The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Did I win?

I think I won. More or less. It's so blurry, I'm not even sure.

Things certainly were different from how I dreamed them. After waiting the whole day, a book merchant and the dangerous eagerness of Bootlicker made me rush to the Tablet just as Domhnall emerged to take the toga. I heard the Bellows from afar, I saw naught. I arrived to see him already dressed, a Princess by his side. I teared up.

(Wheel above. Always with the tears)
(Like like I was a cup, filled to the brim)
(A little tremor away from spilling)
(At least these were happy?)

From there, running, rushing, dealing, wheeling. The Sergeant Radish donning his best grumpy old man persona and me, in turn, being an irritating, stupid little flirt. There's always a point, I suppose, to finding what may irritate others most - and if there's one thing manly men dislike, it's effeminacy.

I was fuming, though. Going back on deals, trying to pull my heartstrings, threats as veiled as a harlot in the cheapest brothel. After what had happened before? After how I had felt last my best qualities where used like that...? Good enough I didn't invite him to put that sword of his where the sun don't shine. See whether it fits with the stick that's already in there.

The Ballestriere, at least, was helpful. Both with this and with other matters. The Rossa's Fortress, from within? Much less charming than the Colege.

'He is what I like to refer to", she said.
'As a high floor, low ceiling man'.
I chuckled, amused.
Upon my face, the mask of the villain.
(Or at least as villanous as I can make myself)

After updating Aubrey, I was tired, but I couldn't sleep. I felt weighted. How different was this to what I imagined? How different was this day to what I dreamed? And what did I dream? Was there even a point to what I dreamed? Was I really expecting a meeting in his new office, and a smile, and his li

I should know better. Politics is not for the heart. But I guess I did win. A little.

[Don Nadie]

Nope

Like dew under the hateful gaze of Pra'raj, our leverage seems to have vanished in but a few strange hours.

Such is life. Alternatives will be found. Still, somewhat discouraging to learn I did not, in fact, win.

I shall, at least, relish the irony. The sergeant may yet get my ass.

[Don Nadie]

Turns

[A prayer, written in almost transparent ink]

Hope, oh Fool,
for the Wheel is always turning,
always  turning!

And in the creaking of its Spokes
many things are possible, that would otherwise not be!

And though Fate circles hungrily,
many things are possible, that would otherwise not be!

And when Shadows grow longer,
many things are possible that would otherwise not be!

Hope, oh Fool,
for the Wheel is always turning,
always  turning!


ευοι

Σ  Ε  U  Κ  Σ  Ι  Π  Π  Υ  Σ

ευοι

[Don Nadie]

Exhale

They want to hurt Narwen.

(Exhale. Slowly, exhale.)

They want to take our beautiful Narwen, our kindest Balladeer, our sweetest flower. Why must they reach so eagerly with their greedy hands? Why can they not accept that not everything we don't understand is evil?

(Exhale. Do not let the nightmares come. Exhale)

They are all tense, and I must guide them. They are all demoralized by the suddent twist of Fate, and I must offer them hope. They all feel we're losing, and I must show them our victories, or win them anew. But they want to study Narwen and I'm scared.

(Exhale, exhale. The time will come, the time is coming)

Roles must be played, manyfold. And I must steady my hand, to protect her. Whatever it takes, to protect her. From within and from without, to protect her.

I am growing ready to cut some fools, if that is what the stage demands. A good artist, after all, must be flexible.

(But exhale. All is under control, exhale)

Plans are in motion, things are moving, manifold victories have been achieved in but a short few days.

And he did not fail me. It is not what I dreamed, it is not what I dreaded. But he didn't break my heart, and that's quite something.

Frail little thing, a heart.

"That was nice"
(I heard him say that, as I left)
(And it was, indeed, nice)
(To hear it, too)

[Don Nadie]

Victories & Bonfires

How bitter, the load I bear. The hours of whispering kindness, of friendship seeded, of diplomacy carefully arranged. Gossamer and dreams, for we of the College have naught but gossamer and dreams to push our agenda. Hours, writing, too. For coordination, for sharing, for morale.

