The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Off I go

I was angry. At him.

Then she took our her blade, she threatened him. It was lightning, the way my jaw tensed, how my hand reached for the pommel of my sword, my feet moving, subtly but decisively, to battle-dancing steps. I felt inmediately like bowstring: it'd take but the flicker of  a finger, and off I'd go, at full speed.

And I realized I was ready to die for him, regardless of all else.
Because I am, evidently, an idiot.

So off I went, with Steve Odjamer, dutiful scribe.
Off to see the ancient Valley of Wisdom.

"I was here once, during the Congress"
"You were not a Scribe yet, were you?"

He shook his head. The wind rushed through the Valley.
Arround us the ancient glyphs of Izdu's wisdom.

"Simpler times...", I pondered.

His tone was contained. Sometimes I envy that, of him.

"We just didn't understand the underlying complexity, I fear".

I glanced at the runes. What I have called the Exhortation of Wonder.
My favourite. In the bitting of the storm, effort.
And from effort, Beauty.

"We were a bit too innocent, maybe", I whispered, "Both of us"

He nodded. I couldn't quite read his expression.

"Enough with...", I paused, a sigh.
"Promises, and idealism, and blind hope"

Off we went, Steve and I, to sit by the Barrier of Ur-Shulgi. To speak of eels, and cowardice, and bravery. Of trials and murderers, and what it takes to be good. For it takes so, so much to be good. And yet it is so, so simple.
And arround us, running, whirling.
Ancient winds, carrying the echoes of ancient words.
And the scents of distant flowers.

"I'm not a good person", he said.
"I'm sorry if I've led you to believe that I am"

I exhaled. What is it, with people?
Why do they feel such cynic pride, wallowing in their unworthiness?
When they could be so, so much more...

"I wish I could believe you", I responded.
"Would make things easier"

I reached out, took his hand on mine.
(What is the purpose of Art, if not to reach out?)

"Imagination, though", I smiled, squeezing tenderly.

A poet cannot fail to imagine, it appears.
To imagine, for others, too.

We went on talking, Steve and I. We spoke further of goodness, of options, of fairness. I told him, too. What I really needed to tell him. What would happen soon. What could happen soon.

"It will be dangerous", I said.
"I will be going", I said.

He closed his eyes.
I wished, there and then, that he was transparent.
That I could see what he felt, like Revelation.

"I can't tell you not to", he said. Did he want to?
"I am", I admitted, "unlikely to listen"
"You had to repay me for my lack of listening, at some point"

                        So a surprised was promised.
                                               And I do love himsurprises.
                                Almost as much as I hate li

[Don Nadie]

Her Smile

He was a giant, yet he could feel tender.
(Or perhaps, I imagined he could)
He was a giant, and he answered, kindly, a hypothetical.
Just in case we were dead, tomorrow.

"I cannot imagine anything that'd make a Sister lose her smile", he said.
"I haven't seen it, either"

                                           I shook, then.
                                      Horrid, luminous, burning.

R E V E L A T I O N

[Don Nadie]

Lighting the Way

Once, there was an island kingdom.
There were matters of blood and matters of freedom.
A king, to be saved.
First, infiltration and disguise. Acting.
Then, violence and battle and resilience. Acting, too.
(And at some point, before, horrors. Best unknown)

"We are concerned, Alejandro", the Chief Scribe said.
"Are you sure you're not coming because you want to die?"
I smiled, I lied between my teeth. How one lies for fans!
(Or I didn't lie, I suppose. I am, after all, uncertain)
(And I have a surprise to come back to)
(Jamileh to come back to)
"A Storyteller must witness good Tales", I said.

And so the brave champions reached for the fire.
The mark of ancient lineage.
And it lit brightly, so brightly!
That the People of the island rejoiced.
For their fair prince was back, and crowned.

"It is as it is", I whispered, as I smoked.

Corpses all arround me, the mad cackles of Osirion X ringing.
The light, the bright Heliograph so beautiful.
The screams in the streets, so horrid.
And I wished I could be smoke, and fade into the air.

