The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Setting the Table

It is a banquet, I suppose. An offering of morsels and flavors, our politics, our intrigues. No sooner has one election ended that we're already preparing for the next one, talking to people, arranging meetings, reacting to choices, and counterchoices. And on the sidetables, little tangential conspiracies, orbiting one-another.

I'm doing my best to set a course, both for elections and beyond. Evidently, others are too. How I hate this foolishness, the corrupt nature of it all. It goes against the grain of my heart.

"Alas, little idealistic fool that I am..."
"I rarely request anything for my vote"
A pause, a hesitation, a shrug.
"Only that they be good Legates"

She chuckle, amused. I, of course, was not joking.
"How's that working for you, monsieur?"
"It is better, I assure you, to get things in writing"
She smiled. I have noticed her smile is sharper than her blade.
"Next election, consult me" 
"I promise I'll keep my advice... Moral"

I hate that dungeon.
I hate these deals.
I hate the dirty trades.
I hate these elections and these efforts.
I hate the calculations, the betrayals, the commitments, the demands.

I hate what I end up doing, when asked... Because someone has to do it, in the end.

[Don Nadie]

Action

Wheel above.

I don't think I have ever been as worried as when I thought he had run to the Ramparts alone. First time I leave a Sister or Acolyte behind, in my life, but the very thought of the orcan armies meeting him on his own was intolerable.

What a relief, when the Bellows rang that he was safe.

Comparatively speaking, the trip through ashen wastes? The battle against horrifying otherworldly monsters? Trying to make sure Aurelio did not die about thirteen times, dancing arround the maws of some heinous beast, the radiation burning our skin? All quite easy. Even deciding that we'd distribute the Cure to the six children, because leaving two to die was immoral, was easy. We warded them best we could, we escorted them. I sang healing, soothing songs, and told fun tales, and distracted them from all the horrors they had seen... And then they were safe in the Krak, treated by the kindly women of the Priory.

In the end, all was well in the Well.

And how good it was, that he rushed off. How bold, and decent, even if it was risky. If he hadn't run away, we'd have spent the next four hours in another meeting, as the Astronomers claimed this was a trap laid by the Priory and the Legionaries demanded about a thousand explanations, and everyone delayed everything for thorough, important  meetings. Possiby, a Committee would've been set up to discuss the matter and prepare a three-hour presentation for the next Assembly. Because Wheel forbid people do things, without giving endless explanations to litterally everyone, before and after.

If he hadn't acted, children would be dead.

"That was incredibly stupid", I whispered.
"In the best possible way"
I giggled, nervousness and relief. My skin burning from radiation, still.
"I almost had a heart attack, thinking you ran to the Nusrum!"
He smiled, his eyes glistening with impish glee.
"Well, I'm an idiot, but not insane"

I don't think I have ever been more smitten.

[Don Nadie]

Shining

He took me to the garden, to drink deep from his cup. Fate and happenstance, putting in his hand another thunder to the Dakhwar's lightning. It was glistening, where mine was dusty; precious silver, where mine was humble clay; revealing, where mine seemed more mysterious the more I gazed into its depths.

How fresh were the Waters, within that blessed vessel.
How clear the world seemed for a few moments, when I opened my eyes.
All mysteries revealed, for a second.

He asked for my advice, he sought my confidence. He wanted to be Lyrist, he explained. His dream, shared again, of a Hall of Knights. Golden and certain, my beautiful brother. He wished to know how to attain his goal.

What did I feel at that moment? Boundless love? Endless envy? A twist to my heart? Like a spear through my chest, like hammering within, these melodies, these rhythms. Was this, again, the first beat of a dance I've danced before?

"Do you think the Grandmaster knows I exist?", he asked.

(For a moment, he seemed weak, needy)
(Love. Envy. Pity. His heart, too, endlessly hungering for aproval)
I smiled. Am I not the worst person to ask about this?
I, the endless Student, now the endless Balladeer?
I, who claim it is heart and not rank that matters?
Because otherwise I wouldn't matter at all?

