My true amusements, dear reader, are those of the mind. I mentioned before my preference for musicians. It goes beyond a mere affinity for those creative enough to speak the language of the universe, and to converse fluently with the heavens. Music, that most melodious of communications, the linguistic expression of perfection, the dancing phonemes of the stars; ah, but there is true genius in its proper exercise. If I may be permitted a certain allotment of self-aggrandizement, I am possessed of a certain facility with la lingua musica myself. In fact, it is my preeminent skill as a composer that forms the bedrock of my argument for immortality. You see, I have composed thousands of pieces, the vast majority of which I cannot remember writing. And yet...and yet, my dearest voyeur, to hear this music is to be instantly familiarized with it. I can anticipate its every move, its every cadence and rhythm, my fingers dancing through the air as I play a melody I cannot claim to have heard before. And yet it is my name upon those scores, scrawled in my easy handwriting: Harper of Ameira. This is my name, though I feel no connection to half of it. I have never heard of Ameira, nor is there any mention of it in the history books or on the maps. But it is, I feel, home. Strange notion: home. My memories don't allow me to understand such a thing, nor to feel any connection with the continent upon which I began my existence. I feel it only when I listen to the notes I have written, and the sonatas I have penned. In fact, dear reader (may I call you friend now?), when the singular flawlessness of such auditory sensations washes over me, I feel...flawed. I feel wholeness reaching out, as if daring me to take it, beguiling in its overwhelming enticement, and here I am, unable to grasp something that is, technically speaking, already mine. It reminds me of the weaknesses I suffer despite my immortal body. Why then, you ask, my most astute of friends, do you listen to the music? Why do you constantly remind yourself of your weaknesses if such things cause you pain? To this I say, I would rather the pain of a million weaknesses than the total ignorance of myself. It is one thing to forget, but to not even realize what has been lost? No, my delightfully mortal friend, to lose one's self is to lose everything. And so the music plays on, though to hear it is the most exquisite torture. I do sometimes wonder, however, what caused me to write some of these pieces. Several of them seem to be dedicated to loved ones equally forgotten. Who are these Karams and Iskariots and Lethes and why did I feel such a kinship with them, enough to dedicate whole concertos in their name? It is a boggling question, and one I am not sure I will ever answer. I can safely say only this: these people, these one-time friends with whom I shared an immense bond, are immortal. Their names appear on compositions spanning hundreds of years and it seems more than odd that mortals should have such an effect on me. No, I do believe that these people—these friends—are immortal. And this is the heart of my quest, and the crux of my existence. The possibility of other immortals. More, the possibility of the greatest immortal of all: a God. A being of immeasurable power, or perhaps simply a great deal of stubborn charisma, whose unmatched will could create a universe such as this. Or, mayhap more likely, simply play at such power. It is a question for the ages, dear friend. Fortunately for me, I happen to have ages to ask it. Harper laid down her quill and rubbed her eyes with forefinger and thumb. She was not usually prone to recording her thoughts—at least, she had never found a series of diaries amongst her things—but the mood had come upon her rather suddenly, and she was never one to ignore her personal whims. Indulgence, she'd found, was one of the surest means of maintaining sanity in a world that ever sought to steal it from her. Though far from a hedonist, Harper believed wholeheartedly that the wishes that sprung upon the body were meant to be granted, lest the soul wither and die away. When taken with a healthy dose of moderating consideration, Harper had long ago found that indulgence did a body good. A glass of red wine sat beside her—darker, perhaps, than the fiery hair upon her head, but not so dark as to be unpardonably robust—half gone and mostly warm by now, as Harper lost herself within her thoughts. The music did this to her sometimes. It played, and it was so haunting, so achingly familiar to her ears, that she found herself contemplating things that otherwise she would never have thought of. She had, some years past, come to the conclusion that these were the woes of a much younger woman—a woman seeking a sense of worth, and or identity. A younger Harper, in fact, than the one who sat in Tysus that morning, soaking up the early warmth of the sun and listening to a piece of music several millennia old. She had made Tysus her home for the last few hundred years. Since the beginning of Tysus, in fact, and the world as everyone knew it. It seemed, from the notes she sometimes scribbled in the margins and in the dedications, that the world did this sometimes: it changed so greatly as to be reborn, and in each new epoch was a great city. Ameira was one such city, Harper believed, and it had fallen, as would Tysus when the world decided to change its face once more. She had survived them all, though likely the trauma of such changes was what wrought such damage to her memories. Music played through the rooms about her, scratchy and thin. A relic from another age, her audiophone, saved from whatever had come before this time of Tysus, this new age that seemed in fact to be quite old. Strings, dancing playfully a staccato lullaby, rhythmic in their strange, evocative voices. Harper favored strings; the way each instrument—and there had been many, some of which didn't even exist any longer—had its own character, its own voice and its own place in the world. Some played the coquette and others the philosopher, with their deep wisdom and mournful song. Such was the world made, with the voices of strings. So were the stories told. Harper closed her eyes and hummed, voice rich and pleasing, not quite deep enough to be an alto, but without the piercing tinniness of a higher register. This piece—Concerto on the Blue Springs of Alvieara, dedicated to my friend Iskariot, for whom the waters are a second home—was six thousand years old, if she had calculated properly, which she believed she had. And, if what she believed was true, this Iskariot was still alive and wandering the same planet as she. Did he listen to this piece and remember—barely, as if almost the product of wishful imagining—the trickling of the water over the rocks, mimicked so beautifully by the viol, and the tittering susurrus of the wind through the leaves, echoed in the flitting of the flauta? Could he close his eyes and believe, if only for an instant, that he remembered his beloved springs? Shaking her head, Harper sipped at her wine and grimaced at its warmth. Perhaps Iskariot had not forgotten those springs. The existence of other immortals did not mean they shared the same affliction. But, if what Harper believed was true, the fact that