The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

The Gamemistress's Last Game

Once, there was a Gamemistress who tried to have fun,
and, somehow
(perhaps because sometimes a heart twirls arround another)
she ended up trying to do good.

"Do you trust me?", she asked.

We were in her office, Janissaries out the door.
I was annoyed. Again beeing asked to do the sacrifice.
Again, doing what's good for the Well who wouldn't have me.

"I do", I said, though. I had no qualms. "I always will".
She was, after all, my partner in crime.

And, trying to do good, she stood tall.
She smiled bright.
She got challenged, and hurt.
She made so, so many misssteps,
one sometimes wasn't certain of the difference between brilliance
and fumbling.

                                                               Always trying to do good, at least.

"This is so unfair, this system", I said.
"Sometimes I feel like I should just throw it."
"My Voice, down into the Well".

(It is odd, how vulnerable we are)
(When we are amongst friends)
(How even the merriest Fool allows his despair to roam)

"We all keep making sacrifices", she said.
"Doing what's right, for naught, is what being a hero is", Snorri added.

And, trying to do good, she was playful.
Until one misstep caught her.

Nobody can dance forever.

I huffed.
"I don't need you to tell me what being a hero is", I said.
"I'm a Balladeer, a Storyteller: I know it."
"I don't need you to convince me: I will do the right thing."

"But I need you to stop trying to argue."
"To say: Yes, it's unfair"
"And to hug me"

So we hugged.
Often, that is what one really needs, from friends.

And in the place of her Little Allotments, a rose was left.
And on the place of her riddle games,
the vile bandit, the wicked mastermind who escaped prosecution
recited, again, his riddle.

We'll always have the Sublime Buttocks.

[Don Nadie]

Kardesler

I led them there, a large gathering. Into the ancient Valley, where a sagely hand carved their message. Where Izdu, it is said, walked. I led them there, for I had gone before, and we climbed the stairs to the Kardesler. With Janissaries guarding the meeting, with a strange hermit performing rituals so old that one could almost feel the dust upon his actions, we found a place to sit and watch.

I knew, inmediately, it was ancient. I could recognize the signs in the Throne, with the carved Eagle, abandoned. "That throne", I explained in whispers, "hasn't been used since the Sinking of the Summer Palace". I could guess who would sit where, before they did. For there were three cities, great, in the times of the ancient Caliphate.  Four, I suppose. But we cannot count that which was lost to the Desolation.

My guess proved correct. One thing we can say with certainty: that the present rhymes with the past. That Baz'eel attended was to be expected, and I was glad to see Princess Hasheema. Monarchs are all tyrants, but only a fool thinks all tyrants are equal.  I was, however, surprised to see the attendance of Qa'im. I think everyone was. But when the horn rang, knowing only they and Il Modo were truly missing... It was obvious, then. They marched in unison, with such beautifully forged faced.

So serene. So horrifying.

Whatever my research indicates, the time of innocence is long gone. For those Janissaries, that box palpitating with life.... That was Anathema.

The meeting itself was the classic collection of accusations, cowardice, and complaints. I did not enjoy being next to the Banda Rossa, whose main effort even in such historical occasions seems to be teasing and mocking, light-heartedly, either the speakers or the College. I suppose the attitude helps deal with the bitterness of their work, but I truly feel it is childish. Kragg in particular being so high and mighty about Students makes me  wish to remind him I have seen him shit himself.  Someone has to be the adult in the room, however.

One could've feared for the results of the meeting, but a rousing speech by Marcellus lifted everyone's spirits and led them to act bravely. The cities shall march to meet the Sibilant, face them head-on, defeat them. That should always have been the priority.  How to welcome the refugees, whether we'll need to fight the tonsure, even the so-called Dakhwar?

That doesn't matter, right now.

[Don Nadie]

The Lesser Evil

Choose the lesser evil. They keep saying that, I keep hearing that. The lesser evil in this Election, where I am yet again barred, criminal element that in am, disloyal to my fair City, wicked terrorist and trouble-rouser, ever putting my greed, my anger, my faith or my ego ahead of what the City needs.

Choose the man who praises the Murderer but cares about the poor (and has great tighs). He lacks the subtlety, the charm. I have seen him take offense at the White League's members carrying their heart on their sleeves, which is precisely what they are bound to. Not realizing it is much more effective to use their heart, precisely, to win them over. He cannot dance arround trouble, nor dodge a challenge to fight where it suits him. He'll be devoured by politics. Devoured, and perhaps he'll get our League to be devoured, too.