"Lynneth didn't need recomendation letters", I said, so softly.
"She just shone", my smile widened, tender.
I uttered, clear and healing, a sincere truth:
"Just as you shine"

(How I wish I could shine, too)

[Don Nadie]

The Art of Politics

I suppose I shouldn't be this scared, or at least this surprised. Everything moves forward, one step after another. It goes, worryingly, as I predicted. Cosine and Qari on the Bellows paints the picture, only to be echoed by Connor and Mirielle. Only echoed by Domhnall and Estellise ringing in unison, and over one-another. A bad look, that.

I brought them to the garden, as they sought to speak with me. Bootlicker, as ever, ladden with wisdom and insight. Bringing me news, the both of them. I sat amidst the roses, under the statue of an old King I never cared for, and smiled politely throughout. I did my best not to cackle with both joy an terror, not to scream: "Behold, my work!", as they raised the news. My pieces, Wheel above, I dread to think it.

There are pieces still being set, still dashing back and forth through the Tarwa board. Bouchard, violent yet honorable in his own fashion, enduring the kind of slights and jealousies I know well. Doña Nasreen, serene and kindly. Doña Aaisha, polite and subtle. My dear Bashir, so full of kindness and bad choices... I have inklings of where these pieces may go, but not the certainty. I also do not know if I can affect their trajectory. I probably cannot, in truth.

My pieces, too, the Sisters, though perhaps it is more correct to say that I am theirs, and willingly so. My personal Quest to Voice them, complete, even if that was a strange conclussion. A concerning one, if I may be honest (and where else to be honest, if not here, to be read only by myself?). Sister Nebtu, changing her mind, coming to me, seeking me with a smile so serene as to be offputting. I had to break propriety and hold her hands. How could I not? There is honor and there is respect but, above all, there are the demands of the heart: when one beholds suffering, one offers consolation.

"It is fine", I said, "The Voice is nothing"
"You always had a Voice, you always will"
"And when the new world comes, this piece of paper?"
I smiled, I squeezed her hands.
"It'll burn"

She was not happy, but she was calm. We bear such sacrifices, all of us. Gladly, instruments of Bel-Ishun to come.

After speaking with the Sisters I went to Domhnall, in hope. Bashir, kindly, tried to buy us some space with a white lie. He did, for a bit. It probably was the longest we've spoken alone, since he became Legate and everyone, suddenly, longed to be by his side. I offered my thoughts: impish plans, radical ideas and then, at last, Elections.

A strange balance, in truth. I bit my tongue not to say "I told you this would happen". Not to insist. Not to badger. I have given up on most of my qualms when it comes to electioneering and politics, but I want to keep this one line I won't cross. I won't do transactional politics with him. I won't badger him, or lie, or push the same issue over and over, in blatant imitation of Cosine, until he just gives up out of tiredness. I will give him the information. I'll hope he'll hear me. I'll act as I must on the Assembly floor. He'll make his choices, and I'll live with them.

Because everything good ends, she forced her way in, our tiniest Gellemende. Domhnall received her with words which made me feel my advice hadn't quite taken root. Perhaps he'll double down in his position, and rob us the chance of two Lillies as Legates. Perhaps my own interests in the matter make him think my advice is mannipulated, that I am trying to use him. At least I tried.

I'm starting to feel some inkling of fear. This may end badly, this may end well. The Priestess is... The Priestess. Not bad for me, personally. But not sure if she's good, either. What I'm sure of is that Domhnall may be creating, for her, for once, a real chance. I may be creating it, too.

"Most arts", he said, "they have made miracles"
"But the art of politics produces only monsters"

What monsters am I ushering forth?

[Don Nadie]

Tending the Flames

People forget, often enough. Heck, I think many of my colleagues forget it. Sparrow certainly does, Narwen certainly did. Aurelio, for all his virtues, for all his knightliness, is often too absorbed in his Quests to remember. Siegward follows, so eagerly I sometimes wonder if knightly honor must, by necessity, imply a lack of empathy. But I remember it, always:

We, Balladeers, tend the flames of hope.

