The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Puzzle

[This entry starts relatively normal, but quickly devolves in almost maddened notes that mix different styles of calligraphy, as though written by several hands... All of them shaky.]

"I find this garden soothing", I said.
"Much as I abhor it"

Arround us, the murmur of fountains, the rustle of leaves.
She was quiet. Steady and unmoveable.
Her smile pleasant, soft, perfectly measured.
I found it somehow unnerving, now, as I spoke.
Of rhymes, of riddles, of portents:

I can't escape.
I won't escape.
I've forgotten who I am.
There's no running from fate. 

"What is it you seek of us, in this regard?", she asked.
I swallowed. Was I panicking?
Was this, returning to them, a self-harming reflex?
Like scratching the back of my hand, when I'd like to take mizzar?
"...Anything?", I admitted.
It was so far beyond my expertise, finding words in my lips.
Visions and prophecy, was that not their domain?

The garden bloomed arround us.
Narcotic, the stink of its flowers.
So pleasant and beautiful and kind, the blooms.
So walled and exclusive and selfish, the place.
What worminger would be welcome, here?

"Don't turn to look now", she said.
"But there's a beautiful sunset rippening behind you"
She was smiling vaguely, her eyes set on mine.
My own eyes, avoiding her.
"I have seen you, Alejandro", she whispered.

She whispered, in the tone of Visions.
Green hills, soft evenings, blooming stars.
So painfully familiar

"A hand lazily rested over the edge of the boat", she described.
"Fingers trailing in the star-mirror of the water."
A tear ran down her cheek.
(Joy? Bliss? Exstasis?)
(I felt I was out of breath, for but a moment)
"But your image is... Hazy", she added.

I found myself looking into her eyes, as Pra'raj left the skies.
Wells, they were. Of Wisdom, and Hope, and Prophecy.
Wells, to sate my thirst, or to drown into.
(Even now, I thirst, desperately, for Prophecy)
(Or, perhaps, for a chance to drown)

"You once called me hedgeknight", I responded, tersely.
I felt defensive, tense and eager.
(Like every time I smell, in the air, the sweet smoke of mizzar)
"Here I am, on the hedge. No more cloaks or orders"

Her eyes welled up, glistening with such calm delight.
Above us, the stars, blooming slowly.

"Oh, how beautiful you are at this moment...", she whispered.
(And it took effort, to not take a step back)
"Perhaps this was meant to be?", she added.
"Perhaps we were meant to hurt one-another"

I felt the coldness of the evening wind.
(Or of something else. Of something else altogether)
I crossed my arms, for warmth, for refuge.

"It is cowardly to blame Fate for your mistakes", I said, pointedly.
Her own expression was pensive.
"I am no doubt a coward", she admitted.
"But it is not cowardice, but hope, that makes me say so"

I was choking with what I wanted to say. Choking.
I wanted to say that I was angry.
That it was her fault and not her fault.
To reach out, as Art does, to tell her that-
-about the last drop and yet the betrayal-
-tell her something but I saw her like -  distilled she was upon the garden as the night set above us -
-she was glistening, the tear in her eyes - "This puzzle, Alejandro, is one that you must solve without my help" -the joy in her tears were - "The voices?", I asked. My voice was not entirely there because I -they were glistening and transforming they were somehow being more than they - "No", she responded, simply. -they Were wisdom blooming they were the stars and in between the stars was - like the notes of a song you've forgotten, ringing in dreams I - "The puzzle of your confusion, of your pain" -she was blooming glowing glistening shimmmering vanishing - following on my mentor's step, on the threshold between Madness and Revelation, entwinned, like - "The riddle of what I am to you. I could see the contours of her shape changing - I could see it, her abaya glistening with light her skin glistening with light her eyes glistening with light - A mirror, she described a mirror of still waters, the world.  She was there but I saw something different I- -  could see it is, clear and bright and certain - Revelation! Revelation! A shiver down my spine in fear and wroth and dread and Revelation - Light, she was pure light and I - and I had doubted her but - And upon the mirror, reflected, the stars, the thoughts of the Truth - Light and Revelation, on the shores of her lips, on the boundary of her skin, on the tip of her tongue and the edge of her fingertips - Darkness the world arround her the garden arround her myself darkness darkness darkness between the stars - And upon the waters us all, mankind, shipwrecked and lost  where lays the limit between Madness and Revelation? -  Is there no running from Fate?

