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A Little Lesson

Last evening left me thinking about how much I like teaching... And how I wish more people would hire me. There's some pleasure in gathering the disparate pieces of evidence, all the matters I have record of, and weaving out of them a narrative. I suppose it is just another case where the arts of the storyteller and the historian meet. But there is a thrill in the improvisational aspects of it, the leaps of deduction and fancy, the questions, the telling. When one is in conversation, history feels alive and ringing, and one can almost feel it all arround us.

The topic, I suppose, didn't hurt either. A lovely one. Even if it made me tearful, at times. I suppose it was to be expected. He and I both have had our own burdens on the topic. In different ways, of course. I suppose that is one thing I failed to touch in my lesson. How multi-faceted it can be. How the heart can break (and bloom) in a thousand different ways. It tried, at least, to be supportive and inspiring. All one can do in these situations, really.

"Well, it's fine, because it's not serious", he shrugged.
Warding himself against the future, my poor friend.
I sighed. "Yes. You do keep saying that".

[Alejandro receives the List and lets Magnífica get away with his last cookie. A deep sigh as he continues scribbling and makes a note, to show the list to someone else, later.]

Echoing

To be dissapointed on politics should be, by now, our little city's official sport. Still, I have lived a number of elections (ten, to be specific) and this is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the dullest, most uninspiring, least stimulating of them all. The Gold have refused to run altogether, and I don't blame them: between Qari, Sol Auk, and the repeated fielding of Ariel as their candidate, they've lost much support. Marcellus has been dragged out of retirement with reticence by Cosine, and does a daily Bellows and nothing else. Between his supporters in the Accord (despite the many failings of his style) and his fan club, it seems all but granted he'll win. Specially considering Akna...

I've tried not to think too deeply on that, I suppose, because I feel guilty. By now, I was too eager to take the opportunity not to run when she asked. It was an easier path, one which allowed me to sidestep responsibility, and I took it, grateful that it also allowed me to be a decent friend. Zol Nur, however, said that my acquiescence benefitted nobody but Akna (not the city, not the League, not the elections), and I didn't quite believe him... Until the meeting, in all its horridness.

It was such a terrible affair. We had very few members in attendance (and I suppose those who are members only so far as it benefits them might as well be called "leeches" instead). Akna seemed to rely on people somehow thinking that because she was part of stopping Ricario (or, in her speeches, she personally did - nevermind the roles of Rosie or our dearly missed Jordan) people are going to give her the reins.

I told her to organize events. To reach independent voters or those known to vote for other Leagues. I told her to pass laws that were actually popular, instead of badly-phrased meassures she gets pushed into, and later regrets. But here we are. Her main moves, thus far, to court the Tower's vote (as though they'll choose her above Marcellus... Honestly, if they did, it'd mean she's giving them way too much) and a couple bellows, here and there. I will have to force myself, to vote for her.

Estellise's second coming said, yesterday, that the politics of this city reward the boring. If she's right, these two will be exceedingly succesful candidates. At least, neither of them is a Sol Auk. And they are both friends, and decent people. That is a consolation.

Still, it irks me, to see the White League like this. I keep thinking of that vision. Of the lillies and the roses and the strange little flowers that bloomed, all entwinned. There was such hope in that vision. It keeps echoing within me, as I bite my tongue not to be too bitter against Akna, not to be so open as to be hurtful (what's the point on being hurtful, at this stage of the game?).

It keeps echoing, and echoing, and echoing.

entwinned like lovers
the Ages

But I Want To

Above us the glistening, saphire sky. In his hands, untouched coffee.
Sadness, pooling at the corner of his eyes.
Too many memories and too many emotions.
Nostalgia, and mourning, and jealousy, and strange, nameless things.
(I am, of course, familiar)

"Let's make things even", I whispered.

And without asking for permission (a vice, I know) I pulled him in.
(So slim, under that ugly robe)

"Hugs always help me", I explained, softly
"When I'm feeling too much, all at once"

Reticent, it took him a few moments to return the gesture.

"Yhou dhon't have tho choddle mhe, yhou knhow", he murmured.

His voice, muffled by my scarf. What prides we hold onto.
Elsewhere, the noise of merchants, of birds, of camels and soldiers.
But that was elsewhere. Here, a friend was overwhelmed.