It is as important, I think, as the Pilgrim. As important as the Cup. For all of those things are Fated, yes, but Fate necessitates of action, of willingness, of the desire to be Its vessel. Too many in the Well feel useless or insignificant, and seek an absurd death or wander into the Wastes, to be lost forever.  And if all feel lost, in this world of death, famine and injustice, how can we hope to endure till the coming of Bel-Ishûn?

It's a pleasant duty, in truth, wandering about, smiling at those in pain, inviting them to speak of their problems and helping them find solutions. Alecto's ambition may need culling or tending by the Priestess. Plix's kindness needs watering, lest the Tower wither it. And Boucher's heart...

Well, that's a tricky one.

"It is in our heart where duty resides", I said.
"Not in rank, not in the trappings of our institutions"
A pause. He had told me his story. Shared secrets which aren't mine to share.
How could I not offer kindness, in return?
"But remember: a man cannot live for vengeance alone"
I paused. I sipped my coffee, I whispered:
"So think. What brings you joy?"

Hits, perhaps, too close to home: a man passed for promotion, torn between envy and duty. Still, perhaps because of that, someone I can help. And it is good, having such friendly contacts.

It is good, even if, sooner or later, we shall have to cross blades.

                               (And also, admitedly, I always find it exciting)                                               
                  (To spend time alone with men like him.)                         
                                            (Who could snap me like a twig, with their bare hands)                                   

(Not sure I like what that says about me)

[Don Nadie]

Telling Tales

Wheel above, what a creep, that Nadiri. Not sure what I found more unsettling: when he spoke an inhuman sound or the fact he was trying to record the Hakawati's Tales.

RECORD!!!

I was scandalized and, honestly, a bit scared for him. I mean, obviously, I also have notes on those Tales. They're great Tales! But also obviously, I make mistakes on those notes, deliberate ones. And if I'm reading them to someone, you bet I'm not simply repeating what the Hakawati said.

What am I, a THIEF?!

In truth, I'd be a little scared for the poor man. I do not think he quite understands all the kinds of ill luck, heinous curses, and mysterious twists that befall those who try to tie down the trade of the Storyteller. There's a reason the Hakawati do not write their Tales. There's a reason the published version of the Thousandfold Tale is very different from the performed version.

Not that the Tower would get that, of course.

Worst part is? He's not doing it for himself. When I pried a little, as I tried to dissuade him, the Nadiri said it was the Creep who asked him to do this. Entirely unsurprising. It's in character, to get Tales so spectacularly wrong and, on top of that, to send a Nadiri to do such horrible work.

Well. At least it gave me a good metaphor and moral, for the Tale of the Last Caliph and the First Sultan.

For he was the kind of man who sought to count the sands, so as to rein the dunes.
He was a man who, scared of the beat of his own heart, would change it to clockwork.
Fearful of shadows, he'd torch the Temples to see more clearly.
Burn the poems that he couldn't understand.
And thus, consummed by suspicion and paranoia, he was unhappy.
And he brought, upon others, his unhappiness, too.

A bit unsubtle, perhaps, inspiring myself on him for Zojhir? Well, if the shoe fits...

But to think how cute he seemed, back in the day. How sad I felt for him, sometimes, and how I wanted to help him... In truth, only Estellise hasn't become much worse, through her time in the Tower. Then again, she was messy, from the start.

[Don Nadie]

Ashstorms & Ammonites

What a strange day, this was.

We were digging. No more. No less. For the last dig, I was set on putting the shovel to the north side of Phor's tomb, when a Ashstorm, or the beginnings of one, formed. And this his steps, ponderous but quiet. Did he leave any tracks? Or did the ash not register his presence? He was tall, like two men. Grey and scarred what could be seen of his arms, his hands wielding spear and shield. His face, covered by a horrifying war-mask. A name came to our lips, but was not uttered.

Ayyabasim.

The Orcan had sought us. "Prey", he called them. He gave us the choice, of course.