"But we may yet find our way home"
So said the Light, pointedly.
"If we learn to see clearly"

And then,
the Light walked away
and I was left, alone, in the Garden.

[Don Nadie]

Knives

Atop the Pyramid, once more. With dread, but I followed.
The moon, shining above, brightly.

"How are you feeling?", I asked.
"Better"
"If you are not", I repeated, "there's always the boat"
"Not yet", he said.
"No", I echoed. Too many things to do. "Not yet".

Above us, the stars, twirling.
Drafting Fate, drafting their intrigues.
Whirling, death and horror following in their wake.
And between the stars, her. Them.
(By Their hand may we be veiled)

"I feel something is coming, this Ides", he said.
"I've received portents. Dreams"

I swallowed, moved closer.
(The nights in the Well can be cold.)
(The wind, this high, can be freezing)

"I have, too", I admitted.

Visions behind my eyes, prophecy upon my lips.
There's no running from Fate, no running.

"Something is coming", he insisted.
"Something bad will happen, I know it"

My hand was on my rapier, my eyes on the city below us.

"Something bad, perhaps, but we'll endure", I promised.

He smiled softly. Relieved, perhaps?
(A vice, these promises I can't keep)

    And them, some reports. Diplomacy, mostly.
                                           Seeing his pettiness, once more. Such a delightful idiot.

          And then I said goodbye to him, left him there, beautiful and above.
           His toga, like the moon, gleaming in silver.     
                                                And I felt, as I turned, the certainty:     
                                      He would be stabbed in the back.
    The question was whether I would end up holding a knife.                              And how to ensure he'd survive the wound.

[Don Nadie]

The Feast of B'aara

Merriment, and joy, and friends, and Art!
Are those not the things that water the soul?
The thing thats heal it?

"It's been long since we spoke", she said.
On her lips, poetry and verse (the best of our poets)
"Let us talk, after this"

(Right behind the edge of vision, the rest of them)
(And I, doing my best to dodge them, too)
A Tale to tell. A little, joyful Tale!
For do we not have enough sadness?

"Littlest of the Wheel?", she quoted, amusedly.
"Maybe I should smack you for blaspehmy, Alejandro"

(A few, bothered for the blasphemy. Good. That's why I made the Tale like that!)
Smiles all arround, and applause.
What joy, there is, in smile and applause.
When one stands on the stage and for a moment, for a moment.
Everything is under control and solid and real and within grasp.
(And a moment is forever)

"You were shining up there, my friend", he said, his face scarred.
Scarred and beautiful. His cheeks flushed with joy.
"Your lips have been so grey, for so long", he whispered.

He put, in my hands, a decanter.
So familiar its weight, its scent.
I felt longing. Such longing, for it. Such dread, too, as the words echoed.
                       "There's no running from Fate"

"I'm not sure I deserve it anymore...", I whispered.
"Today, we celebrate", he replied. "So bring some color to your smile, Alejandro"
(I could not find it in myself to refuse it)
(I could not find it in myself to Drink it there, either)

Then he arrived too, beautiful as ever, and I tensed.
Mostly, the fear of hidden knives.
But nothing happened, nothing happened.
Just cheer, and a bit of tension, and awkwardly avoiding Alois.
The heron flying upon our flag.
The descend into the Well, his voice, reciting.
(In the darkness, I heard it, a mechanism. I knew it)

"Tears gathered here
in our Well they rest
to honor dear
our great sacrifice."

And the Miracle of the Waters.
(I was awed, yes. Awed)                                          (By the miracle, yes. But even more by the words)

                            entwine with words,
          (For words                                 like lovers)

                                                            (An many things become known, that would otherwise not be)

[Don Nadie]

The Knight of Blooms

Once, there was a secret place..
And in that secret place, there were countless flowers.
There were ancient secrets, and books.
There were whispering shadows and echoes.
There was a fountain.

"Wash your hands", he instructed, "The waters are clean"
"Like it washes away all sin", she whispered, in awe.
And I obeyed, not without hesitation.
(Waters so pure, one shouldn't stain)

And from the waters of that fountain bloomed the flower Pure.
And the fruit of Kindness, ripe for feasting.
And the thorns of Truth, sharpened for the fight.

