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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")

A thousand. More common than you'd think.

Live and drink.

Dear Sister Amelie,

As you may or may not know, my Seat in the Council is working on both unearthing the mysteries of Orcan cultura and history... And the production of propaganda and disemination of information.

On this second aspect, I hoped to count with some accounts of the battles and our victories. Being the best poet on the Well, I wondered if you'd be interested in aiding our task. Should you not be overly busy, there are several areas where we may find use for your talents, both in prose and poetry.

Yours,

Alejandro

Too much.

Live and drink.

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)

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.

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."

Dear señorita Zaheera,

Should you wish to design some small logo or other, more iconic means of representing the Seat, that would also be fine.

I simply want to ensure that the work doing under our banner can be easily identified, both for the sake of justifying our Seat's existence (you shall soon see that for every person doing something, there are three naysayers in this City) and to let Ephians know where the materials are coming from. ç

Let's talk soon. Yours,

Alejandro

[One last speech rang in the Bellows by an apparently very busy Alejandro Benjázar, who inmediately rushed elsewhere]

My beloved Ephians, this is your local Storyteller, Alejandro Benjázar! As the poll nears its end, the question of every election remains: what are we? In every election, get a chance to respond, and every election the answer shifts.

Sometimes we choose between warriors and scholars. Sometimes we have a criminal fool who is just "asking questions about slavery". Sometimes, blessedly so in this case, we have decent people, trying to do different things. Every election is a question and it is up to us to answer.

To me, this election has been more burdensome than most. I stepped in due to tragedy, to ensure our ideals and tenets were represented and discussed. Elections are a question, but so too is campaigning. How will you do it, Ephians? What will you offer? What will you give? What are you willing to sacrifice?

I have tried to campaign in the streets rather than backrooms, with openness and cheer. I have gotten to know many of you I did not knew before, Voiced and Voiceless alike. With many, I have debated the merits of the Lilly and our ideals, much-stained by long neglect. Many, I have convinced.

I am thankful for those who have listened to me, thankful for all those who have seen fit to support me... And proud, too, of some of the people who have chosen /not/ to. Elections are a question: what will you renounce, for power? How willing are you to use deceit, to sell influence, to peddle in policy?

I know what my answer has been. And I have trust that my honorable rivals, too, have found their own answers. Now the question remains before you, Ephians: our three names, awaiting your response. Vote, oh Ephians, as is your Spokes-given Right... And remember always: we're in this together.

Up the Lilly! Up the Heron! Live and drink!

Dear señorita Zaheera,

I have seen the first of your posters - good job! I look forward to seeing how your word continues. My only feedback: ideally, in the future, we may add some small sign of it being part of the Seat of Research and Culture's efforts. Not a big matter, but a useful one, should we ever have a chance to get a budget beyond our own efforts.

Speaking of budget, I was wondering if we may speak of an idea of commercial nature I have had. Let us perhaps share a falafel one of these eves? With the election finishing tomorrow, I shall either be celebrating, and happy to eat, or much more free, and also happy to eat. So let's chat soon.

Yours,

Alejandro

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.

Win or Lose

I was feeling particularly tired, I think.
It was as though Qari's words had pierced something within.
Some inner shell which had held, behind it, hideous feelings.
And now the black ichor of it was spilling all over.

(The sense of worthlessness and of failure, spilling) So that the meeting, as I organized things (The sense of betrayal, spilling) felt both burdensome and strangely faraway (The sense of darkness, the long of oblivion, spilling) as though it was happening to some other person, while I (The heavy pull of the mizzar, and of worse things that mizzar, spilling)just turned again and again the same formless desires, (Ambition and want, spilling) the same wordless thoughts (Dissapointment, and pain, and lies, spilling) and felt the dire need to hide myself under my blanket (Long-burdening memories, spilling) and never emerge, until the World had ended.

"It's fine", he said, tenderly, "there's life beyond elections"

He smiled at me, fondness glimmering in his verdant eyes.
Then, he leaned closer. His scent was soothing, of herbs and flowers.
Even in the middle of the Souk, it made me feel a bit as though we were in a peaceful garden.
(And feel, I'll admit here, the fluttering of rare insects in my stomach)

"Win or lose", he whispered, "I'll take you for falafel"

[As the voting period began, a speech rang into the Bellows]

Buen día, my beloved Ephians! This is your local Storyteller, Alejandro Benjázar. This morn, once more, I was reminded of one of the Lillies's tenets. For, once more, some coward broke one of my Hidden Poems somewhere in this city, and it had to be replaced.

Some of you may know these pieces. I have, over time, filled many corners of the Great Ash Desert with artwork - a surprise, to those who may wander upon it. They are some of my best Art, yet they are also tucked away for whomever may manage to find it.

For me, they are a metaphor of our lives, dear Ephians. We do not do not do good in the expectation of reward, or hoping to be known, but because the doing is a reward in itself. Giving the world art, effort, bravery, heroism, generosity... These things make the world better. They are a gift.

As the voting period begins, let us remember to believe in one another. To believe in what we can do together. Let us raise as one, with trust for our fellow Ephian. Let us show generosity, kindness, and bravery in the face of our many foes.

I hope to be worthy of your trust, oh Ephians. But, most of all, I hope you shall vote with your consciousness in the Asterabadian manner. Should you have questions about my policies or the White League's, come find me at the foot of the Pyramid. Up the Heron! Up the Lillies! Live and drink!

[Afterwards, the candidate sat by the feet of the Pyramid with his trusty guitar and a bright smile, playing music, greeting voters and inviting the Voiceless to put their names for his Great Asterabadian Raffle.]

A Terrible Thought

This time, running in earnest, I am getting a full taste of how hateful politics are. Part of me wants to send Colmes a gift for sparing it to me, the first time. There's all the hystrionics and exaggerations, the feigned offense, the hypocresy. There's the bitting of one's tongue and the holding of the reins, when an insult climbs up your throat. There's the strategic vagueness which allows people to project, onto you, their dreams and hopes. There's just a lot that, now, makes me uncomfortable. A lot I'm trying to avoid.

"You are clearly not ready to win", he said "if you have such thoughts"

His tone was saddened and weary.
An Age of loss upon his gaze.

"This one does not want you to tolerate this kind of thing"
"You are right - it is false, and wrong, and hypocritical"
"But those that use such methods, will win every time"

He paused. He looked so tall and so worn out.
Only statue, eroded by centuries of loneliness, could show such melancholy.

"Is that not a terrible thought?"

There's a lot of things that make me think of her, these days. "Last of her flock", Qari called me, the hideous little man. I think if she was here, it would be different. Easier. I would be spreading rumor, and whispering promises, and making bellows, and feigning indignation and horror. Talking more about the ills of my rivals than about my ideals.

I think if she was here, I'd be a worse person, and a better candidate.

Is that not a terrible thought?

You should throw the DM loot, obviously. Everything else is essential. Cheese, specially.