Choose, instead, the woman who kisses the Sultan's boots but is a friend (and has a good heart). "We agree in almost all policies", she kept saying, as though all policies were equal. As though I and the White League didn't agree on those same things, and more. As though I ought to, once again, set aside my qualms and kiss the Sultan's Sublime Ass. As though her League didn't fail to uphold their promise of the Subsidy. Part of me wishes I'd negociate for her support. Part of me suspects no promise will stand. I know she has good intentions, but I cannot set aside my concerns over her League.

Choose, then, the greedy Ashfolk who  will bend endlessly to bribes (but is scholarly). He hasn't even approached me, I haven't even seen him. I know he'd be like Sol Auk, a manipulable creature. His main disadvantage is that he'd be even more obsequious to the Sultan, even more willing to set aside what's fair for the sake of the Janissaries. We'd be constantly on the defensive, again.

Choose, choose, choose. And while you choose, dance, and try to strengthen the League of White, try to obtain concessions, try to shape possible winners.  Dance, feint, sidestep and dash. Politics, like swordplay, requires swift feet. So I keep moving, as I am still choosing one of three bad choices, all of them forced upon me by circumstance.  At least Domhnall and Echemmon now talk to one another without inmediate insult.

I told Zaniah that throwing my Voice down into the Well felt tempting, and still does. But a merry minstrel can't really reject a dance.

[Don Nadie]

Hidden

Holy places are place of reflections. Places were everything can be forgiven, where judgement can be suspended, where one is bound to just listen, and listen, and listen. The world holds its breath in holy places, as anything that transpires there is a gift to the Gods. So when she took me to such a place, I heard, and did not judge, We sat under Their gaze, in cushions. Arround us, blessed, the secrets. Love, and envy, and betrayal. Every heart is so burdened with secrets.

"An old lie discarded", she said, "a new one must be sought"
"Because someday", she continued, "it might be..."
"True", I interjected. She smiled.

Mystery and Revelation, like lovers.

I did not judge, though I did wince. So many secrets arround me, so many secrets given there. It was not a place to judge, even when one wanted to. We all need a place where we shan't be judged, or else we're never to open our hearts. I understand that too well. So many secrets. Secret knowledge, secret intrigues, secret trust, secret plans. I do not reveal what I promise to hide, which leads to hiding too much. And secret feelings, too. The ones one doesn't even admit to himself, much less to others.

"I offer,  in honor of your tribute, my own", I said.
"Choose: a secret from my present, my past, or my future"
"The present", she decided, without hesitation.
"It suits the occassion, mio tesoro"

I have not been brought to many holy places, but I have found them, alone. In Izdu's shrine I have discussed Revelation, in Warad's shrines, Errantry.  That one was a place for Mystery, where this Trickster could find a moment's respite under the blessedly inatentive gaze of They Who Smile Upon Fools. There, one could discuss masks, and what's behind them. Outside, the Wheel turns, and my life goes from one onto another:

Mystery                                   Errantry                                   Revelation

But here, one could sit down, and listen, and suspend all judgement. Here, one could breathe.

I hesitated with what to give.
For the present brims with the most secrets.
So that it feels sometimes like a glass too full, and about to spill.
In the end: a secret name.
Most apropriate for a secret God.

[Don Nadie]

Chimney

Once, there was a chimney.
And in that chimney, bones.
Tiny bones.

Once, there was a fire, and it burnt those bones.
And what was before those bones, too.
The sinew, the flesh, the soft ashen skin.
The eyes, boiled.

The bones still embraced.
Tiny, in the ashes.
And a woman winced.
For Revelation is ever painful.

It escapes me.
How anyone retains faith in the Sublime Garden.
After seeing those bones.

[Don Nadie]

Missmatch

[Another entry named Missmatch, this one with little to no context or other notes. Only another addition to the no doubt silly and unimportant rhyme. There are some reddish stains on the page, as though it was written with fingers dirtied by clay or something similar to clay.]

Missmatch, missmatch,
you can fly where you can't latch,
in the darkness light your path:
what's some risk if this you crack?

Missmatch, missmatch,
careful with what you attach
quiet the night for a heir's wrath,
do not stay for the aftermath.