The water felt so fresh, my hands felt so clean.
For a moment, I felt such peace.
Under the shadow of those branches.
(And a moment is forever).

And so it was that she kneeled.
And felt, in the rumor of the waters, ancient words.
Echoing softly, whispering endlessly.

(A story doesn't end, Beloved of Flowers)
(In secret places, echoes retell it)
(Gardens of Saints, Blooms of the Holy, Vows of Flowers Pure)
(Such it is, the way to Bel-Ishun)

        And in her heart, an oath took root.
                   And from it bloomed, in her hands:

                                  A cloak of grass.     
                                                                              A plate of ivy.
                                                 A helmet of emerald leaves..
(And in my heart bloomed, too, true and thornful).
    (The joy for her worthiness)                      (The awe of her beauty)

                           (The green bitterness of my envy)

[Don Nadie]

Dodgy

[A word has been written with great, careful deliveration, followed by the rest of the entry]   

D O D G Y

My first word at that efuudle thing.

I feel a little insulted. Part of me can't avoid seeing this random production of words and feeling, intuitively, that it is prophetic somehow. That it must be inhabited by Fate, which speaks through the simple glyphs. For does Fate often not disguise itself in game and happenstance? Does riddle often not hide dreams dreamt long before our time? Does not often the random word, picked without thought, hold, in truth, the secrets of the Future written deep into the fabric of the Stars? Oh, Efoodle! Were that your mysteries were more clear! Were that the Fate hidden in the turning of your gears was as evident as my own handwriting!

And is "Dodgy" not a word of something I am? Agile to step out of danger, yes, and also unreliable, full of hidden things and hidden feelings. Someone who should not be trusted, maybe. Am I not trustworthy? Is Fate, through the means of this simple game of Baz'eeli origin... Telling me that I am, in fact, unreliable? That I do not deserve the trust some people put in me? That I can and will and may have betrayed every single one of them? Is that what the cruel Stars are telling me, reminding me? And if so, why? A cruel joke, for I cannot change? Or an opportunity, so that I may be better?

Then again, Jamileh got "Salsa".

[Don Nadie]

The Rider

The day, the day had been long. Long battles, long delves.
Then, his death.

"I regret nothing", he had said, last we spoke.
Prideful, onto the end. I would assume.
Pridefully, he duelled to death.

(What a trap, what a stupid choice)
(It was a duel to the death only for one of them)

"It was cruel", said the Swordsman, his closest.
(His closest what? Friend? Is there such a thing for them?)
"There's greatness, in such cruelty".

I felt, when I learnt of it, an emptiness. A sadness.
How unnecesary, all of it was. How deadly, too.
I couldn't be sad for him, I couldn't.
(I couldn't not care, either)

"Is this a wake for that dead fool?", asked the Sergeant.
"Or do we gather to kill the orcan?"
Boops looked a bit conflicted. A bit saddened.
"Both", she said.

So we broke his axe, so we broke the orcan fortress.
For him, in his memory, I suppose. With him, in spirit, I suppose.
(There's a great sadness, in the breaking of things)
And as we left, I was amongst the last, I saw him.
Atop a mountain, on his horse.

"Thank you", he said, a smirk on his lips.
"You've all been very helpful"

I spit, on the ground, I felt angry.
(At him, yes, but also at others like him)
(At Mirielle, in our League like he was: for self-interest)
(The cause of the People, a veil for intrigue and selfishness)

"Your time will come too, Diakos!", I yelled, to the man above.
Far out of reach. For now, far out of reach.
"Not yet", he responded, undaunted.

(Like Domhnall had. Like I had)
                                                  (Not yet for anyone, I suppose)
I glared at him and I raised it.
Proud, the badge of the League, of the Lillies.
Blooming brighter. After him.
(Or so I hope, at least)

[Don Nadie]

The Lever

Once, in a dark and hidden place, there was a lever.
All one had to do was pull it.
And everyone would die, so the world could be born anew.

"I could give you my answer"
"But anything I say will be a lie", I admitted.
I felt impious, in my admission, but this was hardly the place to lie.
Or the people to lie to. Behind us, the depths.
(The deep, deep cries of agony in the darkness.)

