The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Congratulations

[A series of drafts. Maybe for a letter. Maybe statements pronounced before a mirror whilst forcing a smile, for the sake of practice]

So, Aurelio, a Lyrist, huh? Never doubted it!

Aurelio, my congratulations on your ascension to the post of Lyrist.

Lyrist Aurelio, I'm glad that-

So all it takes to be promoted is being able to kill a Ballestriere? Truly, a functional institution.

I wish I could be you, Aurelio. So badly it burns.

It is with elation that I witness the promotion of your noble person, my beloved Aurelio.

Aurelio, I always knew, and dreaded, you would become Lyrist.

I admire you, Aurelio. I always did. Even when we disagreed, even when we hurt one-another, even when you were stupid, even when you dismissed me, even when you supported me though I wanted to destroy myself, even when I kept you alive because you were being stupid, even when you were so shimmering that I felt forgetable and wretched. Even when you failed. Often, even more when you failed.

Of course you're a Lyrist, Aurelio. The post requires great flexibility to endure the Rossa, which you have demonstrated by reaching into the very depths of your own rear.

You were always so shinning, so shimmering, such a perfect storybook hero. I could never be that.

What a surprise, the man who was made a Balladeer within a week, the biggest Drunk of the College, raised even higher. Just like it happened to Aubrey. They really have a taste. I look forward to your Drinking yourself into irrelevance.

Aurelio, you'd make Lynneth proud.

I'm so jealous I just want to scream, Aurelio. It's one thing to renounce a dream. It's another, much more horrid, to see you reach it.

Why you and not me? (I know why, I absolutely know it)

I'm so sorry, Aurelio. I don't think you'll be happy. The College of Balladeers, with its dreams of heroism and the reality of its blood-soaked companions, seems almost designed to tear the heart appart. I don't think I would've been happy as a Lyrist either.

I miss you, Aurelio. But I also think you'll do your very best as a Lyrist. And that's all we all can do: our very best.

Good luck, Aurelio. You'll need it.

"The sharpness of pain gives the mind another object to focus on", he said.
I lit a cigarette. My fifth since I heard the news.
Don't I know it.

[Don Nadie]

The Breaking of Things

"Broken axes, shattered spears", he said.
"Glory whet in blood"
He surveyed the battlefield.
Tall, bulky, scar-covered. War-bred.
"Good", he added. "Makes us strong"

The six of us watched him. Some of my companions, ready to strike.
Their hands tightening on the grip of their weapons.
My own rapier, still unsheated. Still bloodied with the orcan.
Violence begetting violence begetting violence yet again.
A circle. A disc. A cycle. A snake eating itself. A wheel.
I held a sigh within. There's no use, here, for the showing of weakness.

"It also makes us stronger", I replied, instead.
Polite if steady defiance, my smile somewhat sarcastic.
(Enemies are enemies, even in parley)
"We know it", he replied. "The Axe knows it"
If he cared, he did not show it.
"And that is why you will deliver the Well an invitation"
"To the great friend of Iakmes"

I tensed at that. Marcellus, old friend.
Spared now the Depths, are the orcan calling for you?
I did not let fear make my smile falter, however.
As the wind picked up and up.
Howling through the Valley.

"An invitation. A triumph", he explained.
"For Iakmes's glory. A celebration of the Axe"
Did he seem ponderous? Did he seem wise?
Did I feel envy, at the certainty of his tone?
"An exploration of history", he added.

My companions were surprised. The words, unexpected.
They, like many, knew the orcan before they came upon the Well.
Violent. Disorganized. Savage.
They, like many, cling to the Tales they heard in childhood.
So tightly they can't see what's right before them.
Their culture may be violent, but it is refined still.
In it's own, horrid fashion.

"Long did their silverworks make wonders", I explained to them.
The orcan didn't smile, but seemed aproving.
"You know this, Alejandro", he said.
"And you will be our messenger".
"All from your Well can come, and witness"

I nodded, accepting the charge. Word for Marcellus.
I knew this orcan well, after all. Amongst the first who spoke to me.
His words in his shrine, the spark of so many of my theories.
For his worship is mania. As they wished.