Missmatch, missmatch,
under moonlight knowledge catch:
clay's not clay, the slab's not slab,
but the words feel like a stab.

[Don Nadie]

The Stars Above

[Meditative notes scribbled all arround the page - perhaps notes for a poem]

Stars above - twirling, smiling.
Witness the whirlwind of Fate, stumbling drunk, inattentive.
Are It's gifts ever fair?
                     (The poem remains hidden. I saw it.)
(Fatespurned, nobody broke. Not yet)
           (Why do people break poetry in secret?)

In the shadows one walks and stands and loves. The light of Revelation, fought for, never gifted. Endless hours embracing Mystery and Errantry, seeking, ever-seeking. A moment is what it takes, if the Stars are ready.

(But even if I had been there first, I wouldn't have that luck.)
(Fate doesn't work like that.)             
                (Fate smiles and spurns)
(Fate has claws, Knowledge is made of embers)

When the time is right, the time is right.
But a labor of love without reward                       
                        may well embitter both the love and the labor.

Can we love those we envy?
And envy those we love?

At times, Fiction hits too close to home.
                     Metaphor roots into your skin.
     Secondary in one's own life.

Can a Snake eat its own Tale?

[Don Nadie]

Fallen

Once, there was a battle.
An in that battle, many fought.
For Fate twisted into Necessity.
And no good heart could let slavery and masacre prosper.

"I'm afraid I have other duties"
"But I'll be with you in Spirit!"
(The Spirit, as it turns out, is unhelpful)

And the day of the battle, many marched.
And a Poet died.
Where none would see her.
Her body, lost.
Her death, among the first.

"Da heart of a Balladeer be a'havin'", she said.
(She gave me her poems, all of them.
Each, saved in my records.
My records of sorrows upon sorrows)

Who'll straighten my cloak?

And a cheerful idiot let her arrows fly.
Singing their melody, until she died.
A spell, a single spell.
That's all it takes, if the stars are set.

"We need to return with more ideas", she said, last we were together.
Tireless, optimistic.
Always a joke to lighten the heart.

And a stupid, stern, idiotic Mountain fell.
Stubborn till the end, no doubt.
Stinking of shit and pride.

"I felt bad about it", he admited.
The absolute unit of idiocy.
Who'd rather break alliances, friendships and trust
Than admit to having feelings.

And a shinning knight fell.
Her armour glimmering, her feet quick, her heart pure.
Forever dimmed, the smile which caught every maiden's heart.

"I am, of course, the beloved sidequick who dies before your final, dramatic confrontation"
"Nonsense", she said, "it is I who shall die first"
(Gone forever. The Garden forever empty of her laughter)
"Pushing you to avenge my death and defeat what I could not"
How do you take vengeance upon a defeated foe?

And a friend fell.
Oldest friend. Oldest mentor.
Survivor of a thousand battles, survivor of dire Kulkund.
He fell, too, to an Abomination. He fell bravely, no doubt.
But fall he did, and nothing can make up for that.

"You'll always have me by your side", I said, once.
A long time ago.
"I cannot be left as the only survivor of Kulkund", I said.
"So you must return!"
That was the last thing I said. A stupid joke.
Forever my last words to him.

And the battle was won.
And a few lived.
To see mystery, betrayal and the rest of the future.
A battle was won, and that was something.

We won. Did we win enough?

[Don Nadie]

The Poet

I am trying not to drink so much, but I also feel like I need to. Perhaps it was a mistake to cheer with the Drink, knowing what it does to me, but I wanted to lift the Student's spirits. I wanted to offer them guidance. I wanted them to feel good about where and who we are - even if I struggle with the weight of the Cloak.

One drink a day. That is a reasonable limit. That is a fair limit. A single one. To deal with the pain. And never when I am overwhelmed, never when I am crying. We can't have a repeat of my breakdown, after Pirou died.

(I thought that was hard. But this - so many.)

I spend far too long gazing at my collection of poems, shuffling through it. So many written by Elle. She was truly a Student. Truly. I loved when she came to me with new work, asking for feedback. I loved her ideas - the silly ones, and the heartbreaking ones. I find that I even love her way of speaking, which was... So hard to understand, at first.

I spend too long gazing at her poems. I have a few I never got arround adding to the collection. I keep them on my person. I do not dare put them with the rest.

