The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

Don Nadie · April 15, 2024, 04:24:24 PM

The Great Asterabadian Raffle

And so it was that I ended up holding the Great Asterabadian Raffle. A show, silly as every show and good-humored as every show. I had hoped to get even more participants, but I was satisfied with the final amount: 12 is a good number. The winner was a Scribe, too, which I like: they do perform an invaluable and extremely boring service.

Of course, there was a shade over the festivities. She took time to emerge from her Tower to make me miserable, as befits a fairy-tale witch. Was there a point to her coming? Beyond cruelty? Cold and insulting, she kept arguing about how my raffle did not constitute true Asterabadian democracy and I, once more, was irked at the lack of subtlety some people display.

Then again, I suppose people love feigning idiocy when it suits them.

The raffle served its purpose. It helped me talk with people about the importance of Voices for everyone, have conversations about fairness and happenstance, win voters outside of our usual supporters, and demonstrate that the White League is not all calculating and treacherous politicians. To show coherence with the ideals we claim to spouse. That was cheap, for the price of a single Voice.

Though part of me was tempted to tell her that elevating people of the League is no certainty, that I elevated her with my own dinari because I believed in her and she turned out to be not a White League supporter, that she had campaigned for Ariel of all people, that she'd sell every single Voiceless if it suited her, that she was a monster who'd killed my friend, that she was a monster who'd leech us all, that she was a horrid, monstruous, empty-hearted bitc

[Notably, the paragraph before has been struck and a little prayer drawn in almost transparent ink is plastered on top of it]

Still. Still. Still.
I must accept what is as what is.
I must endure what's gone as what's gone.
Empty the heart of its sorrow, Seucsippus,
for the moment is forever.

[After the prayer, the narration continues, as though nothing had happened]

So I adressed the issues through Triffi, explained why I had done it, and, as she fell into a fight with Daoud (the Inspector accusing her, rightly, of hypocresy) went off for falafels with Elias.

And all was well in the Well.

Don Nadie · April 16, 2024, 07:34:45 PM

To Wither On the Vine

e
n I am not sure that I got what he meant
i
v But then again, do we ever?
Can we truly understand someone else?
e
h
t All we do is reach out
(In the darkness, I reached)
n
o
And seek
r (In the darkness, I sought)
e
h
t
i And find, in the darkness, the warmth
w (His hand was found, in the darkness)

o
t

t All we do is reach out
n
a
w
And is that not the purpose of Art?
t
o
n To reach out?

o "How about we make a promise, then?", he asked.
d He raised his tabbuleh. I, my falafel. To cheer.
"...to a friendship", he said
I "only ever as complicated..."
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ...as it needs to be."

Don Nadie · April 17, 2024, 05:50:26 PM

Win ~~or Lose~~

I endured Qari's nonsense thinking, in my heart, of metaphors for his Bellows. "Camel fart" was the one I settled in: stinky and bothersome, yes, but soon to fade away again. I saw the investidure calmly, and with a smile. Part of me, certainly, relieved that it was over. Maybe Zol Nur could read it, in my expression.

"Congratulations", he said later, in the Krak, and I smiled.
(Why shouldn't I? Or was it crass, to smile?)
"Thank you, my friend"

Softly, we talked: politics, duties, efforts. His hopes and mine. He was right, of course. A good candidate promises only what he believes in, follows his values and knows how to say "no". That was the reflection he left me with, to ponder:

"They say a reed bends, so as to not break"
"How many swords are made from reeds?"
"How many hammers? How many bricks?"

I do not think I was a good candidate, but I was as good as I could, these days. I stopped what I felt was underhanded, said no to games and temptation, and made no false promises. Enough to be happy about, though with some aspects of it, I still struggle. I suppose that, at the very least, I do owe Akna an apology. Sorry, my friend. I hope that, from the Edutu, you can still read over my shoulder.

"Are you really ok", asked Elias, softly,
He was watching me intently, his green eyes, focused.
"Or are you just putting on a brave face?"