they still existed at all meant they had lived through the periods of violent upheaval that marked the various transitions of this world. And if such violence damaged the psyche, then their memories would, by necessity, be lost as assuredly as hers had. Of course, this assumed that her hypothesis was correct, and there was no evidence that such was the case. Simply conjecture and guesswork. Silence filled the room now, and Harper looked up from her brief sojourn into the world of the chronicler of words. She supposed it was time to get about doing things. It had been some time since her last journey into the realm of mortal, and supplies were running rather low. In this lifetime, she was known as a woman of learning, a woman with whom to trade wisdom for wares, and who would never steer them wrong. There was, last she had checked, no small wagering to see which of the city's young men could woo her into their bed. Thus far, none had succeeded, but there was one or two she liked to encourage for the future. Soon, perhaps. When the music left her veins, the memories slipped away, and sorrow set into her bones. And the briefest reminder of life would be enough to set her straight once more. |
| He woke to a fire burning in the hearth. His head felt impossibly large, skull throbbing hot behind his eyes. What might have been a warm glow from the small fire seemed far too bright. The crackle and pop of the wood he found pleasant enough, so he closed his eyes and shut out the light. He had only a moment to think it odd that he should be sleeping somewhere comfortable and warm before sleep took him again. He dreamed of fire. He dreamed of things burning into ash. Flames consumed everything, devouring flesh and wood alike. And he watched. The second time he woke was from the cold. The fire was nothing but smoldering embers and with it’s dying light it drew the heat from the room. He felt degrees better; maybe his head was back to head size. He sat up slowly, his muscles aching from disuse, and he stretched, unknotted the hours he’d spent lying in bed. It was then that he realized he was sitting in a bed, in a room that did not belong to him. He knew it as surely as the sky was blue and the sun was fire. But it was more than that. Nothing in the room was at all familiar. The painting over the fireplace depicted faces he did not recognize. How had he ended up there? Even the tunic he wore wasn’t his. A simple, drab thing and old from the looks of it. He frowned though the expression felt out of place on his face, and searched his mind for an explanation. Nothing. No details readily leapt to the fore, just an echoing silence. He did not remember where he had been before waking up there. He quizzed himself on the date, on the year, and even the season. Each time he came away with no answer. He simply did not know. A looking glass sat in the corner, well tended and hanging on the wall. He untangled from the sheets and crossed the small room. He was unimaginably relieved to see the face staring back at him was at least familiar and his own. It dawned on him what an irrational fear it was to think he would see someone else’s face. And yet, he had been afraid, hadn’t he? He’d been uncertain that the golden eyes blinking at him from the mirror would be the ones he knew. Or the tawny hair curling at the nape of his neck or the soft curve of his jaw, or even the dainty set of his nose wouldn’t all be his own. It was silly and completely ridiculous but the relief that loosened his narrow shoulders was very real. And then the real reason he’d come to the mirror returned to him and he checked his head for any signs of bruising or some indication that he’d damaged it. No scratch or wound marred his olive skin, or none that he could see. The rest of his body lacked any similar flaws. That isn’t to say there weren’t scars but there was nothing new. Maybe he had healed. He appeared young and healthy, he just didn’t know how young. His was a body meant for movement, he could tell that much, with long lean muscles. He was narrow in the shoulders and chest and in the hips, however his legs were strong. Judging by his frame, he had been well exercised but he lacked the bulk of some common manual laborer. Already he could feel energy coursing through his veins, though was somewhat told but he can his head. He wondered what it was he did. It scared him that he honestly and truly did wonder. Before true concern could set in, the door opened and an older woman entered with a basket resting on her hip. She was one of the faces in the painting, although decades older. He found she was no more familiar in her current state than when she was just an image. Her skin was dark and from long hours spent under the sunlight and her hair was a brilliant mixture of grays and whites. He found she was more handsome than beautiful. “Oh!” She stopped short when she saw him standing in the corner. “You’re finally awake. We were worried you might starve to death if you slept any longer.” She smiled at him. He returned it and found the expression easy enough, familiar as if he were meant to smile. Hers brightened at the sight of it. But he realized too late she expected him to say something. “I just came to check on the fire,” she said. “But now that you’re up, I think you could use a hot meal instead. Get some meat on those bones. Come.” She turned, her skirts swishing about her ankles, and left the room the way she’d came. He was hungry, he realized, among other things. Confusion was up there alongside the beginnings of panic, but hunger that was at least one thing he could do something about. Everything else could wait. He followed her out. The house beyond the room wasn’t large but it was nice. There was a kitchen and sitting room combined and two other doors, leading to other bedrooms he thought. None of the furniture was new but it was sturdy and well loved. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner of the kitchen, the heat source for the whole room and filling it with the strong aroma of wood smoke. The woman was there, worrying over a pot and ladling something that smelled positively mouthwatering into a bowl. “Sit,” she urged over her shoulder. “Go on sit down at the table there.” He sat. His worries were momentarily pushed aside by hunger as he settled at the table. The world outside the windows was a large expanse of land with tall green stocks and a myriad of golden grasses. There was nothing to indicate where he was or rather nothing he remembered at any rate. She set the steaming bowl of beans in front of him and a small hard loaf of brown bread. “Thank you,” he said. His voice felt rough coming out of his throat and lacked the strength he was expecting. He wondered when the last time he spoke was. “Of course, hon.” There was such warmth in her face when she spoke. “Now you just eat up and I’ll get you some water.” “Excuse me,” he said stopping her mid-turn. “How long have I been out?” “No less than three days.” She shook her head. “We found you outside our barn during a storm. You were soaking wet and little worse for wear so we called the doctor straightaway but he couldn’t find a thing wrong with you. He suggested just letting you rest.” Three days. He had been unconscious for three days