"Flee, or fight".
His voice was deep, a whirlwind of ash arround him.
(I was holding my breath, I realized.)
(I almost splurted the names, what I know of the Shame, of his brethren)
(But I held it. The time? It called for another role)
"A Balladeer does not flee", I said simply.
I raised my sword at the ready, a smile upon my lips.
That, after all, is how a Balladeer faces danger.

"You have been marked",
So declared the surviving leader of the orcs.
As we turned, the Ayyabasim was gone. No trace of his boots upon the ash.
Only a gift, perhaps. Perhaps for bravery.

As though we passed through a distorted mirror, the rest of the evening was comical and enjoyable. A little, adorable mushroom joined our ranks. We played, we watered it, we danced. Our little buddy grew roots into our hearts, truly. He also did grow roots into the heart (and head, and flesh, an innards) who had scared him before, and whom we battled. I invited it to join our College and study interpretative dance but, alas... It's little heart sought freedom.

He rode into the sunset, not without leaving us with a beautiful sign of his love which bloomed into a soft little amulet, to wear near my heart. So sweet.

So sweet...

As sweet as Elossi's smoke, the memory of my little buddy...

[Don Nadie]

A Daring Escape

Once, a prince was locked in a tower, and was unhappy.
For a wicked witch held him there.
And because he was too important, he was kept within.
Never allowed to hear the waves of the sea.
Or to touch the bark of the trees.
And withering slowly.

"What do those tattoos mean?", I asked.
He was in the water, we were sitting by the shore.
I was jealous, wishing I, too, could just swim without this cloak.
Not as jealous as Narwen, I suppose.
He was splashing, a smile upon his lips. More relaxed than I'd seen him in ages.
"I have forgotten", he said, softly.
Where did each of us come from? And how? That, we spoke of. And of much else, besides.
The shores, Calisham, a monastery, Iphis.
Once strange names for strangers, made now a little closer.

So his friends gathered and conspired, and a daring plan was construed.
An escape was made: pillows under blankets, shadows in the windows.
Disguises, and little lies, and subterfuge. A rope of sheets, tied up together.
Under the moonlight, and giggling, they left.

"I started the Hidden Poems because there were things I felt", I admitted.
"But I also didn't want people to know I felt them"
I stopped. I think I hadn't realized, before, what a perfect metaphor they were.
For myself, in general.
"I think there's something romantic about a hidden poem", he said, softly "Quite intimate"
"Perhaps someday I'll become and explorer", he pondered, wistful. "And search for them"

By the shores of the sea they played and made merry.
And they sang and they ate, with the waves as their orchestra.
They drank wine until the moon seemed to twirl up in the sky.
And laughed so loudly the seagulls were startled.

"Thank you", he said, "I mean it."
He was so close, I could only babble. I know not what I said.
I know there were his smile, his lips, his touch, his kiss upon my hand.
I lit up, like a torch. I could've guided ships, in the darkness.
So much, I guess, for my attempts at the role of the romantic knight.

And on their return, their hearts were wider and their eyes glimmered with stars.
So they cast away the witch, and opened widely the windows of the Tower.
And the prince slept at peace, with the lullaby of the sea.
And all were happy, forever.

[Don Nadie]

From the Ashes

Once, a woman got lost.
But she was so wise, and so kind, and so tender,
that an invisible twine connected her heart and her home.
And though lost, she was never gone.

She walked from the desert, self-absorved as ever.
"Secretary!", she said, as though everything was normal.
"Did you finish my transcriptions?"

(I ran, crying, and hugged her.)
(I didn't think about djinni or illusions, necromancy or horrors. I only saw her, there, before me. )
(If hugging her had brought a curse upon me, I would've taken it gladly.)

I held her, she tensed.
She was real, and solid, and there.

And that string twirled deeper and deeper into the world.
It went through turns and twists, with her, to the dark places,
where truth is only whispered and light is never seen.
Deep, she went, but the string never broke.