I must admit that, if nothing else, running had dispersed some of my last ilusions about politics and the White League. I did not expect that some they wouldn't even want to meet, when I approached them. Silly me, having faith: when your League is full of snakes, you can't be surprised if they bite you.

"In truth? I am content. Proud"
"But I would lie if I didnt admit they stung", I added.
"All the insults and so on. In the bellows and elsewhere"
He winced a little, as though knowing.
"I knew it would've only made things worse", he said.
"but know that I was thinking some very aggressive comebacks"

He was delightfully apologetic, as we shared the promised post-electoral falafel above the rooftops. I felt fine, I think... Or perhaps I have been feeling ill at ease for so long that this mild discomfort was, in contrast, an easy burden. Much like the relief one may feel, when pulling out an arrow, even if that may just make you bleed out. A matter of perspective, rather than-

No, not really. I think I am overthinking. I think I really felt fine.

Above the rooftops, eating falafel and chatting. Knowing myself proud, and loved, and cared for, and with things to do. Saying goodbye and, in saying goodbye, leaning closer and-

It felt like I had won, is all.

Don Nadie · April 18, 2024, 06:04:30 PM

Beloved Alejandro

Here I was, again, in their serene halls. Where prayer rings night and day, day and night. Hearing their words, which coiled, which toyed, which echoed. What a thing, their words, a whisper on the heart, a coil of Fate and promise. I do not know what I felt as I heard them - that strange moment when my heart almost skipped and her words, such words, tugged at something deep and central. Mists and incense twirled in the air, as she spoke:

"Remember Alejandro:" o
two things m o r e "w n
n e e d s y o u t h a n k
"First: this city y t,
o i
u, or

S o (And she nodded)
e d: y u (And she nodded)
c o n a r e
B
d e (And she nodded)
e l
v o (And she nodded)

Don Nadie · April 19, 2024, 03:00:01 PM

Further, Further, Further Reflections Upon the Nature of Historiography

A point to bear in mind is that Ephians like nothing more than nitpicking. For person attempting something, there will be three ready to point out what horrid mistakes the one is making, and how stupidly the one is facing his challenge, and how the one should, in fact, do things in an entirely different way to the way he is doing them. Also, has one stopped to consider the absolutely most obvious point? Or has one paused to ponder the absolutely absurd one?

All of it because it's easier, admittedly, than actually doing the thing. Everyone has an idea of how History should be written, but none of them are very willing to try. Because its hard work, and narratives are complicated. Because nothing is clear. Because everyone has an agenda. Because nobody has a bigger agenda than the Historian himself.

Oh, well. I suppose she did have a point: a lot of people, like her, will either willfully ignore the point I'm trying to make or claim that I should make a different point alltogether.

I think some people are too cowardly.
To look at History in the eye, and face it.
There's no such thing as an objective presentation of events.

"In my mothertongue, history and story are the same thing", I said.
I smirked, cheekly: "We are that wise", I added.

(And then it stabbed me. Wrong tense)
(Should've said "we were")

Don Nadie · April 20, 2024, 03:55:26 PM

Games

In my office, after the Council meeting, we examined the painting. Our conversation was fluid. As ever. A strange thing, his friendship. Perhaps I have spent long enough pondering over ancient things that he and I share the same Sorrow. Perhaps it is just our interests, aligned. Perhaps it is just that we both value people, and have patience with those arround us. Perhaps it is that we both prefer to forgive. Perhaps, that we both wish the world was better.

"I am... Taken by surprise by this sudden removal of keys", I admitted.
"How unfortunate", he said, "you must have displaced yours"

I felt a tug in my stomach, at his irony.
(That had been, of course, my first instinct)
(Displacement, games, ilusion, misdirection)

"I'm not going to play games with War, Zol Nur", I said.
"So I'm not going to displace it".

There was a moment of silence. Before us, the painting.
Injuries, upon flesh. Upon soul.
(Scars. I bear scars upon scars)

"That is so unlike you", he admitted.