When I do, there'll be no new poetry of hers.

(The Priestess offered to talk.
Like wolves, priests with mourners.


And yet I feel like I need the gods.)

[Don Nadie]

The Hospital

I keep dreaming of it. In my dream, it is mixed. What I saw with what I imagined. With how it would turn out to be.

A hospital, peaceful attendants, wounded soldiers.
A hospital, a white flag hanging from its window.
                But also a hospital.
                             With bones cracked, with skulls defaced.
  Bones and bodies and people
           Defaced for some sick game, for some sick cruelty.
Tortured by the Rose on my shoulder.


I remember what Jacques said. The same day I had my nervous crisis. That we of the College focused on our Dream, and drank deep. That, perhaps, is why so many of my superiors drink so much. They have no other choice, no other chance. That is the only thing which can let them endure.

But there's such a difference between hearing the stories.
Hearing "they kill babies"
And seeing an example, with your eyes.
(So solid, I could've touched the bones, if I wanted)

                                       Bones, large and small.
The bones of Ashfolk who never lifted a finger.
                     The bones of priests and priestesses who held strong.   
   The bones, cracked.
       I can only imagine what happened to the flesh which was, once, arround those bones.
          Defilement.
Defilement of those who couldn't defend themselves.


I wake up from the nightmare with Snorri's voice in my head.
"They are why I'll never join the College"

And I wake up, and I wash my face, and I steady my hands
         (They want the Drink. I want the Drink. I refuse it and refuse it)
         (It was a bad idea to cheer with them, for now I thirst once more, so badly)
I wash my face, I set up my smile, I put the Rose back on my shoulders.


And I straighten.
Can't let its weight slump me.

[Don Nadie]

Laid out

It took hours, but I laid it all out. For her. When the Priory asks, you answer. I gave it all - summarized, perhaps, but all that was mine to give. And I kept the secrets I was bound to keep. For promises are not to be broken. But she was right, of course. We may well be killed. Someone must keep records, in case of death. I shall... Make sure I write something similar to what I gave her, and leave instructions for the College to have it, in case of my death.

I find myself preparing, more and more, for that. For my death.

Regardless, it was an interesting experience to think of the entirety of what I have learnt. I rarely do such a thing, for it takes hours. But to think of it all, to follow the trail from past to present, to weave all the tidbits into a cohesive whole...

I felt that slow beating of hope in my heart. I realized how far I had come. How much closer to understanding it I am. And perhaps to finding it, too. I feel like I'm closer. Still far, of course, but I feel as though I've brought us closer to it than any of Lynneth's heroics - whether my superiors are blind to this or not. Most of them had eyes for her, only. She was so shinning it blinded. I envmiss her.

But still. With the Acolyte, I felt it. I felt so much closer to it:

D Q W R

She commended me. She came to realize in our conversation the value of what I do. That my work was not mere foolish obsession, that there was a /reason/ I was at times more serious than other Balladeers. Less shimmering. Less dashing. That I hesitated more to lose myself in the peaceful depths of the Drink and Art and hopeful but deadly Heroics.

Still, sometimes I wish I was.
Different.

(The smell of dust and old things and secrets permeates my office.)
(Such a lonely smell.)

[Don Nadie]

Words

Words and words and words. Words have become my home, my chains. In my office, accumulated, are words within words, a labyrinth of secrets that is almost maddening. Of things I cannot share because of a promise. Of things I cannot share because they corrupt, and they break, and the change you forever.

"I wonder if your superiors notice", she said.
She paused.
"Your efforts".

"Knights in shining armor", I answered.
"Can easily blind".

Words, too, are chains. Things I can and cannot say. Things I have to be careful to ommit. I try not to lie to those I love. I try to say "I will share what is mine to share". I try to do so - or tell me I try to do so. Unless it's bad. Unless it'd give them nightmares upon nightmares.

(I need to return)
(To return and accept it again)
(To return and be changed a little more)
(Into Darkness)
(With the hope of Luminous Revelation)

And still, I fail. Because others - others cannot. Others do not. Others break their promises, their silences, the trust of their friends. Snorri said I was the only person he knew who could keep a secret. Or the only one left. We did not mention the evidence absence, but it was there. It was obvious to both of us.