straight and he had no clue why. Before waking up in their bed, he remembered nothing. He could recall no storm or even what he might have been doing out in it. Quietly, he nodded his thanks and tore off a hunk of bread to dip in his beans. The woman chuckled. “Slow down before you choke. There’s plenty more.” He did slow down when he realized he was shoveling food into his mouth. But he still finished his food before she returned with the tin cup of water. It was remarkably refreshing and cool, and soothed his raw throat. He drained it quickly. One of the doors he’d earlier suspected of being a bedroom opened letting in an immense amount of sunlight and a couple of red-faced and sweaty men. Father and son based on their resemblance and apparent age difference. They seated themselves at the table. “Our guest is finally up, Sam,” the woman said. She filled two more bowls with beans and set them on the table. “Found him up and about when I was settin’ to rebuild the fire.” The older man, Sam, looked him over closely. He didn’t know what Sam was looking for but he didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable under this farmer’s scrutiny. This was a calloused hand, thick knuckled field worker, a man that provided for his family by the sweat on his brow in the strength of his back. This was a man that harvested his food from the earth and made his living selling what he couldn’t use. And this was a kind man that found an unconscious stranger and sheltered him. “What’s your name, son?” The man, Sam, asked before shoveling a spoonful of beans into his mouth. It didn’t come to him as easy as a smile. It didn’t just roll off his tongue. Something so simple and important, something that should’ve been ingrained in his very being and he had lost it. There was no inkling, no clue. It was as if he simply had no name. “I don’t know.” Sam traded a skeptical look with his wife. “Where you from?” “I don’t know.” They watched him uncertainty or disbelief lurking behind their gaze. The old farmer opened his mouth to say something but his wife’s hand on his shoulder stopped thought short. She was concerned or sympathetic, he couldn’t tell which. Or maybe it was pity hiding in her eyes. He had no doubt this was strange them. Finding a stranger on their land who then wakes up three days later with no memories after a doctor can find nothing wrong with him. He probably would’ve thought it was strange too, and yet there he was. “Do you know where you are?” She asked. “Your home, I imagine.” They didn’t appear to see the humor. He shook his head. “I don’t.” The farmer, Sam, pushed his wide brim hat upon his head and scratched his scalp. “Well what do you know, son?” The question brought heat to his face. “I know the sun rises and falls at the open and close of each day,” he started. “I know the moon changes her face on a regular cycle. There are days when the sun and the moon share the same sky. Plants take root and grow as far into the earth as they do toward the sky. I know the names of the many shapes in the stars and I know the names of the trees. I know a great many things but none of them relevant.” The family of farmers was silent and he realized he might have been more aggressive he intended. He didn’t look away or express shame, but he did soften his expression a bit. “I apologize but this is difficult.” The son, but kept his peace up till now, raised his head. “So you don’t know nothing about yourself.” “Joshua!” His mother’s shook her towel at him. “Mind your manners.” “No, it’s all right.” He knew things but not the how or why. He couldn’t think of a single thing before waking up in the other room. Where he was born, where he was going – he had nothing. Or maybe he did. “Did I have anything on me when you found me?” The wife worked up and hurried into the very room he woke up in. Sam began talking. “When we found you, your clothes weren’t much to speak of but you had a couple of strange things on you.” The farmer’s wife returned with a small bundle and placed it on the table. She carefully unfolded the cloth and instantly he knew these things were his. A small double-edged dagger, a couple of hard rolls he doubted it would be good much longer, and an envelope. The envelope he picked up first and ran his fingers over the letter scrawled across the front. It was a runic language but it was addressed to someone else or a couple of someones, he didn’t recognize the names. Setting the letter aside he took up the athame. It was light and comfortable in his hand. There were small runes here too, carved into the blade. This was not a knife fighting but he wasn’t sure what it was for. He was aware of their eyes on him as he set the dagger down, but he wasn’t done. He picked up a hard roll and found it much heavier than bread had any right to be. It crumbled easily enough in his fingers and he discovered a couple platinas. He heard the farmer’s wife gasp. “What were those doing in there?” She asked. He looked up to see all eyes on him. They seem surprised, not only by him pulling money out of a roll but perhaps by the amount. He didn’t answer but he knew. It was the perfect place to hide something from thieves or bandits. Very rarely would someone want stale bread. For some reason he had been worried about someone stealing from him, enough to conceal it inside old bread. It made him hesitate in grabbing the other roll. What else was important enough to hide? Despite the feeling he shouldn’t share his secret with anyone, he broke apart the second roll. Simple, innocuous, just a little slip of paper with more runic writing scratched on it. He could read them as plain as any common language though he couldn’t name them. The farmer gestured with this spoon as he leaned over to take a look. “What’s all that?” “Oblivion,” he said and smiled. “It’s my name. Lethe.” |
| Javed lean back in the old wooden chair, one leather boot resting against the table's edge, keeping his balance. The air in the tavern stunk of sweat and smoke, soldiers still in armor setting their helmets aside to escape into a fog of intoxication. He hated the city, hated the idiocy of the masses, the sense of entitlement that seemed to follow the people of Highglow like a plague. He had been in the city for less than 2 days and already he wanted to drive a blade into someone. He watched the door swing open; another soldier enter. He was a short man, built thick like an ox, the kings crest etched on his arm. He would be the one giving Javed his next job as promised, and despite the significant payment, Javed was already doubting his ability to stay in the city for the contracted time. Still he stood, his tall frame towering nearly a head over the others, and made his way toward him. The king's man at the door raised an unsure eyebrow at the sight of him. “Javed Saida?” the man asked. “I am Javed.” “Then come with me. You have an appointment.” The man growled. An hour later Javed stood in the courtyard of the palace, watched by 5 of the king's guard. He had surrendered his sword without difficulty. He would not be challenged by these 5 men, children compared to his unending years, though he matched them in appearance. His black hair had not grayed, his green eyes were not surrounded with wrinkle or mark. There