(Was there, in his tone, surprise?)

"It is strange", he added.
"To see us both change".

I went to Colmes, right after. I needed to do it inmediately, while my will still held, while I wasn't yet scared into running away, while whatever part of me that wants to be honest and better was still holding the reins, against fear, and instinct, and experience. To his office, I went.

"This key has been, for me...", I said.
"It's been a lot of effort"

I was grasping it. So tightly my knuckles were white.

"Every bone in my body wants to misplace it, now"

I gritted my teeth. How much laid upon that key?

"But I told myself I wasn't going to paly games with War"
"So I'm going to give it to you", I added, as I set it on the table.

Such a tiny thing, in gold and bronze.
Such a small vessel, for so much of my efforts, of my dreams.
And I was choosing to give it, and to trust.

"And I'm gonna do it now", I added.
"Because if I wait too long maybe my desire not to play games will shatter"

I did not knew that it would shatter inmediately. Did not expect my mistake to become apparent in but a few moments. Games, being played against me in the midst of War. Accusations, twists, changing the rules under my feet. Traps. So many traps. This fucking city, and the time one must waste, with traps.

What were Colmes and Samton even trying to do, jingling the threat of charges? Was it an attempt of getting at Selsi, of finding something to threaten her with? Were they playing for the Tower, trying to get me out of the game? And why did I feel so hurt by this? Why did it pain me so much, when Samton accused me, repeated Cosine's lies?

Why was I even surprised?

I do not know. I just felt a sinking feeling, deeper and deeper. A tension, on my shoulders. A pull on my stomach. Lead, both heavy and poisonous. Lead in my entrails. Pulling me deeper. Making me hate myself. Making me hate my idiocy. Making me hate whatever attempts I had been making, at being better.

What is the point of being honest, when honesty is the rope they hang you with?

I was almost thankful that the Tormented attacked us.

Don Nadie · April 20, 2024, 05:01:19 PM

Descending

I was dreaming the path, Downwards.
I was dreaming awake; my stEps, of the Ages.
I was Seeking a friend, in Darkness embraced.
And as I sought him, Careless, I sought also the Truth.
Beyond thE Threshold of Revelation, He called me.
He called me "beloved" aNd His voice was a promise.
His voice was sweeter than wine, sweeter than Dates,
His voIce was sweeter than the lull of Oblivion.
So I followed His voice, iN the darkness.
I was dreaminG the path and the path dreamed me as I dreamed the path.

Don Nadie · April 21, 2024, 06:22:27 PM

Choke on It

I was in a foul mood for most of the day. Mostly the realization that games were being played with me had spoiled any satisfaction I may have felt over rescuing Marcellus. It was a strange feeling, this combination of irritation and anger with dread and fear. I could end up dead, or barred from Truth. All because of the inane intrigues played by the Accorded, with their powerplays and their counteroffers.

"As I remember, none sought to charge you", he explained. We were in the art gallery, watching some of the paintings, whispering. A long-postponed meeting to update our new Legate, which I had needed to turn into a sort of interrogtation. The toga suits him, I'll admit that: he is better for this than I'll ever be... Much more adept at implying and dodging and saying a lot while saying nothing at all. I suppose there was, at least, some collegial unity there: despite our differences, we are both scholars. He can understand my involvement. Not that he'll do anything for my sake.

"The Warmaster likes to imply and pressure, to obtain results", he added. That is, of course, a lovely way of saying that he lied to get me to confess... What, exactly? I had told him the truth, as I told the Legate, as I told in my report. If there was anything nefarious, I wouldn't have let it happen. If something nefarious happened, it was not with me present.