"I don't", I said, "but I want to"

Holding him a moment longer, for touch carries comforts no word can.
Letting him go free.

"And", I added, "I like indulging my desires"

That did the trick, finished driving away the dark clouds.
And after such rains,
                                       red bloomed the roses.

Verdant Is the Garden

I trusted her like a vine trusts the sun, so I followed to the shelter.
"Example amidst the Voiced", I had called her, to the Legate.
And not without reason: valiant, honorable, defiant. 

"It is for you", she said.
"And you alone"

I hesitated. A part of me? Fearful.
The part that knew this came too easy, to me.
For I am a creature of vices, and no vice runs deeper than this.
Fate, upon its threshold.
But I surrendered. (If I can't trust her, who can I trust?)

"I swear it shall be so", I answered.
"Upon the bones of the saints"
"And the names of my mothers"

How easily, with what familiarity I took the knee.

So she raised her hands and the vines rose with her and in the vines there were shapes there were faces there was will and future and past as the remnant of the Garden drew arround us its veil and we delved softly as the eye opened and we were yes we were driven taken moved slid together as one her and I so close that it was as though the outlines of the self had diluded and mixed like watercolors in the rain and rain it was rain it was a deluge of truth undiluted a deluge of truth unending the way the self was elsewhere and fate and truth came to me like a lover pressing like a lover eager like a lover needfull like a lover like a lover and--

in  the  verdant  garden
the  green  leaves
rustle  in  onrush
red  is  the  rose
white  is  the  lilly
entwinned  like  lovers
the ages

A gasp, then, as though emerging from deep waters.
(Fate, I suppose, has depths unknown)
And a frown and a pondering and a quiet conversation.
A swift return, to the city. Questions.
Mundane questions, in the city, of history.
As history and the vision felt strangely entwinned.
And when I asked the most pertinent question, to this most pertinent witness...

"It was never needed, Alejandro", she said, calmly.
"We may prefer to think it was"
"But the Wheel knows"

[At long last, another Tale was announced with time and performed when it was meant to. The locale, of course, came as a shock to some. Was there some scandal, some fear, that made the ex-Balladeer disdain the Verdant Stage? What even was the last performance on it? Some gossipmongers may surely have an opinion on what the choice means or doesn't. What matters, however, is that the Storyteller, wishing the cleanse palates too embittered with the foul taste of politics and elections, invited people to the rooftops of Elossi's. There, under a bright moon, he told...]

The Tale of Feydsiyyar's First Love

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Once there was a Prince, and his name was Feydsiyyar.

Oh, how beautiful he was! His skin was grey like the slate and his eyes black and dark like onyx. He wore the most delightful silks and smelled of the most darling perfumes... But he was, oh, so unhappy.

For you see, oh friends... His father was the Caliph Feyd. Feyd the severe, Feyd the pious, Feyd the serious and stern. Feyd who once took all the love poems of the city... And burnt them so that the masses wouldn't be distracted by the burning of their hearts! This Feyd, his very father... Had imprisoned Feydsiyyar!

And why, you asked? Because he saw Feydsiyyar singing with birds and thought cheerfulness made for unwise Caliphs. For a Caliph must, Feyd thought, be always burdened by the weight of the turban.

Because he saw Feydsiyyar enjoy a cup and he thought drinks made for weak Caliphs. For a Caliph must, Feyd thought, always be alert to the dangers in his Court.

Because he once saw Feydsiyyar hold a girl's hand and thought love makes unfair Caliphs. For a Caliph must, Feyd thought, hold no person above another in their hearts.

So, to make him a good Caliph, in his cruelty... Feyd locked his own in the tallest tower! And from there Feyd sighed and sighed... For there was no wine to sweeten his lips, no birds to sing him songs, no girls or boys to gaze upon and wonder, tenderly, about their hearts...

And yet... No Tower is so tall that love can't reach it.

So it was that one day, from below, Feydsiyyar heard singing: a cheerful street-bard performing for his public.

"Oh love far too precious
your echoes disdain
hidden in the meadows
your absence is pain..."