was no weariness in his posture, no creak in his bones nor ache in his joints. Soon the king appeared, a boy of maybe 13 at his side. Javed bowed his head slightly before meeting the king's eyes. “So you are the beast, the brute, the man bathed in death who will not die.” the king asked with a smile. “I am a servant, my lord. I am what you require.” Javed replied. “Humble for a man with your reputation.” the king answered. Javed again bowed his head. He had no great love for this man, nor for any ruler who had come before him. What Javed valued was the freedom a royal assignment would provide. Javed was a man bathed in death, and to continue to fill that need he swore to act only within the boundaries of the law, less he lose his soul. The king studied him for a moment before continuing, “This is my son, Asher. He will be in your care along with his sister Aila if we should reach an arrangement. I trust you would have no difficulty in seeing that they are safe.” “If left in my care they will be safe my lord, you have my word.” The king dismissed his son, and with a wave of his hand he and Javed were left alone. “I have heard of your loyalty, Javed Saida. You will swear an oath to me, will you not?” “I will swear an oath Highness, but before I do I humbly request that the kingdom provide me with a few assurances.” Javed began. The king raised his eyebrows, surprised at his boldness, and motioned for him to continue. “Firstly highness I request that my oath is held only as long as our contract, in which time I can choose to remain or to go. With that said, as long as I am in contract to you I will do as you command, no question, no hesitation.” “Very well, continue.” “Secondly I require permission to do anything I deem necessary to protect your family and your kingdom. If I feel a life needs to be taken for the good of the kingdom, I must have the freedom to do so. I will not act outside the law, so I ask that my hands not be bound by common restrictions.” The king hesitated, “Are you a murderer Javed?” “I have killed many men.” Javed replied, his handsome face unchanging. “And are you a murderer? Soldiers do not bare that title, despite the lives they have taken. Are you only a soldier, or are you also a murder?” He asked. “I have been both, my lord. In your service I wish only to be a soldier, which is why I require your permission to do what is necessary.” “Then you will not hesitate to protect what is mine?” “No my lord. I will not hesitate.” “Then the contract is yours.” |
AND alas! That was it for him. My poor brother,” There was a collective sigh of unhappiness as the young man narrating his story to the barman began to tail off into whimpers and half sobs, “Oh bother, me frater, mio fredo, mique grudeble! Lost! My idol, my sweet Amphelice...” Now, it is a truth as old as the stones of Alabaste that any local inn must be in want of a good story. Especially those taverns nested in the quietude of small villages where the regulars can trace their ancestry on barstools. It is no secret that this is the case and that fateful night in The Blue Carabinier was no exception. Every ear listened. Tears sprung in every eye: from the white-whiskered sailors and dark skinned lassies whose hearts beat for gold, to gilded patrons and greying crones. What a tale they had heard! What sorrows had been endured by this youth, a man by few scant years, dressed so sadly in faded colours and what once might have been a fine green cloak. “Now, now.” The wise-eyed Talitha murmured, “Have a drink lad, it won’t solve much but for a while...” Watery eyes met hers, one green and one blue, “Such kindness lady, where I have felt so little for so long.” Another susurrus of words between surrounding drinkers. They thought this stranger a funny sort when he tumbled through the door, tattered silks and tired cloak, boots lined with scraggles of loosened mud. Such a state, they had murmured. Clearly some foreign fool. Clearly some errant lordling who’d been taken for all he was by bandits. Probably deserved it. One man had spat on the floor after the stranger had entered, crossing his chest with curled fingers to ward off the man’s unlucky spirits. But he was attractive enough, thought the wenches who leant across their tables, breasts heaving in their bodices as they tried to earn his particular attention. He had such fine features, he had to be an aristocrat with cheeks like that. And his hair. Like bronze. Had any of them seen such a strange shade this side of Imyr? “Almost pink in the light. You see, Gisenna? You see?” Whispered the best looking of these female admirers. Her name was Eilem and she was the only one with a hint of otherness in her, indicated by her grey eyes and paler skin. All the other girls scowled at her, for if he had her attention they had little chance of wooing him with their same-old-Tysan colouring. Sharing his misfortune had negate the suspicions and condescension of the sceptics and only endeared his further to the fluttering eyed Eilem. The whole tavern felt love for him, gratitude that they themselves were not subject to such horrors. Yet, it seemed the man was no longer so distraught, the wine hitting his despair and calming him. Sadness still clung to him, deep and raw as winter in King’s Fall. Another round was bought for him, courtesy of a regular who had also lost his kin, long ago in the great war of Yondistyr. There was some talk, small motions made so that he was swept away from the bar to the company of some finely dressed merchants and the company of grey-eyed Eilem. No body wanted to miss out on welcoming the stranger to their great and prosperous village. It was their turn to make him welcome, to show him how grand the town of Lee Dalys Wode remained in the face of taxation and poor harvest. “Oh if only I could have had a little of your luck then maybe...” murmured the bronze-haired visitor. “You cannot think of that now,” Eilem purred into his ear, “No, no. We must distract you from your sadness until it is forgotten.” “Ffff...forget...” She hummed in appreciation of his understanding, sipped the wine she’d pilfered from Gisenna. She placed her hand on his leg under the table. Their table companions raised quizzical brows, humoured by the apparent stupor coming over their bereaved companion. “THIEF! THIEF! ROBBERY!” A sudden bellow accompanied by the THUNK of the door slamming open burst the inn’s gentle mothering apart, “DID YOU SEE WHERE HE WENT?” The red faced gentleman stood, clearly run-ragged and once again the interest of the tavern were stirred. This was one of the council, one of the richest men in all the town, maybe even the triangle. “Raberty Knackwyt, whatever are you going on about? No one-” “I saw him! I SAW HIM! He entered here!” “No one has-” “HIM!” Raberty Knackwyt shrieked, pointing his finger directly at the young man, “HIM! HE STOLE IT!” Attention flittered from the purpling Raberty to the paled desperado. “Me? But I’ve been here.” The foreigner’s voice trembled as he spoke, still raspy from recounting his earlier woes.” “Yeah, the lad’s been here.” Talitha nodded, “Been here for all of a candle now. What are you speaking Raberty?” “My book! My book is gone.” “Your book?” Talitha frowned. The rest of the inn was mumbling