I won victories. I know they were victories. In but a short day, I won victories to account for, victories to be proud of.

And yet? Invective, complaints. Not strong enough, not harsh enough, not winning enough. They desire greedily, with despairing eagerness, and are unwilling to accept anything less than the fullness of their heart. How I understand that desire, how naive it seems. 

It is as it is.

I would lie if I said this doesn't break my heart. Aubrey and Sparrow, so eager to burn all my efforts in their stubborn refusal of acceptance. I do not think they have ever thanked me, ever praised me, ever encouraged the work of my little woven stories. Everything that isn't complete surrender to their desires, they feel as a betrayal. But if I gave into their path, we'd be alone and abandoned. If I gave into their path, Narwen would suffer. If I gave into their path, blood would stain the cobblestones of the Well, the carpets of the Krak.

It is burdensome. It is exhausting. The cloak weights heavily, but one perseveres. I miss you, Lynn. You, who made me feel so small, also did much to feed this emptiness within me. This desperate, pathetic need to be loved.

I climb to hidden peaks and empty my cup under the gaze of the dismissive Stars. May my heart empty, too, of expectations; may I accept what is, for what it is; may I not suffer when, inevitably, those I love do not love me back.

May I endure, for this path must be walked by someone.

Someone has to dig.

ευοι  Σ  Ε  U  Κ  Σ  Ι  Π  Π  Υ  Σ  ευοι

[Don Nadie]

Lesser men

In the Wyld's secret places we gathered. Verdant was the Hope; Red, the Sacrament.

In the Wyld's secret places, the Mist curled arround our lips and we drank it, deeply. For the Mist is the Mist is the Mist is the Mist. And many things became possible, that would otherwise not be.

In the Wyld's secret places we spoke. Victories and dreams. Past and future, entwined, like lovers.

"I dream of a world where goodness reigns supreme"
Armis's voice rang clear, rang serene.
"Where good men do not have to compromise with darkness"
Silver, his voice, his beauty.

In the Wyld's secret places we shared. Where we come from. Where we go. What we seek.

"My triumphs...", said Sparrow.
"I have none"
(My heart broke, yet again)
(Hope, never to take root)
(Is she my greatest failure?)

In the Wyld's secret places, I filled my Cup with ambrosia. The Mists carved within were the Mists without, and I spoke as the Mist was the Mist was the Mist...

"I cultivate stories", I said, a hint of pride.
"Though frail, they save many a life, many a heart."
I paused, I looked at my Cup.
My voice then broke, recessess opening up.
"I dream of home", I confessed.

In the Wyld's secret places, things were spoken, that would otherwise not be. Prophecy, reiterated. Companionship, cheered. Oaths... Oaths taken. Siegward kneeling before golden Aurelio.

"Never to speak a lie".
One spoke, one echoed.
"Deceit in the lay of lesser men"

How beautiful his judgement, unspoken. How perfectly ugly I felt. Myself, who may attempt not to lie, but must often deceive. So small I felt that a breeze could carry me away, into oblivion.

I gazed into my cup, still brimming. I raised my eyes again with a smile.  What must be done, must be done. Gossamer and whisper, may I weave them, so that his beauty remains unstained.  And Narwen's. And Armis's. In my heart they echoed, like the ringing of a thousand bells, her word. Prophecy:

"The Cup shall not be found by a knight"

So I drunk deep and my heart sang, thrice-fold, its hopeful blessings.

αλέθεια       Ε ρ ο ύ γ κ ι       αλέθεια!

πλάνη       Υ λ λ α ρ η ς       πλάνη!

μυστήριο       Σ ε ύ k ε ι ρ ρ υ ς       μυστήριο!

[Don Nadie]

Caring

"You care too much about what others think."
Ages ago you said, Lynneth.
Golden Lynneth, perfect Lynneth, beloved Lynneth.
Envied Lynneth.

Once, there was a hole.
And on its brim, grew beautiful flowers.