Alas, the envious dragon charged, in anger.
(For a dragon knows only violence, and envy)
And not even the King's kind heart could stand, alone.
So heroes, bright and shining, stepped in.
And cut, with their blades, the beast

A beast of metal, half-melted, and flesh.
A battle. My life, on the thinnest edge.
Fate and happenstance, conspiring, to my surprise.
To my surprise, a cigarette afterwards. Still breathing.
Boucher dead. Fauchard dead. Kayo dead.
Better men, I suspect.

"It is as it is", I whispered, as I smoked.

And once defeated, all was well.
And the King reigned with wisdom and kindness.
And the People knew peace, prosperity and love.
And everything was perfect, forever.

For him, they died for him.
Their bodies thrown to the sea. A dirge, improvised.
My guitar, ringing with the waves.
For him, they died for that blood-soaked madman.

Crowns are, sadly, better than a heart of clockwork.

[Don Nadie]

Her Smile, Remaining

I spoke with her. Atop the Krak.
Beneath us, the sleeping city.
The fresh wind of the evening, the silence.
At this hour, it almost seemed peaceful.

                 (His absence, up here, where we smoked)
                  (His absence, enormous. More painful than I expected)
                                           (The taste of his brow, when I kissed it)
            (The sour taste of his death, on my lips, I felt it)
                                                       (And I wondered how odly the heart moves)
                        (What strange flowers grow in its crevices)

I posed to her his story.
His riddle, for morals.

"What do you do, then?", I asked.

The fresh evening wind ruffled her abaya, my cloak.

"Do you kill the few, for the many?"

And we spoke, at length.
Of the choices one makes, and one's companions.
Of what she did, and what she didn't.
And I was, perhaps impiously, honest.

"To witness Villany and do nothing to stop it", I said.
"Is Villany, in itself"

Her smile, remaining.

[Don Nadie]

Red

A meeting, in the Dungeon.
Before us, the roses. Their scent.

"You have not been faithful", she said.

He expression unchanging, my hand in hers.
She knew about Sister Selsi. About what I asked.
About what I said. "Villany", I said.

"You should know that Sister Selsi is pure of heart, of mind, and of body"
"As I am. As all Sisters are.", her eyes, set on mine.
"You know this already"

The scent of the roses drowned the room, as did the depth of her expression.
(Why did I felt so overwhelmed)

"Your doubts, Alejandro, are poison"
"And the greatest knights fall to their own doubts"

Breathing, caught in my lungs.
(Her dissapointment, the feeling that I had failed her.)
(Why did it feel as though I was drowning?)

"You have been eschewing the Drink", she said.
"But you will Drink of it now"

Her voice, a sentence.

"It is Kanön Hray, when doors are open.
And you will open your mind to the truth"

So I Drank in my Cup, till my Cup was empty and-
                                                                     The sky the roses the roof wasiswillbe red                  The heavens werearewillbe red with laughter                   Red the perfect friendships, the loves all gone all together                       The shores, the shores, the waves, they camecomewillcome and they wentgowillgo in heavenly perfect red                Oh, how the red trees screamedscreamwillscream their red joy in red music!           MamaJustinJamilehSnorriLeiahDomhnallKayoCanelitaLynnethaMariPirouBoucherAmelieMari all with bright red smiles and embracing me embracing time!             Oh, how time wasiswillbe not a burden but a joy! Time!              Woven arround the etchings of the self!         Timetimetime!              Forever more time forever more perfect forever more beauty forever more love forever more pleasure forever and-

-and time was back.               

No longer melded, the present, the past, the future.

      And she was there.                     

                And her lips were on mine.                   

           And she was kissing me.         

[Don Nadie]

[A scratched page]

[This page has been written with almost invisible ink. The page has also been scratched.]

(I did not knew how to feel about that not sure I want to think about that am I allowed to think about that it's unpleasant to think about that)
(She said their actions are inscrutable she said their actions are just she said their actions are pure)
(Love she said she said their actions are pure love she smiled she laughed she was happy about it)
(So it was pure and it was just and it was love)
(And I'm sure it was fine but there's a weakness maybe a weakness)
(A weakness that says it was wrong)

[Don Nadie]

Dakhwar for Her

One moment you've forgotten, the next, Fate shows up.
A walk under the moonlight. To a place. Any place.
(The "where" was not important, what mattered was to be)
(The "who" was not important, what mattered was to be)
        And waiting.
                  Waiting.     
 