too, “What’s a book, Knackwyt?” That Raberty could turn such a shade of puce was rather shocking, but his description of the animal skin leaves full of scribed notes had many wrinkling their noses. Whoever heard such oddness? And why on earth would you want something like that? “Ain’t that what the priests got in Kings Land?” Muttered Gisenna to Eilen who snapped in response: “Don’t talk rubbish. What would priests want buks for?” What was quite clear, however, was that no matter what a book was – the young man could not have stolen it. Not a chance. He’d have to be two places at once. Quite impossible. Raberty Knackwyt scowled and ordered a dram before heaving a great sigh and leaving. His wife would kill him. Once again, the night focused on their foreign victim. Plied with wine, cajoled by the women, he eventually promised that he would remain the night before setting out to find his uncle in the city of Durvak. It was only a day of walking from this town according to his map. Storytelling was a great art and he knew that his brother would appreciate his success. * Felix grinned as the sun woke him. With it trailed a cool breeze and the smell of damp earth. Unmistakable whistling filled the air. Prosper was back. “Mission accomplished?” “Oh yes.” “They believed every word. Raberty is thought to be as foolish as he ever was.” “Good. He’s grown far too serious.” “For his own good. But even,” “When he was younger he was,” “A bit of a numpty.” They laughed. The two men were mirror opposites – both with bronze hair, both pale, both built to run and to deal with the wilderness. And one blue eye, one green for them both. Twins, identical. Felix could see the question rising and brought the book out from the burlap sack, placing it gently on the table. The book was old. Older than they’d thought when they’d heard old Raberty had purchased one for the sake of not seeming ignorant to his posh Beryn friends. It was eerily familiar and the twins shared a look of a thousand words. “So when do we return it?”Prosper murmured, almost too softly, because he wasn’t sure that he wanted to send the book away yet. “Let him stew?” Apparently Felix felt exactly the same. The need for levity brought back their grins. “Hmmm stew, do you have any?” “Left over from yesterday. Good lamb.” “Our favourite.” |
| There were only so many times he could walk around the market. Everything there had been there before. Cycling. He remained impressed by some of their clothes and jewelry. It's quality was nothing to dismiss, but as far as things that interested him went, there just wasn't much here. What he wanted was to tie up this final loose end now. The loose end of Amelia. Amelia and her sisters in fact. Her entire family, even. Unfortunately those ends seemed to have tangled themselves in a web of knots. Amelia wouldn't let him in her house or speak a word to him other, and he supposed he could understand that. He'd staid with them and ignored his instincts. The one's that told him she would fall for him. The ones that told him she would feel betrayed if he left, the ones that made him realize it'd be the same as having a family. The instincts he trusted to keep him out of things like this. Out of trouble, out of pain, and out of people's lives. That was not the place for something as eternal as what he came to believe himself to be. It was a debatable status to take, but having survived several things known to primarily cause instant and horrible death, the fear of an end was much like appeal of Alabastian bread. Negligible at best. Karam's thoughts didn't show on his face, one of mild disinterest and a few days of little sleep. He looked more like someone who had just woken up, expression wise. It was his neutral mode. His mask, the one he wore to lock his thoughts away from sight. The bench he sat on was warm from the sun, birds being tossed seed and old breadcrumbs nearby. Karam bit into a red apple looking back toward the Rhodes' house wondering if he should go back yet. Perhaps she'd had time to cool off. He chewed slowly. Not because the apple was delicious, no. It was quite a normal one. It was more of a means of procrastination, a habit not even a surplus of 300 years alive could totally break. This wasn't a confrontation he'd been looking forward to after all. It would be fun indeed. Like pulling teeth. Karam took another bite. He'd made this bed though, and lay in it he shall. No matter how much glass had fallen into it. It would be the coward's way not to set things right. To allow for closure. That was the least he could do, and simultaneously the most. Karam nodded to himself and sat there taking his time finishing the piece of fruit for which he'd been overcharged and finally stood. "Friends don't up and leave for four years Karam," Amelia said, a curtness in her voice that he'd heard before only when her sisters were acting up. He had to hold back a chuckle hearing her direct the tone at him, even though he did deserve it. "Especially without saying a word beforehand. I think it was irresponsible and selfish of you, not to mention foolish. What would you have done if something had happened to you? No one even knew where you were heading. The king's men came by here looking for you. What were you thinking, Karam?" "Thinking?" he said quickly. Karam cocked his head to the side and looked up at her, "Many things, Amelia. Many things." "Is that your best?" she asked straightening her neck and folding her arms. Her eyes darted around his face, she wanted to make eye contact, stare him down. Amelia was still angry, clearly, but not quite confrontational enough to express it as physically as she wanted. "Not really." he answered straightening as well. A tense silence fell between them. Amelia's sisters peering out of their room. "Karam..." "I had to go, Amelia. There was no alternative. There was never any..." he paused seeing her seem to brace for what he was going to say. He didn't let his hesitation sit, "...other way. This was what was going to happen since day one. Eventually I would have to leave." "Then why didn't you say that? Why didn't you tell us?" "I did." "Liar." "I made sure to try, at the very least." "Then you did a shit job." Amelia snapped recoiling after she'd said it. Her sisters' eyes widened and they instantly retreated as their big sister's head turned in their direction. She sucked in air and let out a big sigh before staring down at her hands. Amelia swallowed, trying to find a way to push away the silence between them. "I missed you. We all did." "I know." Karam said nodding. "I knew you would, and I'm sorry." Amelia looked up at him, lips pouting a little. She stared at him for a while seeming to examine his face. He could tell what she was picking up on. Part of the reason he left. The reason he would inevitably always have to spend time away. "In all this time I've known you...you don't seem to have aged a day, Karam. Probably just my memories holding you so close. You'll probably always look like the same handsome explorer that came here when I was younger." She looked sad, very. As if she was coming to realize the truth. A truth she'd buried somewhere deep when she decided he wasn't coming back. Amelia's heart was starting to fully let go of the notion