(Then again, what is perception? I do imagine someone more adept at mistrust may have noticed what I didn't. I certainly was more focused in the burning taste of Truth. Eager, I was, and seeking. With Fate on your lips, who has the patience, the time, to care for idiotic intrigues? And in the Darkness the- [The narration is interrupted. A few dropplets of blood stains the page]
Oo
ºOo
oO
º

"There was a debate, amidst the Astronomers, as to who was the guilty party", she explained, much later, as the prayers welcoming a new Acolyte rang from within. "Margarethe proposed you". Her smile, as ever, serene, as she too fed me her perspective. "You should consider returning to the banner", she added. Of course I should, that is the easy way out. Surrendering again to the same abhorrent compromises that made me so unhappy, in the first place.

But what is the point of drowning, to avoid a lion?

I felt myself burning through most of the day, burning with anger and fear, both. I had real work to do, reports to fill, texts to write. Instead I was, what? Interviewing, seeking, collating information so as to guard my back. Because I have seen the way the Accord will throw an innocent to the lions. I will be discarded the moment it is convenient, the moment they don't need me, the moment they can. I'll be discarded and, until I am, they'll stand on the way of work. Even those who do want to help. But mostly, those who do not.

My mood was foul when Aubrey called, of all people, called me. For a favor, after she sold out for the elections. The gall of that harpy would be a thing to admire, in its shamelessness. "Sadly, there aren't many in the League of White without links to the Accord", she admitted. Maybe that alone should be a sign of our League's woes. Of course she wanted the unaccorded to speak in favor of giving her power. Of course she thought I'd support her or negociate with her. For the sake of what, my next Legatorial run, power?

I really felt myself burning from within at all the betrayals and all the games. There I was, a War was happening and I was attending to their inane intrigues, with the dreadful knowledge that they'd sacrifice me the moment it was convenient. At least, there was something liberating in saying no, in refusing to compromise.

Though we truly ought to consider returning the Wyrm to the Steele: this is a place of vipers.

"Balstan bought you for a pound of flesh", I snapped.
"So choke on it".

Don Nadie · April 22, 2024, 10:52:50 PM

Humanely

In the hours between hours, I found myself feeling clumsy.

I think I am usually eloquent, and chatty. I can always speak, and speak for hours if need be. I can improvise a Tale, take on a role, offer a quip or a lesson on the spot. Make something up remember something old. But this morning we were having coffee atop the battlements, watching the city as it slowly awake, and I felt like my every word was nonsense.

I searched for a reason, and I couldn't quite find it. Or nothing I could find was something I could phrase. I felt, somehow, a nameless inadequacy which made me tremble in my phrases, hesitate in my statements. How do you answer, honestly? How does one manage to be honest, and truthful, and real? How does one act like himself? How does one love without being a love-story?

"Do you ever think of how stories shape us?", I asked.
"Probably not as often as you do."

That is what I found myself talking about. Roles, and archetypes, and stories. If this was a mystery, I'd know what to answer. If this was a knightly ballad, or an adventure novel, or horror, or smut. In each case there'd be roles for me to play, narratives to lean into. Spokes know I had leaned into them as eagerly as I'd leaned into mizzar.

A good story. A good mirage. A good disguise, and a good excuse. Something I could hide behind. Because to be seen is to be vulnerable. And to be vulnerable is to be scared.

"I guess I'm just trying to be less of a role", I admitted, awkwardly.
"More of me". I cleared my throat. "Whatever that is"

Daylight was climbing up, dying the horizon pink.
On the battlements, our cups. On my hand, his.

"Like most things in real life", he whispered.
"We do it the best way we know how"

I felt both eagerness and dread, at his touch.
(To be wanted and to be found wanting are, after all, separated by so little)

"Clumsily", he said. "Messily."

On my hand, I felt the warmth of his lips.

"Humanely", he added, as I blushed.

(And I figured that, as far as stories went,
this one felt novel enough.)

Don Nadie · April 24, 2024, 07:27:28 AM

Concerned

I find myself concerned for him. Not so much for how he's feeling, admittedly. Having a crisis every now and again is normal, specially in his kind of job. I can identify with how it feels to work yourself to the bone for no purpose, and to no support from your superiors. To quit, even when your friends tell you you're doing a good job. There's freedom in quitting, really. There's a point, where words are meaningless, and one simply does not need the bother. When one is drowning, it is best to seek the surface. And if something is draggin you down, it is best to let it sink. What matters is breathing.