                               Waiting
                     Waiting
          Waiting
       
            Waiting
                 Waiting
                   
                  Waiting
                           Waiting
                                   
                                     and then,
                                                 from above
 
                                                          It was there

                                                                       Dancing
                                                                   in
                                                                   the
                                                                  air
                                                            Des
                                                       cen
                                                   ding

                                             The last piece.

I held my breath as the pieces were put together. So long had I waited for this, worked for this, aimed to this. She looked at the result, she smiled to herself, she glanced west. "We have a long journey ahead of us", she said, simply. And she started walking. Into the night, as though we were in a dream. The moon lit our steps, the stars glimmered. Between them, absences, feelings, things best unmentioned and unexamined. Her, between them, smiling so wide. Under this vague, tenuous light, I could almost hear Fate whispering, I could almost hear her whispering. And then we climbed a dune.

There it was. Held aloft by Fate alone, and moonlight.

Within it, silence. Empty, abandoned halls. An Abbey? It could've been beautiful, perhaps, but it was also eerie. I felt such strange, empty unease. But also, there, at the end, on a dais, on an altar. There it was. Golden, bejeweled, beautiful: the Cup. The Cup of the Tonsure. She walked towards it and I walked right behind her, my sword unsheathed, her hedgeknight. I could feel the beating of my heart, the blood, red and swift and perfect. I knew with absolute certainty the way my heart and my blood and my blade had been part of Fate, had been part of this moment.

Her hand reached for it.
She grasped it.
I felt awe, and love, boundless.
My heart echoing, echoing.
heart, DQWR, DQWR, heart
Echoing the beat, echoing the moment

And then she turned and I saw her expression. An angel and a saint and a goddess, I felt it.

(But I felt, also, a tinge of oddness, a stain of confusion, a pang of uncertainty, of unease, of concern. Something about her expression, something reminded me that. The moment before. The moment so shortly before, and it was stupid that I felt that way, and it was of course nothing, and my heart, my cracked, stupid heart, was making a mountain of an anthill, but I felt it.)

And I began to notice, then. The echoes of dead histories painted on stained glass. The Hanged Rose. Lynneth the Pilgrim. Snorri Victorious. So many dead ends that could've and never would, echoing, echoing in the dust. The names of possible futures on long-abandoned books. Friends and their deaths and their loss. So many, so many. There was a strange voice, echoing.   

"MASTER", it said.
And much, besides.

We left. We carried the Cup. Behind us, the tower burned and crashed and toppled, as though only the Cup within had held it alooft.

"Histories that weren't", said a Sister, "now Ash in turn"
"We are done here", said another.
"The die is cast", said the last.

And thus, we returned.

[Don Nadie]

Weird

"You're acting weird", she said.

We were in my office, messy as always.

"You've been acting weird since yesterday"

Papers everywhere, and notes, and unknowns, and knowledge.
And loneliness, and my desk.
And a flower on my desk.

(I thought of him, for a moment, of his gift)
(Gone on pilgrimage, elsewhere, gone, perhaps, forever)
(Then I pushed the thought away, as one does)

"It's fine", I said.
"A long day", I said.
"Weird thing, to find a Cup"
"To finish something difficult, to be right", I said.

She glared at me, from behind her glasses.
I think yesterday I had been happy, or a little happy.
Or distracted, perhaps. But sleeping had felt odd.

"What did Nebtu tell you about the Cup?", she asked.

I tensed, and she saw it.

(I knew I shouldn't have tensed)
(I knew it was fine, it was silly, I knew it was nothing)

She saw it, and she was worried.

"You can tell me, Alejandro", she insisted.

And I swallowed, and I looked away.

"It's nothing", I said, "It's silly"

Her eyes were on me. Insistent, concerned.
Sincere, her concern, her sterness.
The stubborn way she was worried, and wouldn't let it be.
(The strange shape of her love, self-evident)
So I thought about telling her.