"Your problem is that you care", said Sparrow.
"When none of it matters"
Last elections, my heart torn.
Sparrow, my gloomy Sparrow.
If I didn't care, I would be dead.

So people brought water and pleasant things.
People brought coin and gemstones and treasures.
People brought animals and virgins and sacrifices.
And all of it was thrown into the hole, as offering.

She rose her gaze from the wax tablet.
The stylus held, delicately, in her hands.
"You did well, my friend", she said.
How one longs to be told as much.
(The heart, in its boundless weakness)
(It aches for such things)

And offering after offering fell into its depths.
But the flowers bloomed as they ever had.
And the hole would never be filled

My hand was on his shoulder, my eyes on his.
"I do not always know if I am the best guide", I admitted.
His hand came to rest upon mine.
"Not always", he said.
"But the one I'd want"

But it still yearned for offerings, regardless.
For, like everything else, it wanted to be loved.

[Don Nadie]

Accord

Oh, precious Accord! Oh, pile of rotting compromises grown off of corpses! Oh, babies thrown off windows, oh mothers ravished against the selfsame window-stills, their eyes upon the splash that was their progeny but moments ago! Oh swords upon swords clashing, oh Waters flowing red and stained, every holiness drained, every kindness hollowed, every mercy stained and stained and stained! Oh, what joys it brings to be part of such steemed institution, such noble calling, such heavenly oaths! Were it not for the Accord, wouldn't we be but beasts, unable of more than primitive grunts and shows of absurd strength? Oh, what joys it brings to this City, to the weeping widows and the tortured wounded, to the peaceful doctors that see themselves set upon their own surgery table and sawn and sawn and sawn, for the perverse joyfulness of it! Behold its glory, as it glimmers in the horizon with the promise of a new, of a better, of a more joyful future!

Oh, Accord, how strong you grow watered in blood and bullshit!

"Why didn't you protect me, Alejandro?"

[Don Nadie]

Bel-Ishun

"I can only hope these sacrifices aren't in vain."
He offered his hand, accross the table.
I reached out and held it.
(For isn't that the purpose of Art? To reach out?)
"I don't hope", he said, squeezing softly. "I know"

The fresh murmur of the fountains.
The kind shadow of a garden.
Reciting poetry.
To a handsome man, if I'm lucky.

Even if originally meant as a joke... I suppose I can't complain, when Fate gifts me such taste of a better future.

"Thank you for the words"
"Inspiring, as always"
I smiled, the first stars scattering into the sky.
"Thank you, rather", I whispered
"I would be... Lost, without you".

Afterwards, a walk, with friends. The Exhortations of the Tutor. The Barrier.

And beyond the Barrier, a vision, a mirage, perhaps - or a prophecy. Vines, growing softly? Flowers blooming? A trick of the moonlight and the shadows? Within my heart, it bloomed, too, renewed as ever from ashes: Hope.

Remember, merry minstrels, the flowers.
For the time is coming (it comes!).
And with the turning of the Wheel,
many things become possible,
that would otherwise not be.

Bel-Ishun, nears.

[Don Nadie]

Squaring the Circle

I was working my way, enduring, performing. Eroding, slowly, resistance. Doing what I needed to do, so that Narwen would be safe, so that she would be safe. And she called for me, she was angry, she was fuming, she was feeling insulted, and slighted, and betrayed. How horrible, her anger burning my skin. Her words, pouring, and pouring, and pouring their hatred, over me.

"I told you he was a snake", said Anais.
And that was just the last drop.
I had to leave or I would start screaming.
"We'll talk later", I said.

I did my best to cry discreetely, because Wheel above, I'm always crying. I endured their company, did what I was meant to do. On my return, at the top of Elossi, we met again. Took me a moment to realize she was there. I had reached, I think, that strange level of exhaustion where the world seems submerged, time loses meaning and all one hears is the screams inside, come and go, raise and fall, like the waves of some cursed ocean.

Oh, she spoke. At length. At length she told me of her travails, and I suffered for her. How could I not? How could my heart not break, knowing her burdens, knowing the unfairness of it all? How could I not long to help her? Why couldn't I stop caring for they, even after how they kept treating me?