On the way to my office, a Bellow:
"Snorri, Pirou, Mari", she called, "I need to review your progress!"
She was convinced only two days had passed.
I smiled, through the dread. Not to overwhelm her.
I opened the door, I offered her to sit, I offered her water.
"Oh", she said, simply.
"Oh. So it's going to be one of /those/ conversations".

(How readily, wounds I thought healed reopened.)

And in her time of direst need, when the maws of monsters closed upon her...
She found the invisible string.
And followed it, running, rushing, her lungs burning, coming!
She followed it, with Beast nibbling at her talons.

"I continued our work", I whispered, softly.
"Because someone has to dig".
She looked at me, through those glasses.
When did I learn to understand the strange shape of her love?
When did I come to see it, through the brusqueness and the cold demeanour?
"I'm proud of you", she said. She paused.
"You get one hug", she added, bracing, "due to exceptional circumstances"

If it was a djinn trick?
My name and soul were well spent.

And she saw the light, and she saw her home.
And she was received, with open arms and love aplenty.
And everything was well, forever.

[Don Nadie]

Poured

Once, a woman was hurt, and bleeding, and bitter.
For her heart had been broken into a thousand pieces, by guilt.
And the remnants, wicked wizards had turned to stone.

"People break up", I said, "It's not the end of the world"
She looked at me so angry, so furious.
(I wondered how much of it was her feelings)
(And how much of it was their fingers, into her mind and her heart)
She seethed: "Of course it is".
"She is what I found at the end of the world"

And because she was stone, se could not be moved.
And because she was broken, all the love she was given...
Just slipped
         through
                   the cracks.

"What will prove my love for you? Leaving the Balladeers?"
Her gaze so dismissive, so bitter. "Yes", she said "exactly"
"And why do I have to burn all", I demanded, furious.
"To sacrifice the rest of my life, while you do nothing for me?"
I was tired of loving her and getting, in turn, but poison.
(I was also crying, of course. Wheel above, why am I always crying. )
"Those who choose me", she said, "Will choose me above all else".

And love was nonetheless given onto her.
Trying to fill what remained empty.
Trying to mend what remained broken.
Trying to rebuild what had been destroyed.

What did I even say? In the wave of fear, and betrayal, I have forgotten it.
I just remember her hands like talons, her scream.
The eye on her screen, staring at me like the blazing Pra'raj.
I thought she was going to strike me, to hurt me, to kill me.
I think she would've, if people hadn't knocked. She, my friend.

Love was poured, poured, poured.
Until there was no more love to give.

[Don Nadie]

Clouds

[This entry smells, faintly, of mizzar. Some of the letters are drawn over the page, like little clouds, or puffs of smoke...]

She acted like I have a problem, but I don't have a problem. Or I have a problem, I suppose.


          So                           problems, really,
                      many                                           when     
                                                                             you think of
                                                                                             it.

                                                                   an addict.
                                                 that I'm
But I do not like the assumption

"It's a downhill road from where you are..."
"And you either climb it, with PAIN and GRIT and SUFFERING", her voice, raised.
She was so serious, so concerned, so honestly worried.
(And I loved her for it, and I hated her for it.)
"Or descend into the bottom", she said, "where you no longer see the stars."
"But are only imagining them, instead"

It is fine,                               control.                                   
I'm in                                Everything's fine.
I just need                                                                                           
something                                                                                                         
to help me sleep, to help me                  to help me think,                   
rest,                        but I don't have       
an addiction.

"I don't abuse it", I said, my lips pressed.
"But its...", I babbled, "Things are hard, sometimes"
She stared at me, flatly.
"But you're not WEAK!", she yelled.
A demand, really. I paused. I spoke so, so softly:
"I don't want to have to be strong every single day."

                                        to
          need something                      stop the
I just                                                                       screaming, inside.

                         of                             inside.            Always.
There's a lot                    screaming,   

"I didn't raise you to be a drug-addict"
"I raised you to be a prominent scholar. Respectable"

(And I was so thankful for it, for the peace it brings.)
(I would be crying otherwise)
(And I'm always, always, always crying...)