that Karam would return and sweep her away in his arms. It was starting to have to accept that it was never an eventuality. Never an option at all. "Nothing stays the same forever." Karam smiled at her, "Like you. Getting married, finally." he said, "Why do you think I came back?" Amelia gave a deep sigh and her look seemed to go neutral before a rather forced smile appeared. "Right. Yes I am. His name is Simon Rogelle. He's a nobleman of House Rogelle. They're wealthy and all very kind. Despite my common heritage they accept me. It's really quite fortunate for me, and I do love Simon." Her smile seemed to grow as she spoke. Karam nodded and got up walking over to her placing a hand on hers. She looked up at him finally able to meet his eyes. "Then be happy with him. After all, what's stopping you?" Amelia's eyes shimmered for a moment before she leapt up and wrapped her arms around him. Karam returned the gesture hugging her as she embraced him, her head tucked against the crook of his neck. "Oh Karam...it's really happening. I thought...I mean...it's just so much..." she said beginning to choke up. "Is it really okay? Is it really going to be okay if I marry him and not..." "If it will make you happy, then of course it's okay." he answered rubbing her back, "Just be happy Amelia. You don't need me for that. You've proven it." he would move back and hold her out at arms length. Her cloak opened just slightly to reveal her dress underneath. Karam smiled at her again. "You look stunning by the way." Amelia's eyes were full of tears and she lunged forward hugging him again making Karam chuckle. This had gone a little better than expected. He felt it in his chest, that warmth. It was such a wonderful thing, to come and find her really happy with her life. In fact, with how she was acting, his disappearance and the lack of closure to his being there was the sole mar on her happiness. Her one loose end. Now, both of theirs were all tied up. Now he could only pray she'd understand that this was goodbye. Karam was soon heading back out of Marstead, things had gone better than expected. He hadn't actually truly said goodbye, but he was fairly certain Amelia understood. She would explain it to her sisters, eventually they'd understand, they'd all grow up, keep find memories, and life would go on. It was better that way. No need for them to know of his longevity. That would only cause more problems. It's not as if he hadn't done it before, attempt to get close to someone. Of course it was a strange thing to try to do. It had to be someone of at least adulthood, even then they all seemed somewhat like they were too young to him. No matter how beautiful or how intelligent, there was a depth in a companion that he craved. This craving only manifested when he sought companionship though, and thus he rarely did. It was torturous to be in the grasps of. Still, often he found himself in desiring affection, and in those times he'd succumb if only to feel unsatisfied with it later. The desire for someone who could fulfill his real needs. The need for depth of character, of wisdom. It was a depth no mortal woman could seem to reach. As for Amelia, he'd known her too young. It was a hurdle he had no intention of willing himself past, to see a child grow up and then lust after them as an adult. He had simply let himself get too attached, wanting to help her make a better life for herself and her sisters. His untimely return to Tysus put him off schedule a bit. He was supposed to be gone for about fifteen years and then come back somewhere a little further from Highglow than he was now, but this was a bit of a special case. Now he was going to leave again, probably. The changes had begun to be a little too noticeable, the gap in aging between when some had last seen him and now. It would not be the first time he'd crossed the Ailian Ocean to get away for a while. Trying to give people time to forget him. It was the belief of Tysian's all over that only the Kings and Queens were immortal after all. It would likely not sit well to learn that just anyone could be one. Still Karam's memories stretched back far, and then there were some even further back than he could fully recall. Though he desperately wanted to. Something about them felt endearing. Like something that would do him a lot of good to know again, but there were only so many pieces to try and put together. He would close his eyes as he walked, footfalls muting to his ears, and body following the straight path he was walking. Time passing him by as he moved and thought, trying to recall. A voice. Singing, beautifully. Some song with the strings of a violin. Karam was pretty sure it was his playing, but it was certainly not his voice. It was a woman's. One who's face was gone from his mind. Not just her face, but everything save her voice. That song, that melody...haunting...absolutely divine in it's beauty though. It encompassed the depth he craved, but in musical form. A pair of eyes. gray and vivid full of wisdom and absorbing everything around them. He wasn't sure if their color was actually gray or if his memory simply forgot their hue, but they belonged to a man, a man whose voice he couldn't recall yet his name was always on the tip of Karam's tongue. He opened his mouth briefly before closing it when he could not find the sound to begin with. A hand on his shoulder, the words of the person it belonged too were not solid. Something comforting, reassuring him. A friend, an old one. The aura of trust that acme from that hand was met with sadness, despair. The despair was Karam's. What had he done? Who was this here for him in that time, when he felt so low? Cold, falling, darkness, helplessness. Death? A hand reaching through the cold, grasping his outstretched one, pulling, pulling him up. Karam rubbed his right temple. "Who's voice..." he said to himself as his eyes opened. He blinked and looked around. He was still on the road, about nine hours had passed of walking. He was long away from Marstead, almost to port again. He knew the answers were here in Tysus. That much he couldn't run away from. He paused now. Stopping his movement eastward. Karam took a deep breath. Maybe he should give it some more thought. Not that he'd made any progress before with finding answers. He had the violin from his memories at his hideout. Other than that none of the other memories had a real, physical attachment. Still, it was something, or it may be. Eyes scanning the horizon he could see the small town in the distance. He looked left, there was Highglow. Further away, but easier to see. It was huge, the capitol of Tysus. Formerly Sahlgard. It was also a place he'd been many times, working for the royals to go out and chart the Ancient Lands. Many unknown trinkets and pieces of odd technology were there. Some he turned in, some he kept for himself. He'd heard word of the festival starting soon. The Skyreach Festival as it was being called now. A massive gathering of all types in Highglow. Well, the Skyreach at leas, which was a giant fairgrounds near the city that could qualify as a town on its own. It was an easy place to find people when you had the time to look, and Karam had all the time there could be. Running a tan hand though his dark hair Karam closed his eyes for a moment wondering. Having the same difficulty as the first time he decided to leave 'for good'. Could he really just walk away? Footfalls started again, turning and heading north, away from Pier Solare, the port town, and toward Highglow, Capitol of the Sun. Maybe this time, he'd really find some answers. |