At long last, she remembered. I, too. I was also there, I was also suffering. Better late than never, I guess? But when she asked, I just burst, my notebook fallen to the floor, tears running, so many tears. I felt I was flooding, I felt I was a flood, and I felt I wanted to drown.

"I have to keep smiling, and to keep charming"
"Because you know what? Nobody else will"
"Nobody wants to do that fucking sacrifice"
"So I square the circle, for the people I love"

A flood, a torrent, pouring and pouring. I could've drowned the people in the plaza, like the knights of the Cinquefoil were drowned during the Siege. I could've washed myself away. I wish I had washed myself away. I wanted to surrender, I longed to be empty of these spoiled waters, these tears.

"Narwen, Sparrow, you."
"You all want me to do these sacrifices"
"You all need me to"
"And then you hate me, for doing them"

Empty me, Sabotage.
Empty my heart, so frail a vessel.
Empty me, so that I will spill no longer.

[Don Nadie]

Professionalism

[A strange little text, like the speech of a circus-master]

Behold, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! For your delight and entertainment: a Professional!

Watch, as he endures interruption after interruption with the grace and patience of one who wants to facilitate the work of his companion!

Thrill, as he smiles, politely, dead in the eyes, and at least takes notes of the plans of those who seem unable to accept a waiting line!

Gasp in awe and surprise, as his tone does not change an inch at the discovery of betrayal!

Be amazed, seeing how he focuses on the matter at hand, on the political angles, on the strategic calculations, on what this will mean for their shared hopes for the future!

Cheer, as he endures, and no tear flickers down his cheek, for it is hardly the spot, with so many spectators whispering amidst themselves, to the other side of the table!

And cry, too, your heart moved to grief, when, in a grand display of self-control, he does not phrase the one question raging, like a forest fire, within his chest!

Were you using me, too?

[Don Nadie]

Of things that wither

"You are better suited to this", said the shinning knight.
Marching off to glory and adventure, while I smiled politely, and endured another metting.
Where, to the surprise of nobody, when idiots meet, idiocy multiplies.

Better suited? No. But someone has to do it.
And shinning knights cannot abide by stains
That is, I suppose, what us lesser men are for
(But lesser men are taken for granted)

Naelin kept badgering, even as I had expressed my distresses, as I bared my heart. I think I broke, I marched to the Priory, I requested audience. How kindly their smiles, how comforting their voice. Like water on parched lips, their kindness. I brought them over for a long conversation, endless and meandering, fittingly interrupted by the Apothar. I was exhausted.

"Nobody's sticking their neck for us", she kept saying.
Acting as though I hadn't done it a thousand times over.
"Friendship, untended, withers", I said.
"Like any flower."
(But flowers are taken for granted)

Is that so difficult, to be kind? Is it so difficult, to return love with love? To tend to those who have tended to you? To give those who are your friends, and your allies, some measure of respect and consideration? Speaking at the League's meeting it would seem, almost, as though it was my fault that I didn't come in with camel-trading, with demands for my support. It would seem as though it was my mistake, for not demanding control and power over others, but putting my trust, instead, on him. Hoping he'd do right by the Well. By me.

"You do nothing but complain", he said.
"But do not bring alternatives".
I was patient, it was not the place to scream.
And I do not have the ability to yell over Aubrey.
(But the patient are taken for granted)

Wheel above. Wheel above, it stings. It stings to see the pieces being laid out, my advice rejected. It stings to see how things are moving and how, with every move, the White League moves further away from victory. The Priestess is setting the board and they don't even see how her coalition grows, slowly, steady, while they bicker over whether to choose a screeching harpy or a seller of Dirt. And I felt tired, too tired to argue over Aubrey's constant barrage of anger and invective. Too sad, as well. I could barely look at him. Wheel above, how it stings.

"The Assembly is in the hands of Mercantilist interests", he seethed.
And yet, there he was, asking me to fundraise.
Valuing what was sold, more than what was gifted.
(But gifts are always taken for granted)

At least, I got to call Oro fat.