And Feydsiyyar knew not how to sing, but loved singing. And knew not the song it was part of, but loved the melody. And he knew not the singer, but loved him, from above. So Feydsiyyar sang, in turn:

"So far from each other
lone amidst the clouds
while you wait below me
lost into the crowds"

And at that, for a moment, the bard below fell quiet. For the bard, too, felt love take him the same way an arrow takes an enemy: swiftly, and without hesitation. And after a moment, he sang, in response:

"Who's this from the heavens
now singing so sweet?
Such darling so hidden
I wish but to meet"

And from above, with a heart booming like a storm, sang Feyd:

"Oh love from the streets
I sing from so far...
This tower that holds me
does keep us appart"

And from below rang another rhyme, for the bard knew love. And from above rang a response, met by another, and then another... For love is like a flame, and each poem is like wood added to the raging fires of passion. And as they sang with their Love, a miracle happened!

For, you see, back then, things were not as they are now, so much more quiet that only those Gifted can hear them. Instead, things heard, and were heard too. Thus did the Tower hear the song, and its heart of stone was moved. And so, with every song, the tower sunk a little deeper and a little deeper and a little deeper into the earth.

Until, when the moon rose and the stars glistened... It was so low that all the bard had to do was reach up for Feydsiyyar's hand... And be helped within.

So it was that, that night, Feydsiyyar embraced his first lover.

There would, of course, be others for him to love. There would be great cheer through his kingdom, and endless wives, and a myriad children and grandchildren, and there would be bad things and good things, and all of this is written elsewhere, and told by others. But this is the Tale of Feydsiyyar's first love. Whom he loved because no Tower is so high that a song can't climb it. Whom he met because no Tower is so tall that love can't make it bow.

And as Feydsiyyar laid in his first lover's arms, their limbs entwinned, their breaths onto each other's skin, he asked for a Tale while they rested. The bard, tenderly, caressed his hair and said:

"Once, there was a boy who loved his goat..."

In an Unverdant Stage

When you stand, sans the Band
In an Unverdant Stage
all the sand in this land
can't hide Cup from this sage

I was happy with the story, I suppose. Happy, too, with the public, the music, the flow of the Tale, the breeze. Being a story with poetry and song, I had written beforehand, which lacks a bit of the improvisational, ecstasic quality that a Tale sometimes gains when made up on the spot, images improvised and fished from the heart, in a simple spark of passion. Still, the things I added (the improvisations, and changes, and rhythms that make a Tale a Tale) were good, I thought. In hindsight, I should've called Feydsiyyar's prison a minaret instead of a tower, though. Didn't realized that with the Tower there, there was an extra layer of meaning I had not intended. Perhaps a happy accident but... I prefer that my digs be deliverate, as a rule.

The stage, however. The stage was much more strange. I think this was the first Tale I planned ahead and told elsewhere... All other Tales since I left were much more improvised affairs. And it was so odd, not to be in the Verdant Stage, whose glories and flowers I still sing about so often. I only realized it too late, when I stood up, ready to start. To tell the Tale, to don the mask of the Storyteller, I had to wade through an ocean of nostalgia...

But it would've felt weird to stand at the Krak, and tell there the Tale. It would've felt so very strange. No other Balladeer has taken to art - yet I remain producing, performing. If I were to stand there, while they do not... It'd feel as though I was trying to insult them. Or perhaps a Rossan would try to charge me. Or a myriad other possibilities, horrid one and all, whose consideration is enough to make me tearful. Perhaps they don't care (probably, nobody else cares.

I miss it, my Stage.

But I shouldn't overthink it, I suppose. The Tale worked, people enjoyed it, people learned from it. A love story, and one with a happy ending, I thought, when I composed it. Yet I failed to realize what Bashir brought up: why did Feydsiyyar have so many beaus afterwards? Is it a love story if the love is not forever? I hadn't even stopped to consider that detail. I think the Alejandro that I was when I arrived would've said the lived together happily ever after. I suppose that's another fantasy I've come to discard.

(They were there, also. She was there. She didn't really speak to me)
(I shivered, softly, when she spoke with him. He had seemed strange)
("Storyteller", he said, instead of Alejandro, and it is nothing, but it nibbles at me)
(The wind rustling their ayabas. In her eyes, strange truths)

High We Flew

                                                                                      There's nothing quite like it. Nothing quite so vibrant.
                                                                                      The singing fountains, the blooms, the scents and breezes.
                                                                                      Bel-Ishûn, ecstasic above our rooftops.                       
                                                                            o
                                                                    t
 
                                                          w
                                                    e
                                                l
                                           f
                   
                                    e
                              w
     
                      h                                                                                                         ~  Ecstasic (frozen) far above  ~
                  g                        
            i                                                                           One nodding, because he flew above its meaning.
     H                                                       I suppose I could've expected the reception of the poem.