"The message shall be delivered", I said, simply.
A single nod in response. The Agassian turned away.
"Enjoy tending to your trophies", I added, as he left.
"For there is great sadness in the breaking of things"

I took a deep breath, as my companions discussed, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
The Murderer's people, and his words, and their customs.
What sadness there is, to the necessity of His domain.
I glanced at the bodies, strewn arround our battlefield.
A sigh. So much spilled blood. So much life ended.
These orcs, such broken things. Even before I killed them.

"Let us return", I whispered.

The wind carried old dust, lost stories.
Formoria, oh, Formoria. What hopes raised you.
As the sky still darkens with arrows, as the axe cleft the skull.
As brother bleeds brother, and the Ash drinks.
As the Dialectic grows Heinous, and the Forest burns...
Did you ever found solace?

Oh, Formoria, how your shattering bellows...

[Don Nadie]

Letting Go

I think I knew it was over, when he said he thought of Mirielle as a friend. Mirielle. Who lies, cheats and attacks friends. Who cares for the refugee as much as a leech cares for children. Who killed so many and would kill so many more.

I think I seethed, at that. Calling her friend.
(Was I angry? Irritated? Jealous?)
"She is venom, Domhnall", I said.

We were whispering, in the midst of the Assembly.
Only times we spoke, as of late.
Such bedlam isn't, perhaps, the best place to catch up.

"Perhaps to change the world we need less good men", he replied.
"And more venom". His once-sweet voice, so bitter.
He paused. Someone was accusing him of something.
"I should've had more venom", he added.

His madness, his hatred of this place, his weariness.
His good intentions, turned to poison.
With all of this in his eyes, he glanced at me, briefly.
Some last advice.

"Don't run for Legate, Alejandro"

It is a strange thing, how one feels it. After clutching for so long, after trying so hard, after holding onto the hope that perhaps, tomorrow, it would be different. It is just evident. When the cracks are so many that what you were holding tight... Just falls appart.

And you're left with dirty hands and sore fingers.

[A few verses are drawn below, perhaps the draft of a future poem]

At last accepting it is so
with weary hands, you let it go...
then, long into the night it rings:
the sadness of all broken things.

[Don Nadie]

Duty

There I found myself - my hopes for an evening of mopping arround dashed.
I just wanted to be sad, and hearbroken. To miss him.
Instead, a trial: to hold someone's fate in your hands.
And to ponder, and measure, and decide.
And because that was not hard enough, he came to me.

"A man once told me, a very wise man..."
His whisper in my ear. His politeness, a knife.
"Brookers come in two categories."
"The mad and the foolish"
(What effort it took, not to shiver)

I did keep my cards close to my chest.
But only a fool fails to recognize when their rivals have a point.
Harm is harm. The extent of it, to be investigated.

"I love the Well as dearly as you", he continued.
"Will do anything to protect it."
(Didn't I know it. The horrid extent of "anything")
"I do hope in time you can come to trust me"

I was flipping through the pages of my notebook.
Swift annotations made of arguments, counterarguments, precedent.
To scribble kept the hand from shaking.
I was nervous, jittery.
The Hall was a stage for a much more deadly performance.

"Trust is something hard to earn, Secretary", I said.
"I do trust you, in your ways"
After all, a snake can be trusted to bite.
Him, to mannipulate, to mislead, to veil.
"Your methods, however...", I paused.
Were that I was better at self-delusion.
"Then again, I wish my hands were clean enough", I admitted.
"To disdain them with a free conscience"

The chat went on. I was sincere on what he already knew.
Quiet about what, hopefully, he didn't.
Alkab, and Banafsi, and the price of a better world.
As ever, one finds things in common even with rivals.

"You are one of the few recent arrivals to understand that", he conceded.
"You have seen so much"
"Wish that I hadn't", I replied, from the heart.

Clockwork nightmares. The tyranny of gears.
To see that is to change one's perspective.
Such foes cannot be defeated in mere battle.
But Wheel above, do I wish they could.
Do I wish I could feel simple anger at his games...
Rather than this bitter mixture of dread and understanding.

"You are a good man", he added.
"Thrust in a position you have little true desire for"
"I appreciate that for what it is"

Was he smiling? I was too focused on my notes to look.
But, in a way, his tone made it seem so.
The smile of a magician when he knows his trick remains hidden.
The smile of an assassin, perhaps.
When his victim drinks the poison.