No, I'm not concerned with him. He will be fine, he will find himself. It may take time, and a lot of sitting together, and chatting, but he will be fine. It's not like I mind taking him for falafels and telling him Tales, and offering a shoulder to cry on... Spokes know he has done it for me, and will do it again, if I need it.

What concerns me, rather, is their flocking. Since when do the Apothars and the Sisters care for him this much? Why is it that both times he and I were quietly chatting, we found ourselves surrounded? And Mae? Who was just standing there, watching in silence? Since when does she care? Doesn't she have a lonely room to cackle maniacally in?

Some prophecy, that's what Estellise said. "He is just my friend", whispered Selsi, with her characteristic smile. And I find myself frowning and pondering, worrying.

I am concerned. There's this feeling, like one has sometimes on a boat, when the sea is calm. When you see ripples coming to the surface but do not know what is causing them - sharks, dolphins, currents, Qa'immy machines. Something is moving and I do not know what.

So I'll just have to keep an eye out for him, just in case.
The city can't afford to lose my little friend, and neither can I.

Don Nadie · April 25, 2024, 09:06:37 AM

Banner

Once, there was a banner, and that banner was White.
And upon that banner shone the brightest light.
And the brightest promise,
like a lighthouse in the darkness.

"Part of me wants to go to the Bellows, to raise a ruckus", I whispered.
I sighed, shrugging. The very idea already made me feel exhausted.
I had spent too long arguing against this during elections.
Too long, not to know the results beforehand.
"Part of me knows it isn't worth it", I added.

Once, there was a White banner, and it was stained.
And upon the White, the stain looked foul and sickly.
For the brightest colors offer the most contrast.

"They want to tell themselves that they care"
"And, probably, they do", I added, thoughtfully.
"But they care about their own power much, much more"
She looked at me calmly. Behind her silence, perhaps, judgement.

And, stained, the banner languished.
Stained, it withered; stained, it rot.
Stained, it was abandoned in all, but lip service.
To the hypocresy of the opportunists, and the power-hungry.

"The Voiceless were sold of a pound of flesh"
"Well", she answered, an irked shrug, "I have disconnected from the League a little"
"Right now, the Accorded act like they run the place"
"and run it for themselves"

But what is the price of failing a dream?
What is the price of failing a promise?
When a promise is betrayed, must one try to fix it?
Or give it up?
That was the question, asked in a banner.
Asked in a promise, asked in a dream.

"I suppose, in the end, we can only control our own actions"
"So let's make the most of them"

Don Nadie · April 26, 2024, 03:06:48 PM

Choosing the Wound

I think I could almost see it, in her eyes. The angry, relentless irritation at my every word as I tried to make a point. Was it fear that moved her so? Concern about the possibility of irrelevance? A misplaced sense of betrayal? Anger? Fear? Was it pettiness, perhaps?

I don't really know, but it certainly spoiled the walk. I felt echoes of that time, when I talked with Mae. When she looked like she'd claw my eyes out of my sockets. There was that same irked self-righteousness, that demand that I side with her wholeheartedly, or be considered her foe. That relentless, all-consumming fury, too bright to let her see the friendship laid before her.

She was right, of course: I do hate having to choose. But there are also too many wicked people in this city, many of them her friends, to have decent folk hate one-another. I'm just not interested in playing this game.

And she was choosing, too.

Choosing the wound.

I can't go through another of these dances. I can't pursue her, trying to be sincere, only to see her twist my words into something she can stab herself with. I can't try to have her understand, only to be treated as an enemy. I can't burn myself trying to keep alive the friendship of someone who won't let me have my own feelings. ~~Who'll put in doubt my memory of Snorri by~~

I've done it already, and it hurts.