                                                                                                                                         One crying, because he truly understood.

                                                                                                                                                      ~  The picture, not the heart, of love ~
The dorky noises, the political pleasantries, the blindness, the delight
                                                       all of those I expected.

His gratitude, however, did take me by surprise.
It was warm. And I was thankful.

Further, Further Reflections on the Nature of Historiography

Say what you will about the Fourth, they like gossip as much as anyone.
They're just a bit coy about it.

"She wanted to speak and have her truth in my History."
"Of course, she called it "the" truth".
"Sometimes", I added, with an amused smirk, "people do that".

The tiny Daoud looked stern behind his cowl.
A classic Izdur, I suppose. Seeking, yes, but cowardly.
Seeking with the certainty that the seeking will end.
Seeking, to find respite. Not to go forward.
Knowledge, not as desire but as destination.
As I said, cowardly. Still, worth noting.

"The gathering of information must be unbiased and impartial"
His declaration so certain and steady and self-assured.
"It ought not to have any color commentary", he added.
"nor objective beyond accurately and dispassionately accounting the events"

I smirked. Cowardice is enviable, sometimes.
Oh, how they fear the Darkness of not-yet-known.
Oh, how they fear Mystery.
How they fear to seek, how ashen their heart.
How empty their desire.

"'Objectivity'", I said, simply, "is a rhetorical device"
"Attepts at it are either meaningless collections of dates..."
"Or lies, hiding their biases"

The Sergeant intervined now, munching still on his throng-baked muffin.
(A man must allow himself a poisoned gift here and there!)
He had remained so very still for so very long.
Since I mentioned his silences and reactions, too, carried meaning.
Lieutenant Teg cannot hide forever.

"So acting as a gossipmonger is alroight if yer upfront about it?", he scoffed.
I did not deign answer that. What for?
Gossipmonger and storyteller are, after all synonims.
""Ye would besmirch the good name of a lieutenant"
"Just 'cause an "interesting" tale."

The accusation rang for a moment in the dark, ashy hall.
I glanced at my notebook. At the story we were discussing.
At the splotches where terror and mourning stopped me.
Do they think this calling is a pleasure?
None of them is brave enough to face it.

"Samtom, I am much more subtle than that", I sad, softly.
"Believe me, ye aren't", he replied.
A man made of scoffs, that one. I shrugged, closing my notes.

"I am a performer", I declared, sincerely. For once.
"You do not know all the roles I can play."

Esteemed Lt. Teg,

My name is Alejandro Benjázar. You may know me for such works as the "Hidden Poems", "The Thousandfold Tale", and a few scholarly works, the most recent being "The People's History of Ephia's Well". It is for my work on the last one that I contact you.

I have been told you were an esential witness to the Battle of Red Hill. As this is one of the most important historical events of the past year, whose consequences shall no doubt echo for generations, I would like to request a meeting for a brief interview. I promise it shan't be too bothersome. I shall, of course, bring more than appropriate charity for the time of a man of your station.

Just let me know when and if you could make time.


Yours,

Alejandro Benjázar

Mystery & Revelation

We were in my office. A pleasant distraction: to teach.
Though in the midst of so much dust, and Ash, and paper.
His scent, of flowers, was out of place.

"I could tell you what I think most likely", I admitted.
"But that would rob you, I think"
"Knowledge is a path: Mystery and Revelation"
I was leaning close. My fingers on the ancient alphabet.
"Entwinned", I murmured, as I traced the old symbol, "Like lovers"
I raised my eyes from the tablet, to meet his.
"To just give answers", I added, as his ears grew pink.
"Is to break the embrace"

If you ask an Izdur, they'll tell you Knowledge is a thing passed down the Ages.
Because they cannot see that is just tradition.
If you ask an Astronomer, they'll claim knowledge is a tiny speck of truth.
Because they cannot see that is just a fact.
And they are arid, all of them. They have, in themselves, no meaning.