"Duty, Alejandro, duty", he whispered.

The things I've done for duty.
The things I've yet to do.

At least, Ricario took my place upon the throne.

[Don Nadie]

A reason

"When the powerful war, it is the weak that suffer."

When did I first say that? Or think that? Did I knew from the moment I heard how the Accord came to be? And, if I knew, how did he not? How did he believe he could get away with it, without a war? Did he think I'd go along? Did he expect Domhnall to go along? The city to bow, the legions not to descend? What was he even thinking?

Still, I find myself wondering one thing. As I read through the reviews, and my notes, and the testimonies; as I ponder rumors and speculation. A single question comes back, to haunt me: Why? What was his reason?

Did he do it for his own benefit? Or did he do it for the Well?
 
                                                       I suppose it doesn't matter now.
                                             He is dead now.
            Another leap of faith, which ends on a crash.
                                                                   Politics, such an imperfect machine.

And myself, such an imperfect,
                                           dutiful part of it.

[Don Nadie]

An unsent letter

[This is a letter. Tucked between the pages of Alejandro's enormous notebook]

My dear friend,

I will always miss the man who told me I didn't have to perform for him. The sky was beautiful, and so wer-- 

[The letter is unfinished, unsigned, unsent. Just one more paper, amidst a pile of many]

[Don Nadie]

The Surface

"I hope you appreciate that I refuse to play games with this", she said.
As she signed into law the breaking of her promises.
The desires of someone who campaigned for that slaver...
More important, it'd seem. For both Legates.

Scratch the skin, scratch the the skin.
Until it breaks through, just scratch it.
Scratch the skin, scratch the skin.
Till pain blooms bright, right beneath it.

She cackled. She fucking cackled, with glee.
"I hope we can now cooperate", she said, so joyful.
Victorious, rubbing it in. As bad a winner as sore a loser.
"You cannot legislate into being what I was giving freely"

The surface above, the surface above.
The surface is veiling its secrets.
The surface above, the surface above.
Gossamer, keeping it hidden.

"These Lillies you cling to, Alejandro", said al-Rashid.
"They keep using you and discarding you"
I was bristling. My anger growing with every hour.
Since I learned what she had promised the Torchbearers.
"Let's go tell her as much", I said.

The surface hides the surface hides.
The veins, the blood, the burden.
The surface hides the surface hides.
The surface breaks its long silence.

"She realizes that she made a mistake, but was angered also", he said.
"She felt cornered by you and some scholar, oh traveller".
I glared, took a puff of my cigarette.
Our new Legate, who hadn't even tried to contact me.
She was angered. Woe is her.

The surface breaks, the surface breaks.
Red, the secrets beneath it.
The surface breaks, the surface breaks.
Pain, it's own kind of ointment.

"Oh, should I have been more patient?", I seethed.
"Seeing that vile woman use the wreck of the man I once loved?"
"Seeing him, mad and broken, bowing to her every wish?"
"Seeing our new Legate break her promises?"
"Should I have been more patient, with the danger she puts some of my oldest friends in?"
"With my life's work being threatened, lest I submit?"
"Should I have been more POLITE?"

The secrets bleed, the secrets bleed.
The secrets glimmer in scarlet.
The secrets bleed, the secrets bleed.
On ash, they water the flowers.

(I'm back on mizzar and yes, I have a problem)
(The problem being there's not enough mizzar to quell my anger)

[Don Nadie]

The Lights of Lucca Ferra

When your friends want to go into the maws of death, you don't leave them alone. Not even if you are terrified. Not even if they are not prepared. Not even if maybe you are not prepared, either, to go where you lost her.
(Sana, I miss you still)
When your friends insist on going, no matter how bitter you're feeling, how much anger bristles within you, you resign yourself. Harm, loss, damage: one will endure it, if one must. For leaving friends to harm and death is no real option.
(Not after I left her, and she died)
When you get hurt, you stand back; when they lack, you give. All the treasures in Lucca Ferra aren't worth as much as a friend, or an ally, to have by your side when things are tough.
(Sana, I wonder what you'd say, if you saw who I'm now)
And when you survive, in the end, you sigh deeply, take a seat. You lit a cigarette and let the mizzar calm your nerves, let your muscles ache. You whisper, under your breath, the notes. Your remember.
(I whispered your song, Sana, did you hear?)
Heroism is, generally, made of small steps.
(I wonder, Sana, if you'd be proud)
It is also, sometimes, a matter of leaping.
(I hope you would)