(Because surely it was nothing and nothing at all)
(And she'd tell me it was nothing and all would be well)

I began to tell her and-

"SAY NOTHING", It(?) said.
And much else, besides.

(Why would I need to tell her, when it was so very silly)
(So very stupid, so unimportant, and I was just)
(Just confused, because I had not wanted it, but maybe I did?)
(Maybe I said something that made her think I wanted it?)
(Was it, maybe, probably, my mistake?)

I tensed, I lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
I knew not what to think, what to do.
I knew not how I felt, what it was right to feel.

(She probably didn't  mean anything by that)
(I just couldn't shake the embarrassment, the confusion, the-)
(The sense that something had happend at me, not with me)

"You can tell me anything", she said.

She was patient, and real, and there.

(The sense that I hadn't done that in so long and this was)
(This was something I hadn't wanted)

One should listen to the heart, above all else.
Not to voices in his head.

(She's now between the stars, but I remember what she taught me)

[Don Nadie]

Petty

Were that people were not petty. Were that their skins were not thin. Were that they didn't remember silly insults and small misscommunications and were, instead, understanding and collected. Were that they could bite their tongue and respond to insult not with insult, but ironic indifference. Were they they could stop escalating always escalating, losing time and effort and money and energy. Making one lose the will to live as he hears their babbling babbling babbling over nonsense nobody should care about and nobody will care about, in a week.

                                (Insane)       
           (Irritating, infuriating)          (The screams, I still hear them)           
   (I still have the taste of his death on my lips)         
       (I wake with the taste of his death on my lips)       (and screaming, I wake screaming)           

Were that I could be as prideful and as much of a crybaby and as offended for literally everything. I would get nothing done, if I was so easily offended. I would spend my days being offended, I would spend my time angrily writing letters and demanding respect and demanding my feelings be acknowledged. Instead of doing things, instead of getting things done. People need hobbies, other than polishing their pride.

             (And to return from that, to my surprise)
    (To live still, to my surprise)         (And hear arguments, idiotic, over the term "knight")         (Over "keys" and "credit for discoveries")
             (Over not being involved, specifically and individually)                   (When Fate comes calling, by surprise)         
(Wheel's sake, people can't bear that we're all insignificant)                 (And our egos do not matter to the Stars)               
(I can't deal with this pettiness, not without mizzar)            (Not without something stronger than mizzar)       

Perhaps I have to thank the Banda.

For all their bullshit, they have certainly taught me that a performer necessitates a thick skin.

[Don Nadie]

The Dove

[A series of scattered notes, written without much light, probably in the middle of the night. Many of them are difficult to decypher, or scratched out]

I find myself returning to one of my oldest poems.               One of the first I hid.                       
                                          Why did I even write it? Why did I even put it there, of all places?                 
                  Did I think it amusing, to set up a poem about singing and birds in that, of all places?

     Past-Alejandro had a weird sense of humor. Present one probably does, too.                   I burn, but I cast no light.
I find his absence strange, but                             No cigarette cleanses the taste of his death.
                   the taste of his death remains.
                                                                Sweat. It's mostly sweat.
The Bellows ring, the Bellows ring.                         Cold sweat, and what could've been.
                   They cast themlseves in the air.
            A net for idiots.                                                                     I haven't gone back to the rooftop.

I burn, but I cast no light.                        The rooftop seems empty,            I shall fall.
                                                                                  I worry, if I go,
                        I shall fall either down onto the streets                         Or both, I guess it could be both.                             
                                                             or up, between the stars.     
                         
"For perhaps there is some pleasure
          "to be found in being devoured"               I saw a woman do Scorch the other day.                    to sleep.
                                                                                                                                    I wonder if that's better
                                                                           She seemed rather active, and wired.
I suppose it is cigarettes and camomile tea.
                              (And nightmares, of course)                                      A snake bites its own Tale and seethes, seethes Prophecy.
                                                                                                                  "MASTER", it seethes, and much else besides,
No cigarette cleanses the                                       I burn, but I cast no light.
                      taste of her lips.                                                                I wonder what erases taste.
                                                                                           I wonder what could, or would, cleanse the palate forever.
              She tasted of Prophecy.              I shiver at the taste of Prophecy.