[Don Nadie]

What Else Was There To Do?

There were calls. Threats. I rushed out, to protect her. Then there were screams. The Beast, in the Tower, again, calling forth all the others. A worminger, screaming in pain in the Bellows. The noise of creepers, screaming and running away, too. So we rushed. What else was there to do? Zauzar, Jamileh, Sparrow, Anais and I. We all went into the Gutters, to protect people. What else was there to do?

The tunnels were full. We were surrounded very fast, because they crawled and crawled, through ceilings and tunnels, skittering. I fought. Wheel above, I fought so much. We managed to make way to a tunnel. They were opening the path, I was holding the way forth, saying we should retreat. What else was there to do?

There were so many, so I danced. What else was there to do? I danced arround claw and fang and spike and mouth and things that were not mouths but had teeths and so many fingers reaching and I danced and I danced, and my song rang in the darkness. What else was there to do?

But they wouldn't retreat, they thought we could make it. They thought we could push forth, even though they kept coming and coming, bigger and stranger. So I kept cutting and healing, and Anais's hammer splashed their their heads and Zauzar's halberd cut them, I was covered in black ichor and I kept holding the line, my shield high, my smile bright. What else was there to do?

And then it came, so big it's walked hunching, so big the spikes on its back scratched the ceiling, so big its arrival was preceded by the sparks of those claws on the floor. So we gripped our blades. What else was there to do?

YOU SHOULD HAVE RUN

So it said. So we ran. But she didn't. So we heard, behind us, the sound of clenching, of rending. We went in, for her, to save her. We fought another battle, seeking her between all the slithering, screeching monsters. And then we found her. In two pieces. So we carried her back. What else was there to do?

And I demanded that we get the Priory to help. And I argued that it needed to be done. And I requested that we stop slowing things, and try something new. And everyone was so calm and so collected, and so careless about the death of Hekatomb and the death of Anais and the death of so many wormingers that I just wanted to scream. And then Jamileh said I was overeacting because I was a drug addict and I just was furious and I started crying, as always, always, always, because nobody would do anything, and there wasn't anything else for me to do.

[Don Nadie]

Better

I went to her, because she called. I was looking better, I had put on my most plastered smile, I had gone on to kill with the Banda, to succeed in something because I couldn't succeed in what I really wanted. But she could see, evidently, my distress.

"You're not unbrekable, sweet Alejandro"
Her hand came to my cheek, so tender, so warm despite the glove.
"I don't know if I'm just not strong enough", I whispered.
"Or if they are all dried husks".
The smoke curled in the air. Prayers echoed from within.
"The strength of others is an illusion", she whispered.

She spoke of masks and of truth. I felt I could not lie. That my heart could not lie. That it was spilling again, always spilling, and endless fountain of emotion and pain and mourning and love. She asked whether I wanted the Drink, I declined. I told her my rule, about Drinking. Only in ritual. Never when sad.

"I abused it, when Pirou died", I confessed
"It felt better, but it was worse"
(It got bad. I was a few steps from becoming another Aubrey)
(I learned one ought to seek Revelation and Mystery, but not Oblivion.)

"So be it", she said, simply.
In her lips, a tender smile.

(Why did I feel such relief, when she nodded?)
(Had the lies, the rumors, the slander... Wormed their way within my heart, too?)
Then she held me in her arms, and all was better, better, better.

I met Jamileh later, at the Sandstone. We discussed our work, we discussed the day before. She apologized, after a fashion. In that way she was, which is half apology, half excuse. She still had dismissed me, she still had called me drug-addled, manipulated. Is it so hard to believe one can be overwhelmed by mourning? What is wrong with this city, that everyone devalues their life so?

"I wouldn't trust them as far as I can throw them", she said.
"I have a fondness for Nebtu"
"But she is like this intoxicating peddler of hope..."
"...and drugs, at the same time".

I breathed in. I felt better, didn't I?
(I felt better, and not because of her.)