(Also, Spem Nurto sent his compliments for my behind?)
(I guess I can't be surprised that he appreciates booty)

[Don Nadie]

Debate

Sitting on the floor of the Pyramid.
Exhausted, the both of us.
My head against the wall, smoke and dissapointment on my lips.
Apologies, on hers.
 

"Some people are thinking of leaving the League", I told her, simply.
"Myself included".

Above us, the Stars may have heard, and smirked with irony:
A debate was set, a time shortly. Gold and Purple.
And no White to stand for our ideals.
(Our worn-out, much betrayed ideals)
So I was requested to, in the name of Asterabadism.
I, of all people, was asked.
And I suppose I am not a man to shirk duty.

I should've.

"Legate Domhnall saw to the judicial murder of Mari Blacke"
I stood, smoking, calmly. The performance of serenity, an act.
(The rest of the question, I heard as but a buzz in my ears)
Smokey arabesques writing faint nonsense in the air, maybe the truth.
(Within, I tensed. Felt the shortness of my breath)

A performer performs, I told myself. A performer endures.
Humilliation, betrayal, rotten fruits, he endures.
With a smile.

"You state unproven matters as fact", I said, softly. 
"However, the case was certainly troubling", I conceded.
"It involved the Apothars, the Sergeants, the Legate... and numerous irregularities"
Did my voice tremble? I think it began to tremble, right there
(Loyal Khalid. The things I've hidden from you)
My hesitation, my doubts, breaking through the performance.

Yet as furious as I am, as hate-filled as I am...
(No fury, said the poet, like that of a scorned lover)
I still couldn't betray him.
(Were that my heart was so empty)
(That I could burn Domhnall to ashes)

"However, none wants justice for it more than our candidate", I continued.
Trying to represent serenity. Dignity, in the face of injustice.

I wondered what would happen, if proof came, forthcoming.
Whether I would let it happen. Or oppose it.
Would still protect him?
Keep upholding the promise he never deserved?
Or take my vengeance?

"Should proof be forthcoming", I added, "the White League will see to justice"
"For we always face our demons"

To my left, the Waterbearer smirked.
"Only after allowing them to grow fat".

And I smiled, and didn't deign answer that.
I didn't have the strength to do so.

Politics is a lie. Politics is a ruse. Politics is a scam.
The heart full of doubt, the lips full of certainty.
I steeled myself and answered more questions.

* And between the Stars, she watched *                           
                     * between the Stars, she smirked *                               
                                             * Upheld between the Stars, where the skein of Truth unravels *               
* Would she be proud of my performance? *                                     
* Would she see the artfulness of my lies? *                                                                                                                                                                                       
                                                           * The dreadful sacrifices made for the sake my heart? *                       
                     * The way I embraced the present, was it faithful in its faithlessness? *                                               
      * The way I resigned myself to not dwell on what I couldn't solve? *
                                   * The way I, too, betrayed her *                             
                                                                   * Would she aprove of the way I tried to empty my heart *               
                                                                                * That it may be full? *             

("You would've been a better candidate", someone said.
And they were not wrong, perhaps.
For I am a better liar than Khalid.)

[Don Nadie]

A Confession

I'm not proud of my feelings, but I can at least admit them in here.

I am hurting, and I want her to hurt. Him, too.

[The page seems emtpy at first glance. However, keener attention reveals a hidden, secret prayer]

Set upon my foes Your eyes.

Watch them, that their hearts break.
Watch them, that their plans flail.
Watch them, that their lives turn to ash.

Watch them, and find them wanting.

¡Euoi!
Σ ε ύ k ε ι ρ ρ υ ς
¡Euoi!

(She would be dissapointed in her.
She would be dissapointed in me.
A good thing, that the Red Hill was her end.)

[Don Nadie]

He Knows

Once, there was a kindly widower.
He played with the children.
He tended to the sick.
He aided the old.
And he missed his beloved.