By letting things stand, a long agony.
And by pulling the lever, a verdant garden, watered with blood.
Through this beaker, sacrifice, transformed.

"Until I am there", I said solemnly, opening the gate.
"Until I hold it, until I have to make a decision"
"I can't know whether I'll choose right"

And so it was that the lever stood.
Awaiting the arrival of a hand.
Awaiting, in the darkness, as the ash blew.
And the centuries passed.
And statues were ground to dust, their names forgotten.

"This one thinks Alejandro is the unhappiest man in the Well"
His eyes, unblinking. Orbs of stone without expression.
"Thinks too much", he clarified.
He paused. Was that something tender, playful, in his mouth?
"Surprising that he does", he added, "since he's Alejandro".

And one day, the lever was found.
And there was a hand, who reached out, to it.
(And is that not the purpose of Art?)
(To reach out?)

[Don Nadie]

Three Poems

[Three poems, scattered arround the page.]

                                                       Of the sky and ground. Of light and cast shadow.
                                                      Of the sun and sister stars; Wing'd, soaring, river snakes below.
                                                      Reed and brush, and silver-armoured fish there swimming.
                                                            -H. P.

"My poem"

Above me, shining firmament.
Star-speckled endless sky, beyond all beyonds.
Below me, Earth churns and rusted gears grind the world's beating heart.
Silent hope sleeps in sand.
      -Z. N.

"This one felt the need to share a poem, too"

                           The quiet stone is not judging, the wind cares not for its message.
                           Murmurs echo in the canyons, asking: "Why did you leave, why did you leave."
                           In the eye of the storm, every promise is drawn in ash.
                                 -A. B.

"What's that?", she asked.
"Just a poem"
"Yours?"
I smiled.
"Maybe", I said, simply.

[Don Nadie]

An Answer

In their Hall, we were chatting calmly.
Complaining, perhaps, about discussions I was no longer party to.
Agreements being drafted, abusive agreements.
Much to my outrage. How could they ask that?
Like a bully, waving her sword.
Demanding and taking, and pretending its a kindness..

"Maybe Alejandro has not understood the concept of faction", he said.
"It is not about nurturing first"
"It is about the Balladeers and the Rose first"

I protested. I spoke of how I had understood it.
Nurturing, growing, encouraging, inspiring.
Keeping bright the flames of hope, and greatness.
I protested, once more, about the College.
Being not the cloaks or the trappings, but the heart.

"How quickly did Alejandro get promotion?", he asked, plainly.
"Perhaps, there is your answer".

I winced. After all this time, still bitter.
I've seen Students graduate for a brawl, for a comment, for naught.
(Why does this pettiness stab me still, when I'm gone?)
(Why do I need, so desperately, adoration?)

"Took me longer than any other Student", I admitted.
He leaned on his cane, wearily.
(I've seen Formorian relics which felt less ancient than him)
"Those that claw and fight and gain, they are the ones that climb."
(He looked so sad, so deeply, deeply sad)
"Nobody has ever climbed a tall mountain without standing on others"

Days later, in the College, I was guiding someone.
Showing a new refugee his way, the place he sought.
(What hesitation, I felt, opening the doors and saying hello)
(How I dreaded, the possibility of Alois emerging)
(How I miss the Garden)

"I used to be a Balladeer", I admitted.

Jacques was so focused on his book.
So deliberately concentrated, as we spoke.
And I vaguely avoided answering why I quit.
(As though I could answer it, at all)

"I understand", the man said, sternly.
"You lost your way"

(Can a way be lost if a way was never there?)
                        (That's what I thought, but did not say.)
     (Perhaps because I didn't have it in my, to break this man's rosy image of our Order)
                 (Perhaps because I'm a coward, and a liar)
         I lit my cigarette.                            I smiled, noncomittal.
                                    Yes, no, both, neither.

An answer, made of smoke.

[Don Nadie]

Doublesong

"Doublesong"?, I asked.
An odd thing, I felt, to be called.

"Sing one song", it said.
(On its lips, the mildest, saddest smile)
"and mean another"

The scent of roses in the air.
The smell of wine, and drunkards.
And the noise of drunkards, too.

"Songs of joy and songs of sadness", it added.
"and sometimes, not sure which is which".