| The trip through the underbelly of Highglow took quite a bit longer then Iskariot expected. It was as if the city built upon itself for some reason; trapping the previous level underground. He wrinkled his nose at the stream of sludge-like filth that flowed across the doorstep of his once favored book shoppe. "I certainly hope the people weren't enclosed down here as well." Iskariot mumbled absently as he opened the door to the shoppe and peered in, hoping by half that there were still books within, and measurably pleased to see they hadn't been abandoned. He spent several hours navigating through the small section of the old town that was sealed off. Trying to find an opening to the ground level above. Eventually he found a large store house that was boarded up on the outside. There was light coming from within so Iskariot quietly removed a few boards and glanced within. The place was stuffed to the brim in storage crates with just enough room that he was able to squeeze into the aisle between the crates and the walls; following along until he came to a broad stairway that led up into the crowded interior of a general merchant's shop. Iskariot slipped through the crowd and out onto the street, both breathing a sigh of relief for the crowd's cover of his appearance as well as stifling a want to hyperventilate. There were SO many people, even now along the streets it was shoulder to shoulder as he pressed forward and slipped into an alleyway that appeared quite a bit emptier than the main road. "Were there always this many people here? Does my heart skip beats just out of becoming accustomed to solitude?" he asked of himself. "I do not recall the streets of Highglow surging like this save, perhaps, near festival days." He usually avoided such times on the surface. But apparently festivals had been added or perhaps merely the dates changed, or maybe this was what Highglow was like now all the time. If so he dreaded what festival days would be like here. "Excuse me, good sir." He called to a rather educated looking fellow just to be stared at and quickly abandoned through the crowd. He felt the weight of the broad sword upon his back and sighed, "Well I suppose that's to be expected." Iskariot took a deep breath and pushed into the crowd of which he was actually taller than most of the flood of people. He weaved through the streets trying to ignore the constant bumps and bangs and shoves as he studied shops and other buildings for the smallest sign of a place of learning. |
| If I am not a woman of words, Harper wrote, quill scratching against the vellum, instead preferring the melodious communication of sounds and the universality of such language, why then do I find myself plagued by a surfeit of concrete thoughts? I feel as though my fingers are leaded, and only my tongue is left free to express the tumult of feelings that ring with such cacophonous exultation through my soul. It is, I assure you my dear friend, a most uncharacteristic display of iron intransigence. The bubbling effervescence of musical contemplation is a matter of higher inspiration and I fear the Muses of life have, for the moment, ceased their effusive whispers. What does this mean, my dear friend, for the music laying quiescent in my soul? What does it mean for the sumptuous feast of heartfelt communion pressing against my heart, imploring its captor in three quarter time to loosen his prison of conscious thought? It means, friend, that I must, for the first time in centuries, leave my most humble of abodes for the bright awakening of the new world. I must open my ears to the songs of humanity, of life and death, love and sex and politics and war. It has been centuries, dear friend, since I have heard the sound of swords clashing; I fear I have forgotten the exact resonance of their clanging salutations to glory. The music has left me because I have been remiss in my duties. Words, you see, are a mere descriptor; they are hallow and devoid of substance, never encapsulating exact the thing they purport to embody. The pipe is not a pipe, and any cretin may purport a mastery of words (though even I must admit few actually do, and those are true geniuses for whom even I must admit some admiration). Music, then, is the tool of the titan, of the colossus and master of understanding. And with that dexterity comes the onus of obligation; it is not a gift freely given, but a bond shared, a symbiosis of life and channel from which stems the most sublime enlightenment. It is a burden, but a most glorious one, full of purpose and triumph. It is one in which I have been negligent, suffering almost from an indolent dereliction. And a reforging of the connection is necessary. You understand, don't you dear friend? I must go out into the world once more, else how am I to become one with it? There was a religion once, long ago...I have books on it stashed away, borrowed from Iskariot and never returned, that encouraged the sublimation of one's ego. Perhaps you have heard of them, friend? In any case, music is quite identical to this loss of self; I become the conduit for the true world. In the past few centuries, I have relied upon the feelings within me, buoyed by occasional interaction with the people of Durvak, who are perhaps as creative as mortals can be. It seems this is no longer enough. It seems I must become a part of the world again. I confess, friend, that this fills me with tribulation. If, as I believe, my friends of old are out there—the immortals who do not rule this world—do I want to see them again? Are there not enemies, as well, blocked from my cognitive abilities; are these one-time friends now enemies, and this is why we are without our beginnings as well as our endings? My own ignorance is painful to me; it is a bleeding wound, never healing, never ceasing, at the heart of my existence. I, who strive to understand everything that I may put it to melodious tempo, am denied understanding of my identity. Yes, friend; I fear what I will meet when I enter the world once more. You may think I am not so separate as I claim. I take lovers and toss them aside as indifferently as an apple devoid of flesh; I go among them in cloak and hood, dispensing advice in exchange for necessities. To them, I am a phantom; I am, perhaps, a Queen come among them. One can never know with the fiery minds of mortals, burning so bright in their short time upon this earth. They are unfathomable to immortals; an eternal mystery, and privy to so much we can never know. Sometimes I envy them their end. But then... Friend, there is so much music. There is so much noise and beauty, and ugliness and silence to compose. I fear to leave it forever; I fear what would happen if I should give in and accept the darkness. I fear that I would want to take it down, and be lost to the world forever before I can truly capture the finality of life. I have tried to capture its beginnings. It has