"A nest of vipers", I seethed.
In the welcoming humility of his house.
"Sometimes I think I ought to go live in the Nusrum"
"The lies, the politics..."

And once, there as a poisoner.
Arsenic under his fingertips.
Belladona stains on his robe.
And, in his conscience...
The bottle which killed the widower's wife.

"Maybe you should go in search of an oasis", he said.
"Then build atop it a place where there are no such things"
His tone, soft an smiling. His faith, piercing.
His faith, in me.

And so it came to pass that the poisoner knew cold.
And in the home of the widower, he found shelter.
And so it came to pass that the poisoner knew hunger.
And in the home of the widower, he found food.
And so it came to pass that the poisoner saw his host's pain.
And in the home of the widower, he hid the truth.

"Were that I had as much faith in myself as you do, Khalid".
"I wish I-", I choked. Guilt. It's weight.
Being lied to becomes knowing too late becomes omission becomes lying, in turn.
"I wish I deserved it".

But the Wheel turns, and so does the conscience.
Every night, after every dinner, turning.
In bed, turning; the truth, turning.
As the widower's kindness grew, so did the poisoner's guilt bloat.
Until the burden of deception sat upon his chest.
And caught the breath in his lungs.

He sighed. "You are deserving, of many things".
"Amongst them, happiness"

(Why did he have to be so loving?)
(So burningly, horribly kind?)

My voice trembled, my hands shook.
"No, Khalid, you don't understand"

(Guilt. I felt it burning in my chest, like a fever)
(I couldn't feign ignorance a moment longer)

"You needn't say it", he said, so softly.

(But I had to. It was burning. It would burn me.)
(I was already burnt)

So one day, guilt-ridden, the poisoner made an admission.
The truth he'd dodged, the truth he'd feared.
The dissapointment and the anger, expected.
Desired, even. For the guilty long to be punished.

"He did it. Domhnall. What they said"
"He first lied to me, and by the time he confessed, I-"

(Excuses? Truthfullness? )                                                               
(Were that the heart was led by but one thing)                                                               

"I felt as though nothing could be solved by-"

I was stopped.
His hand upon my shoulder.
Squeezing, as hot tears ran down our cheeks.

"Stop, traveler", he said.
"He knows".

Alas, the widower instead smiled, tearful.
And the poisoner remained loved.
Undeservingly.

[Don Nadie]

No Accord

At some point, a compromise fails. Some people were disraught, some matters were wrong. There was clearly a lot that stunk. Neither Sisterhood nor Tower being honest with us, their motives occluded by a myriad veils. Vipers, all arround, their fangs dribbling poison. So many vipers, so many motives and counter-motives. I was moved to mistrust Selsi and Cosine, greatest mannipulators of the Well. I was moved to mistrust that vile woman. I was moved to mistrust a lot of people. But not Narwen. Perhaps that was a mistake.

But in darkness, one clinges to truth: Desecration is wrong.

So I spoke with Akna, I argued the case, as did others. Anger was mounting, growing. At the Tower, we spoke, and arguments were found wanting, an order was made. Perhaps (no, with certainty) some of them wanted to do some good. Some of them truly wished to do good, and thought this was a path of good. Not even all my hatred for that wicked woman can blind me to Zol Nur's good intent, and kindness.

"He's the only person I know who will always be truthful"
"In this city of lies"
She scowled at me, the rotten-hearted hag.
"You'd know", she said, blithely.
And I smirked, glaring.
(How I missed, in the bitterness of her expression, that kind Nadiri)

"I've studied under your Shadow", I spit back.

The order was being postponed, their dancing arround, as ever. Used, they are, to this strategy: insistence makes acquiescence. Four times he was ordered, four times he tried to evade the matter, to undo resistence. Persuasion through erosion being Cosine's specialty, Akna remained, to my admiration firm. Then, a Bellows: a threat. A hunt. Death, the threat of death in the air. In the air the grim, rotten perfume of Civil War.

So I ran.