Hardly, I felt the space for revelations.

Then again, Revelation does not care for our comfort.

[Don Nadie]

The Teller

[A little poem has been pressed onto the pages of this entry. It is signed by Sister Amélie, dated Subat 24th, IY 7787]

A teller worthy, teller worn;
And here, though innocence is shorn;
But still his eyes alight with joy;
To see the wonders of his ploy.

That we the servants of the Well;
Should laugh with him in growing swell;
And rise to see beyond the pains;
That live, we may, to Garden's gains.

Her poem was a gift, above the battlements.
A poem, for me, by the most talented versifier of the Well.
A poem about me, too. Or about her impression of me.
Flattering, regardless.
("Flattering and blind", says something within)

"May I ask what transpired?", she said.
"If it pains you, you needn't speak on it", she rushed to add.

It pained me, of course, but I talked.
(An old friend deserves as much.)
As sunset bloomed before us, as it bled over the sky.
As the sky was tinted with the black between the stars.

"It was an accumulation, a concatenation"
"An erosion of the soul"

Every detail, in its confusing timelessness.
Petty, big, small, boundless and tiny, everything.
The tangle of months of service, laid bare and just as confusing.
What made me unworthy. The unworthiness of it all.

"The Cinquefoil cloak is the symbol of the Quest", she insisted.
"remember that mortal folly shall never efface that holy work"

For a moment, I remained quiet, gazing at the stars.
For a moment, maybe, I believed her.
Believed her trust, and her faith, and her faith in me.
Then the moment passed, it passed and I was left remembering.

"If I had stayed", I whispered, almost choking
"I would've drowned"

(But isn't a moment forever?)

"I feel inspired now", she had said, my latest patron.
(I overheard her, talking, just after I told my Tale)
"Alejandro does that to people, I suppose".

(And I smiled, and passed, and I feigned not hearing)
(My heart welling with, what? Pride? Joy? Exaltation?)

(What ilusions we weave,
                      and what joy, in those ilusions)
(What hope in those lies)
(What lie in that hope)

"That is why I wrote those verses for you", she said, over the battlements.
"You encourage the Well to lift its gaze, and look to the horizon"

I remain, I suppose.
Cloakless, hedgeknight, regardless.
I remain what I always was.

[Don Nadie]

Judgement

I should've run.
    A man, dead, because I didn't run.

"We saw Aaisha not twenty minutes ago", one said.
The Bellows ringing fresh, call for a Magistrate.
"Please, Alejandro stay", said another.
Our meeting seemed more important, so I stayed.

      I should've run.
Now, a child is dead.

                                 No amount of rioting, no amount of scandal, or complaints.
              No angry screaming on Bellows or Assembly, no testimony.
                                    No resignations, no guilt or innocence can change the fact:

I should've run,
           because death is forever. 

[Don Nadie]

Petitions

Once, there were three knights.
The first had a sharp blade.
The second had a fast horse.
The third, had a beautiful shield.
And all three wished to slay a dragon.
But before they set off, each came to the temple.
And sought a blessing, as one does.

"Alejandro, might you sign my petition?"
He was the third to ask, right after the lions had their meal.
Khalid, pure hearted, how could I hesitate?
Aubrey, our best and most desperate chance, how could I fail to do it?
(How, when she agreed to my requests?)
And him? Part of me recoiled at the idea.
At him, two more months, in a Legate's toga. Forced to make a Legate's choices.

And the priest smiled kindly.
For they knew the shield would melt, the horse would falter.
They knew even the sword might break.
For few can pierce the heart of a dragon.

"I will", I agreed.
(How could I not?)
(How, even though he had no chance of winning?)
"But I want you to consider", I added, the stink of blood in the air.
"whether you'd be happier elsewhere"

And thus, a blessing was given.
So the knights rode off, with singing hearts.
Towards their defeat.
For even when the dragon is laid low,
    killing a dragon does not remove the monsters.

       (One way or another, he's likely to lose...                       (One way or another, it matters not, it matters not)
                              And I'll be, in a way, relieved.)
                                                                                                 (The Pyramid, the Elections, traps)
                                                                  (Mirages, to lead ideals into their death)
                         (But what else is there?)
                                                                                              (And what good can be found, in an illusion?)