In dusty room, we had turned to Artwork and books.
"Behind every door", I explained, "there are three more, to open"
"And thus all you learn", I added, "will bring more questions"
The amount of times I'd repeated those same words.
And yet, I never tire of this. Of teaching others to seek.
Teaching them to desire Revelation. To seek Mystery.

The path of Knowledge is the path of Passion.
From one to the other, and again. The embrace, unending.

Thirst, never sated.
Hunger, never quelled
Desire, never allayed.
Truth, never finished.

To know one facet, one inch, is to seek another
                                                          and another
            and another                and another                        and another
                            and another                    and another
   For the heart never fills, and the search never ends.

"You need to be careful, though", I pointed. "Knowledge burns."
We were turning to Caliphal history, now. Where discretion matters most.
"There are some that don't want things known"
"Those who'd kill to uphold their story"

Through my collection of secrets, a couple offered, to decypher.
Apetizers, to grow his hunger. A tablet, a book, a mural.
Fire and Sun and Madrassas. Guiding him, never telling.
Desire, sparked by absence. The glint in his eyes, decided.
Fearless. As so many of us are. Dangerously so.

"I'm a criminal, remember?", he jested. Perhaps, defiant?
I found myself smiling, regardless, at the little outlaw.
"Oh, yes", I ruffled his hair, amused, "A fearsome one"
For once, he didn't blush. Just smiled, in earnest.
(His hair was soft, so clear against my fingers.)
"Scholarship can't be beholden to fear", he whispered.
"Else", he added, "it's someone else's version of events"

I have seen it before, in others, that tone.
It never fails to make me proud.

"Indeed, my dear friend", I whispered.
It was late. I was tired. I don't know when I had gotten closer.
"Knowledge is desire", I added. "And like all desires..."
"...it is best indulged"

The Forgotten

Once, a truth got lost.
It wandered the desert as Pra'raj burnt its skin.
And wandered deeper and deeper.
Until it was all but forgotten.

"You have written much of this city and its atrocities"
"You will write also of Red Hill"
Her voice was the shroud of a corpse. Her voice was the gong of a funeral.
"You will conduct many interviews for your work", she added.
"I offer my own"

And in deep places the Truth remained.
Awaiting the reaching hand. Any reaching hand.
Even the most vile.

"We were winning", she seethed. Bitterness.
"As we pressed forward - the sky turned red"
"It shattered"

A shiver ran down my spine, a haunting, a growing of shadows.
Truth. She cared for Truth. Everyone says they care for Truth.
But nobody accepts that Truth is made of facets.
Nobody is brave enough to see it.
I do not blame them.

"We tried to escape", she said. Her words had grown deeper.
"We were overwhelmed by Blood Horrors and flame"
"We died"

And rescued by vile hand, this lost truth saw the open sky.
And breathed in the dusty wind; air, to speak with.
Then, it made its way home.

"No one faced any consequences. No one faced any justice"
"As hundreds burn, moulder, or are reanimated"
My quill, running swiftly down the page. Notation, for this truth to breathe.
"Beneath the pile of dead", she added,
"Your Lyrist is buried beneath melted bodies"
My quill, held in its tracks. A splotch of ink, the mark of mourning.

And yet at home, who heard it?
Not the powerful and the mighty. Not the guilty.
For to know it was to know that there was no justifying the horror.
It is easier, to believe there was an excuse.

"It was necessary", said Akna.
Cowardly, cautious Akna. Too eager to kiss the mouth that bites her.
"It is not normal to believe falsehood, mister Alejandro", said Ashley.
Kind-hearted, perhaps. Yet not kind enough to see what cruelty she's tied to, either.
And the words of that vile woman? Of that horrid man? Best left out of these notes.
They were written, deep enough, in my skin. As I hurt myself, so as to not hurt her.
Cruelty. How horrid, her cruelty. How horrid, the cruelty she awakens in me.

However, the thing about truth is it doesn't care about who is listening.
It just exists. It just breathes. It can be sought.
Every perspective, awaiting just the reaching hand.