"Without them, Jamileh", I said.
"When you left, when Snorri was in a coma and Pirou died?"
"Without them I'd be at the bottom of a canyon".

She was sorry, which didn't solve much. I made a map. I saw her quieten instead of giving me instructions, I could feel her pride, brimming for me: her secretary, now an expert on his own terms. That was something, I suppose. That helped me feel a little better, too. Even if we couldn't agree, I still felt better, better, better.

"You ought to stop trying to love", she said.
"I don't think I can"
She cleared her throat, akwardly.
"Yes, well. That's why I like you".

[Don Nadie]

A Preamble to the Introduction to the Prelude of the Preparation of the Exordium to the Proem of the Prolegomenon of the Preliminary of the Foreword of a Decision

I swear on the Wroth's hairy ass, if another idiot starts making Bellows about how we should wait one more day before trying anything new, while wormingers and creepers and innocents die; if another fool barges in and demands to be given an individual, personalized explanation; if another Astronomer misinterprets the words of the Sisters...  I'm going to lose my mind.

Also, maybe tonight I'm dying.
So there's that.

Swiftness onto my feet, Warad.
Misfortune upon my foes, Sabotage.
Guile to my decisions, Izdu.
May I emerge from this Trial
with a Tale to tell,
and a Foolish smile,
and Wiser than I was before

[Don Nadie]

New Rule (2)

I got hurt, again. Once more. As ever. In this case because Connor, the Invisible, in an act of great dweebery, left me to charge alone. I was left wadding in acid, surrounded by serpents, poisoned, drowning. Never saw him. Saw only Jamileh, trying to save me and getting swallowed, too, by the slimy waters.

When I was rescued, was I angry that I was hurt, or angry that I still breathed?

I sought respite in mizzar, walked off tiredly. I had been so close, I knew I was in the threshold of Revelation. Now I only had a headache. She found me, smoking, trying to read. Erugitic, even more of a Mystery, now, than what it was when I woke up. I felt so defeated, and yet so soothed. That is, of course, the benefit of the drug.

"It pains me to see my best friend like this", she said.
"Clouded by mizzar and Fauxmari".
She was never good at consolation. Never tender.
"Sometimes I need rest", I said. "Mizzar helps"
So do Their Mysteries, I suppose. An escape. Temporary. Never enough.
"That's what they do", she insisted, "they find you at your weakest"
"And they worm their way in"
"You deserve better, my wayward son"

She held my hand, she told me to stop. Do I care to stop, do I need to stop, can I afford to stop? Thoughts felt particularly thick today, like unrefined honey, almost crystallized. Malleable and far too sweet, too. That was the mizzar, too, I suspect. Wheel above, I want more mizzar. Wheel above, I want so much to be swallowed, covered, fainted, swarmed...

She found me, in turn, later. I had been hurt again, by then, my entire body ached with pain, and scars, and battle. It was taking an effort, not to take mizzar, not to tell myself that it was fine, that it was just for the pain. It was taking an effort, not to indulge. Tobacco is just not the same. There's no oblivion in a smoke, just stink.

She whispered so softly, her breath caressing my ear.
"She is a relic from an earlier age, I reflect", she said.
Her eyes set on my once mentor. Burning? Commiserating?
"Perhaps she cannot recognize that the world moved on"
"Or that you grew"

Have I grown? I feel only more lost, after today. Just longing for the mizzar, or for the Drink, or for the Ecstasy of blood upon my brow and my batted breath breathing out a song with no words. My hands were jittery, my thoughts wandering and lost. I felt so weak, when she found me again. When she hunted me, by the College. 

"Soliana is still missing", she said.
I saw her expression flicker. Emotion? For once?
"Be careful, yes?", she said. Her tone matronly, tender.
"You are both most precious to me"
And I shivered, shaken with love and heartbreak and uncertainty and pain.

Another new rule, I think: no mizzar when I'm sad. At this rate, the only escape I will have left is the Sapphic Elves saga. And I truly think its charms are wasted on me.