never come to fruition. Enough, friend. I believe it is time to go. Highglow beckons; it is time, I believe, for the Skyreach Festival and, if music is to be found in this world, I will find it there. Perhaps this is the last time I will write. You will hear from me, of course, in the sounds of life twirling in common time from the Orchestral pits and the minstrel halls. You will always hear from me. ***** Harper laid the quill upon the page with grim satisfaction. It brought her no pleasure to spell her thoughts in words, but as the music was denied her for the moment, she had given way to the necessity of the moment. There was no friend, of course; there was no one but what memory supplied, and imagination created. She had been alone for as long as she could remember; back all the way to the beginnings of this new world, of Tysus and the City of the Sun. Companionship was part of the world before; part of the wavering blackness that plagued her memory and gave way before nothing. She felt an itching between her legs and dismissed it. Loneliness had hitherto meant the temptation of some young lordling or merchant's son, but not today. The brief touch of mortality and its passions would not sate her as it normally did; she meant to keep her bargain with the primordial everything from which music came. From which immortality was born, and where God—if there were one—resided. Harper believed there might be one; an immortal beyond all others, who calmed the maelstrom and brought order and life to what had before been only chaos. It was from this being, she believed, that she heard the whispers of enlightenment; it was with this creature she had made a bargain. There would be no casual dalliance with this entity's mortal creations. Not this day. Perhaps not for some time, if the world caught her interest and held her captive once more to its intricacies. Harper had prepared a pack some time ago, and hoisted it upon her back now, after which she attached her cloak and raised its hood. It was a fine material—lined with a fur of some kind—and as old as Tysus. Dyed the deepest of blues, it brought to bear the red of Harper's hair and the summer sky that was her eyes. She wore only the finest clothing—why would one wish to go about in rags, and be a pock upon the splendors of the world—of the finest fit. Harper didn't own a mirror, but she knew in the way only the frequent subject of sexual admiration can know, how beautiful she was, and how eminently desirable. If she chose to accentuate her womanly features, who would blame her? The journey to Highglow would not take long. A short distance along the road, she would accept the company of a troupe headed for the festival and journey with them. There would be song and story, food and ale and good company. Harper would need to ease herself into constant contact with mortals, and how better than to follow the gypsy performers that crossed Tysus more thoroughly than a professional messenger service? She would know everything she needed to know within hours, and would have no trouble insinuating herself once more into the permanent company of humanity. This was not the first time she had disappeared only to reemerge. And it would most likely not be the last. “Onward,” she whispered, her voice throaty and melodious, and perhaps a touch deeper than one might expect from such a youthful-seeming woman. “To Highglow.” ***** It was teeming. Harper could hear the tremolo shaking of the strings, the rumbling of large drums struck soft, the rising and falling of the woodwinds, and occasional shout in the form of brass calls. Everything resonated within her, and Harper could barely keep still. Her fingers, with a mind of their own, danced, moving in time with the music of this festival and the people. Smells from the low, gaseous blowing of the tuba and sensuous wafting of the oboe, to mimic the exotica on offer. The violincello, here...weaving a melody of human voices; it was the instrument that sounded most like them, after all, and what better to bring a semblance of calm to this chaotic scene? Harper closed her eyes and took a deep breath before diving in. Someone ran into her, and Harper heard the crash of a cymbal, and the dancing, rattling skeletons of the xylophone. Hawkers waved their wares before her eyes; the harp smooth silk, the flute a jeweler catching the light with his baubles. Everything had its place within her, and within the symphony she cataloged within her mind. She would remember it; every note, every rhythm, every change of tempo and dynamic. Harper never forgot a song within her; she simply stored it away until it spilled forth from her pen and into immortality. An immortal knew everlasting life, after all. She could never forget that. “Lady! Lady! One so beautiful as you needs jewels as beautiful!” “She is too beautiful for your baubles! She needs no tawdry ornamentation, only the finest silks to alight upon her unblemished skin!” “The finest veils, lady! To keep the sun from freckling you!” “Hot meat pie, lady? It is the most delicious you will ever find!” “Wooden toys! Lady, a toy for your son? A doll for your daughter?” Harper stopped, a discordant note honking its way into her perfect symphony. “What makes you think I have children, sir?” The merchant bowed several times, evidently impressed with the well-dressed beauty who spoke with such authority. “You walk like a mother, Lady. Like a woman who has brought life into this world. I have seen this look before, and it is the same; all women have it.” A stabbing sensation ripped through her, and Harper felt suddenly weak. “I...” she whispered. “I have no children. I have never had children.” Tilting his head, the merchant shrugged. “My mistake, Lady! Yours is an uncommon grace, then. A surety of place, a calm repose I have never yet seen in a maid.” Recovering herself somewhat, Harper pushed the cloak back, revealing more of her body to the surrounding crowd. No one crashed into a building, which was something of a disappointment, as it would have added a comedic element to the song, but a number of men did turn to look. The merchant refrained from raking his eyes up and down her body, but just barely; Harper found this, too, amusing. She had heard from the troupe that the Kings and Queens had established quite the rule of propriety. “What makes you believe I am a maid, sir? I am simply not a mother.” Laughing, Harper pushed through the crowd and toward the performers' square. She was not as jubilant as she pretended. Something about what the merchant had said plagued her. It cloaked her shoulders in overwhelming sorrow; the kind for and of which she had seen mortals die. From somewhere within her came a sobbing awareness of loss, pressing up against the shadows of forgetting and, for the first time, breaking through the barrier of her dissipated past. It carried Harper through the Festival, a mournful cadenza pressed to her consciousness, its claws dug deep and unwilling to cut free. Forcing herself to dissect it, Harper headed for the musicians, hoping that whatever fare they had to offer would be enough to free her from her entangling, interfering past. At least until she was ready to see it through. |
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