[Don Nadie]

The Firmament

He wanted answers, clear answers, definitive answers.
He took my arm, led me back to the College.
He wanted to know, his eyes shimmering with idealism.
(An idealism I know too well)
(I had been, it seems, suitably inspiring)
(I had poisoned this man, when we first spoke and I was still a Rose, perhaps.)
(Set him off to be dissapointed, like I was, perhaps)

"Why leave?"
That was his singular, pointed question.

I smiled, I danced arround the matter.
For it is not something one can explain, without laying bare all one is.
And perhaps staining that beautiful idealism
                                                                      with dissapointment.
But I did try to be honest, too.

"At some point, one might feel hypocritical", I whispered quietly.
(Jacques was so close, and I didn't want to hurt his feelings)
"Small things which erode the soul"
"And at some point, I didn't have the faith to stay"

He was undeterred, his eyes on me.
Piercing eyes, beautiful eyes, dedicated eyes.
(Did my own eyes shine like this, when I wanted to join so badly?)

"Aspiring heroes come and go", he declared.
"Like stars in the sky they blink to life."
"Roar with fire."
"And dim..."

He paused, dramatic.
(Such an excellent pause, for his metaphor to sink in)
(A much better sense for pacing, I feel, than many Balladeers)

"You were the firmament", he declared.
"The canvas upon which they painted their ambitions"
"Growing more and more characterful", he insisted, his tone so earnest,
"for each splash of paint upon your surface"
He called me firmament, canvas soil, castellan, majordomo.
His insistence, his faith, was that I nurtured would-be heroes.
He wanted me reinstated.

And through his speech I smiled, I tensed, I-
                               -I do not know, exactly, how I felt.
Honored and humilliated, at once. What a bitter combination.
                                                                 (I was the firmament, the canvas?)
                                                                (Not by choice.
                                                                                  I, too, wanted to be a shining star)

"A very poetic way of putting it, perhaps", I said, noncomittal.
"Do you feel the weight of the words, though?", he insisted.
"This place - it is not the same without you"
I smiled. Melancholy, tenderness, all.
I was also not the same, without this place.

From elsewhere I heard the notes, ringing beautifully.
The exclamations of Alois, praising his reflection in rhyme.
I smelled the paints, too. Wondered what new landscapes there were, what vistas.
And the roses, stronger than anything: their color, their scent.

                                              (I missed this place so badly)                                             
                                              (Like I miss the Drink, like I miss mizzar)
(Every single day, I miss it)                       
                                                                                  (I miss it, even if its bad for me)                                                                         
                                                                                            (I miss it, because it's bad for me)

                                                                     

[Don Nadie]

ProphecyNonsense

[This entry is written with uneven, unsteady letters, as though done in the darkness.]

In the threshold of Revelation
                                           things will become known that would otherwise not be.

                    And though the path is treacherous, the path is open.

(¡There will be Truth!)
(¡On the lips, there will be Truth!)                         

Deep is the ruin, for it climbs towards Heavens below.

Clear is the song, for it holds at bay
                                      the death that comes                          the death that is
                                                              and goes          and goes,         always   
                                                                       and comes                       back.

(¡There will be blood!)                                                           
(¡On the stone, there will be blood!)                                         

Verdant is the garden, sharp is the axe.
                                                                                   But in the twists and turns things become possible, are possible.
What was broken cannot be fixed,
                                                    and what was broken, will break again.                          Fixed in Time. Fixed in Art. Fixed in Nature.

(¡There will be Truth!)                                                                                         
(¡Drink the Truth and pierce deeply, know further!)                         

A thousand arrows and then a thousand more.                                by a thousand arrows.
                                                       Pierced, the flesh-that-is-not-flesh,
                                                                                         A Garden, awaiting.
The echo of an arrow pierces just as deeply, so ware the heart

(¡Kiss, with bloodied lips, the letter!)     
(¡There will be blood!)                                                           

¡αλέθεια       Ε ρ ο ύ γ κ ι       μυστήριο!
¡μυστήριο       Σ ε ύ k ε ι ρ ρ υ ς       αλέθεια!

(¡There will be blood! ¡There will be Truth!)
(¡And they will be entwinned!)
(¡Like lovers!)

[A later note, written with the usual, if a bit shakey, hand of Alejandro]

What the...