Small victories.

[Don Nadie]

Quests

The Clans rally, the Snakes seethe. Others dwell and await, too distracted to mind Prophecy, too eager, on return, to raise excuses and objections. The Rose leads the charge and, at the fore, the shimmering sword of our golden Aurelio.

To sing by his side: a Quest.
To aid him: a Quest.
To lend him the guile that he lacks: a Quest.

To endure his radiance, his beauty: a Quest, too.

In the Krak, fissures forms, lines are drawn. Pride, so easily wounded, clashes even among those who need each-other. Someone has to mend, someone has to tie the edges. If my pride were so easily wounded, I would get nothing done... But it is I who must endure the anger of two of the petals with a smile, and balance their scents.

To make peace: a Quest.
To juggle their prides: a Quest.
To ensure our safety: a Quest.

To endure what we must, for as long as we must: a Quest, too.

In the Well, shadows gather, a weave of lies and deception clouds the minds of the innocent. Love, they abhor; holiness, they abhor. All that they cannot graps and control, they'd destroy. So I must dance my dance, without spilling my heart.

To stand watchful: a Quest.
To weave my own path: a Quest.
To offer him aegis: a Quest.

To carry the fullness of my heart: a Quest, too. 

And for guidace, their soft voice in my ear. Their kind touch upon my cheek. Their wisdom, etched with flame and love into my heart.

"You have braved the labyrinth of secrecy."
"You move effortlessly twixt light and shadow."
"Now wading the ash, now beating your wings."

"You have won my favor, Alejandro."

[Don Nadie]

Memorials

[Some brief notes. The calligraphy is uneven, as though written with very little light.]

What is this, the eigth? The ninth?

How many memorials, until she can be buried?

One must support his brothers, regardless. This does no harm, this is what their heart tells them is right and proper and, in a way, is it not? How could I spoil their memorials, as they kneel before the statue? Even as I know the myriad ways in which it is wrong? Even Mae, who knew her so well, has turned to worship. She seethes that a once-living woman has been cast into stone, but that is literally what she does. What they all do. They have annointed her memory, her imagined, untarnished perfection.

Wheel above. I mourn her jokes and her mistakes. So often I go into the Dungeon and expect to see her at the other side of the door. I mourn her pain and her insecurities. I mourn her kindness, the way she would soothe my wounds. I mourn the way I would soothe hers, too.

But they all praise her endlessly, in absurd worship.
They cast her as the Pilgrim themself.
They repeat, again and again, the same canticle.

"She was the best of us"

I emptied my melange.
And at the bottom of the cup,
the taste was bitter.

[Don Nadie]

A Night

The darkness was fresh, so I played a new harp, while waiting.
He was late and accompanied, to my chagrin. A jannisary.
I was feeling both angry and melancholic. He was remorseful, perhaps defensive.

"Now I'm not even... Sure of where to start."
"Pick somewhere", he whispered. "It doesn't have to make sense"
A moment of thought. A melody, improvised.
"Do you still have the flower I gave you?", I asked.
(Why was that the thing I cared about the most?)
"Close to my heart"

There was a lot to discuss, to pick appart.
How does one stand for a promise of sincerity?
(Ringing, the strings, into the empty streets)
How, when one fears to have been lied to?
(The music, finding its path in the darkness)

"Most arts, my friend, if I may still call you that..."
"They have made miracles"
His eyes were closed, his brow upon the stone.
"But the art of politics produces only monsters"

What could I do, but discard the harp, and reach out?
A hand, through the empty space, towards the warmth of another skin?
What is Art, after all, if not reaching out?

"If you didn't still... Have my heart...", I admitted.
"I wouldn't be here"
(How fresh, each breath of truth, in an ever-lying city)
"But if you neglect your heart, for control"
"You will lose yourself"

And so it went. Visions shared. Mischief, too.
He didn't lie, as I feared. As others had.
Perhaps, in the darkness of such a night,
one may steal honesty,
and even some tenderness.