Cursed Aubrey. Revealing things I was not ready to reveal. If only I had had more time, if only I had been allowed to be more subtle. I have hurt Portia, I can imagine. I was always bound to hurt her. I dread to talk to her, but I will.

"It won't be a knight who finds the Cup", she said.
And I nodded.
For I am starting to be convinced of the same.

(But oh, if I could shine)
(If I could be again that boy)
(A performance too, but a boy)
(Ready to shine)
(And hide himself in brightness)

[Don Nadie]

A Clown

"You're not a clown", he said.
He was stern, Pra'raj burning above us.
"You do not have to perform for my amusement"
"You are entitled to sadness."
And I pressed my lips, and I nodded.
I ate the falafel, I smiled, perhaps weakly.

(And I changed the topic, too)
(For what is left when all is stripped?)
(Only soft skin, marred by scars.)

[Don Nadie]

[A a rambling entry, written in messy calligraphy. Clearly, whomever wrote this was shaking, working in half darkness, or both. Numerous wet stains make some of the ink tricky to read. Right next to it, another entry has been written.]

Torn

So many things come to pass. I am exhausted but I cannot sleep. I try to work on the "Brief Timeline of the Great Ash Desert" but I fall upon the page. It is reverie, of a kind, this sleepless unconsciousness, this burdening of the soul. I feel it, heavy, within my chest. At times, breathing becomes hard.

A Cure was found. I am so glad for Marcellus, so happy he will live. But I grow concerned, too. He doesn't seem willing to face a real Inquiry into his choices, much less to have the Astronomers face it. Cosine whispers in his ear and Astronomers escape with barely a slap on the wrist. Even from attempted murder. Over and over.. The more I hear, the more I feel as though he was lied to, mannipulated. Was the Red Star always going to fall? Or was that what the Tower said, to gain Bablium?

Then voting. Aubrey wishes power as eagerly as she wishes to do good, and both mix and mingle in her mind. She could have a magistrature and lost it, asking for too much, demanding too much. So many in the College want to treat Elections like a marketplace, to sell votes in exchange for this or that favor. Only the Sisters seem, to me, to have the larger picture in mind. Only them.

(A Student quit)
(A promising one)
(I was sad to see him go)

                                    (Sad and tired and envious)

And meanwhile, concerns mount. Rashid al-Rashid. Coming with fear of mock trials, of sham Tribunals, of a stage set to murder my old friend. The one person of the Competition who survives. A man who has done so much for me, who has endeavoured so much for my sake and the Well's... But Al'Rashid's predictions contradict those of Aubrey, those of Ser Hyram, those of the Acolytes. And all of them, contradicted by what I know of Domhnall, what I've known since we met. Unless he cannot be trusted, either.

(Who can one believe?)
(So many lies, deliberate and otherwise)

(Can I even believe my heart?)                                       
(Or does it mislead me, too?)                                       
(Out of loneliness,                             
         out of mourning               
                    out of fear)       

As in any good performance, the best was left for last and Sparrow closed the night. She was angry, she had a right to be angry. She was angry and brave, too, for she had tried the Drink and found, within its depths, the courage to face me. I am glad she did, in a manner of speaking. I deserve her anger, even if I had no other choice. Maybe I deserve this and worse.

"You've broken my trust", she said.
Her lips were so red, and she was so furious.
She, who is never angry, was furious.
"I am more than a shovel holder"
(I have never thirsted more after the Drink)
"I am no longer your Student"
"You absolute fool, you idiot, you moron", she said.
(Is that what she said?)
(In this reverie, I am not sure I remember)

Does anything even make sense? Is there any truth to scrap from this endless, everturning wreck? Something certain to hold onto? Why do I need to break trust in order to hold onto trust? Did I lie to her? Did I not say to her that there were things I couldn't share? Can my memmories be trusted? Can my notes be trusted? Can the record? Can the ancient tablets surrounding me? Can the glyphs within them? Can the dust?

"You've wrapped yourself into so many oaths", she said.
"That they're tearing you appart".

(Such an eloquent line, from my once mentee)
(I would be proud of her, if I wasn't crying)

[Don Nadie]

Adendum

[An extremely brief Tale, written right next to where the former entry begins.]

Once, there was a man who thirsted.
But, knowing he'd drown if he drank, he refrained.
And in the dark of the night, he wrote nonsense.
Which should be, of course, disregarded