"Do you think she told the truth?", he asked.
His soft hands tending to mine. Bandaging the self-inflicted wound.
"I think she told what she believed", I admitted.
"Do you think you can get proof?"
I frowned, thoughtful. Proof. Evidence. Hard things to come by.
"The only places where I could find it, are places that scar"
He smiled, as he tightened the bandages.
"I hear girls like scars", he jested. My own joke, repeated.
Despite everything, it made me smile.
(There's a value to smiling, when one's drowning)
"How about boys?", I asked, amused.
He chuckled. "A scar or two doesn't hurt, either."

And so this truth spoke and spoke and spoke and spoke.
While there was breath in its lungs.
Terrible, in its content.

Old Enemies (?)

Sometimes, when people return, unexpectedly, it's a joy.
Sometimes it's simply surprising.

"You look rested and tanned", I smirked.
"What brought you back? Zarat?"
He scoffed. "Yes".
"And not being able to let things go"
Then, he chuckled. "Always thought they'd bury you in that cloak"
Say what you will about him, he knows how to stab right back.

What an odd return, really. Considering right what I was working on.
A bit of a godsend, too. Another direct witness.
And an important one, too.

"So, I guess you've not come to be interviewed for Act III?", I asked.
"Actually, I'm here to set the record straight, for whatever's worth"
"Not that I have a lot of faith in whatever it is you're doing now", he added.

As ever, a man without faith in his fellow men.
Part of me had missed him.
His words, interesting, too. A different context. It gave me pause.

"Still not sure if he was honest. Or just performing"

I scratched the back of my hand. Such memories.
(Wanted a cigarette, but I could very much imagine Elias annoyed.)
(And I was fine. Within reason, I was fine)

"Truth be told, I don't know what he was doing", I admitted, softly.
"Whether he was really a hero..."
"Or just performing an elaborate form of suicide"

I paused. I sighed, scratching the back of my hand, further. Deeper.
The hum of pain bringing the mind back from any brink.

"I suppose the same goes for every Balladeer".

Old Friends

We had been left alone. Were we speaking in silence?
We were speaking in a quietness that cannot usually be reached.
Not by the living.
"Do you think she will ever be... Warm again?"
I paused, uncertain.
(How does one answer, when the answer is made of thorns?)
"I do not know", I said, opting for sincerity.
"I have stopped trying to warm her"

                                                                              Later, in her halls - smoke curling, chants echoing.
                                                                              And the voice of a Sister. Tallest of them all. Ever at the entrance.
                                                                              "Alejandro, you have always been our friend", she said.
                                                                              "It is us who did you wrong", she said.
                                                                              "Please, forgive us", she said.
                                                                              And I found it so eerie, their smiles. Like the endless reflection, between two mirrors.
                                                                              Their apologies, too. As though shared, between all.
                                                                              But still, I accepted it. What else could I do?




"You are now my oldest friend", she declared, earlier.
The moon above us, glistening. Within, perhaps, the body true.
"And you, mine"
We both paused, at the silence. Then, I added:
"I wish that more lived, still..."

Μστεριος

She was quiet. A rustling thing, of wind and black cloth.
Under the moonlight, she seemed to wait. As Hypatia watched.
(Protectively. I was not afraid, but I was thankful for it)

                                                            Then she opened those lips 
                                                                                                      --the very same lips that--
                                                                --and for those lips came--

Ασιρυ. Βετ Μεσιρι.

--the words were burning because knowledge burns--
                              --and so burn her lips, too, they burnt--

Παριρσυ.

                    --the words (the words, on her lips) strange and thorough and true--
           --the tone (the tone, on her lips) ancient--

᾽Ασιρυ. Αἰαλυ, αἰαλυ. ᾽Υρ-Συλγι.

                 --the knowledge, ancient; the vision, ancient--
                              --truth, the Truth which--
                     --(on her lips, the Truth)--

᾽Υρ-Συλγι. Αἰαλυ

                                                                    --It was of the Ages--

And then she stared. In silence.
Awaiting.

"I may perhaps translate it", I whispered.

                 Was that a promise?
                                         Or my own hope?                      For it is whispering, tenderly.

                                                            Like the words of a lover (his words?)
                                                                                                        Whispering on my ear.
                                                                                                                                                                        After the day, long. Laying, resting.
                                    Our breaths onto one another.
                                                                                                    The couds of mizzar coiling arround us both.
                                                                                 
                                                                                        It is whispering just as tempting as any lover.

Μστεριος