I ran, and ran, and ran. Up and down the stairs, from fortress to Tower, from Tower to Bellows. I broke their sanctuary without being invited, that witch glaring with threat in her eyes as I sought Akna, and she confirmed, and I ran, and my lungs pinged with fire, and Vico gave minutes, and Zol Nur had been captured and the kindest being in the Well, under threat, and patience was unfound, and Balladeers were weak-willed, and Sisters were acquiescing, and I feared the Tower kept stalling so long that there'd be blood soon bathing the cobblestones, and my only option was to force my way to the Fortress, to force myself between Zol Nur and the blade, to force myself elsewhere but -

-but she managed. They gave in. We climbed down.

It was stopped not a moment too son.
A minute, before the deadline.
A minute, before the death.
A minute. All that kept him from a blade.
A single minute.

And a whole embroidery of rivalries, dissobediences and mistrust to blame.

"There is no accord", he said.
And all who had fought for a bloodless evening,
in shared exhaustion,
nodded.

[Don Nadie]

Unmourned

I didn't even get to see her body. I can only imagine she was lying there, on the cold stone floor, her heart pierced by a spear, her body mangled, her glasses shattered.

We were incensed, I suppose. All of us. Planning, arguing, discussing, working. I, seeing the danger, cancelled my Tale. Then, we were made quiet. To preserve peace, to prevent bloodshed. She was made unworthy, and unmourned. Her body, a hidden thing, to be measured elsewhere.

He called her poison. Between labored breaths, he called her poison and I didn't dare contradict him. She was, I suppose, complicated.

It is a different kind of mourning, regardless. This secret thing of rumor and intrigue. Of quiet puffs of smoke. Silences, instead of prayer.

Still.

I know you wanted to know.

I know you wanted to do better.

I know you were, also, a mess.

(We were so very similar, you and I)

[Don Nadie]

Goodbyes

I would not have expected this. Then again, I do not know what I expected. Was I hoping for some last shared words? For a chance to embrace him, or slap him, or kill him, or all of the above? Did I expect to have an honest conversation atop one rooftop or another, for old time's sake? Did I want to hear him say something, still? Was I seeking, through the beating anger of my heart, a last chance to look into his eyes? What exactly did I expect? What did I want, of him?

Certainly not that speech, a thing of madness.
Certainly not to blink and find myself Acting Legate.
And a tank of eels, to care for.

At least he's found a place where he'll be happy.
I wish that didn't make me happy, too.

A letter, tightly tucked between these pages

Alejandro,

We won't be seeing each other again. I don't think you'll mind that. Please look after my eels for me, someone must. I have found somewhere nice, somewhere far away from that place and its people and its blades and schemes. I think I might be happy.

I'm sorry. For everything.

In the end, I have betrayed you once again -- good luck with the seat. Perhaps you'll make more of it than I did.

Love,
D.

[close]

[Don Nadie]

A Diary

He gave it to me. Her words. Her account. To complete some of the silences of my History. I saw her style, her breathing style. I admired it. A poetic of its own. Calm, unlike my verbe. Paused, unlike my onrush. In the turning of the pages I saw her love for Them, her sight of the events. Keyed, perhaps. Only for those who knew, to know.

Then, I saw a page.                                             I saw a reflection.   
                                                     In a page,

I looked into his eyes.
                               Kind, as ever. Tired, as ever.

                                                        (Did I look guilty?)
                                                                                                                (Did I have the expression a child
                                                                                                                                                                   caught where he's forbidden to go?)

                                   We gazed at each other, in silence.
                                                In my hands, a truth in paper.
                                                               A mirror in metaphor.
                                                                           A Revelation in smoke.                                  (How empty, the awnings of Their temple)

(How bitter, the taste of Their cup)

He set his hand on my shoulder.
                                                       (Did I glimpse a sorrowful smile?)

              "Good luck, Alejandro", said the Traveller.

And he left me, as Lost as before.

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Silver like the stars, cloaked in Her shadow. A vision found at the bottom of a chalice, pursued.

The long journey and coming to realize one can believe in a lie. In essence, if not in education.

A passion that burns, uncowed. Unrelenting. To embrace Her challenge, to spread Her kingdom.

A charming audacity and ascendant ambition. Garbed for one and all to see in lies, the masquerade is embraced.

To look between the stars above and the paths Below. To empty every cup, in search of one that never ceases to pour.

~~~

Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.

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