                                                        I wonder how one shines like Aurelio shines.
Still, I read that poem and think of that seed                       be gone, to dissolve. I wonder
                                                   of desire, that willingness to                                             I wonder how one lits the night with his heart.
                                                                                                             How one becomes a torch.
                        that would otherwise not be.                                                 I burn, but I cast no light.
Many things are possible

                     Maybe that's what I always wanted.                      (Maybe I am wrong and Art is not about reaching out)

                                                               Maybe Art is about calling out.
                                                                              Hoping someone hears.
                                                                       Hoping a Beast hears
                                                                                   and
                                                                                      descends
                                                                                           all beak
                                                                                              and fang
                                                                                        and bloodied
                                                                                            talons.

                                                                            And rips out your singing throat.

[A note, seemingly added much later... And with better light]

Wheel above, what one writes at night, when cold sweat wakes him...
Say what you will about it, one certainly doesn't make these scribbles with mizzar.
And one sleeps much more deeply, too.

[Don Nadie]

Find a Way

[A brief note]

One awaits.
     And the moment comes.                       Unexpected.

In the turning of the Wheel
many things become possible   
that would otherwise not be.

"I'm so proud", she said.
The heart brims, the heart is always brimming
(And cracking, the heart is always cracking)

                                              In the shadows.
         Find my way through the shadows.   
                                            Find my way deep, the stink of rust.

                                                     Find a way.

And by Their grace, a path is  divined in the Darkness.

[Don Nadie]

The Lillies

[A dry lilly is pressed between the pages of this entry]

He came to me, and I didn't deny him. (I couldn't)

"You are sure you want to travel now?", I asked.

(The Bellows rang in our ears. Alarm, concern)

"It's a complicated situation", he said.

And I nodded. (I couldn't deny him, I couldn't)

It felt good, to travel fast. To protect him.
(I could protect him, on the road, and nowhere else.)
Then, the lillies bloomed all arround us.
Above, the wind sang ancient names.
Ancient names, like so many things, are best never known.

I inhaled the scent. So sickeningly sweet.

"Alejandro", he said, "I am an evil person"
I turned. His expression, what was his expression?
(And what did it matter, when I couldn't read it?)
From his lips bloomed, sickly, the Truth.

The tower laid before us, defeated.
Flowers climbing up its bricks.
Merciful was the shadow, merciless the revelation.
And the stranger that appeared.

"The truth is a wretched and terrible thing", said the wanderer.
(Was he being cruel, or tender?)
"Better off are the people of the Well for its obscurity"

His expression, hidden. His gift, accepted.
(How my heart sank learning that he, too, was this broken)

A shadow, a flicker of the wind.
And we were left alone again, him and I.
Just the lillies, and the truth, and the tower.
How beautiful it was, this place.
(And how beautiful he was, and how wretched.)

He wanted to surrender, I grabbed him by the collar.
(Did I want to hurt him?)

"And what about me?!", I demanded.
"Do you know who I thought of, in that hell of Banafsi?"
"Do you know how tempting it was?"
"And I didn't surrender because I had your stupid gondola..."

I let him go. (Because I did want to hurt him)
I lit my cigarette. I puffed, eager.
I felt it burn my throat. Soft and familiar, this pain.
(It was easier to hurt myself)

"I have broken every promise I have ever made"

His confession, so certain. I couldn't look at him.
I tried, instead, to drap arround me the veils.

"I'm never getting that surprise, hm?", I said.
A smirk on my lips. Irony, like a shield.
"I still have it", he said softly.
"But I don't think you'd want it"

As it turns out, I did. Badly. A single promise, not broken.
Wretched as it was, tearful as it was, awkward as it was.
Still wanted, still taken.

(Parched earth, after all, will eagerly drink any poison.)

[Don Nadie]

Idiots

It had taken me so long to accept he wanted me away. And so little to dissobey him, when the opportunity presented itself. Someone to protect him. Enemies, perhaps. I'd have embraced any enemy, to keep him safe. We returned, together, to a city, drapped in lies. I felt weary. Burdened with such horrible truths.

There was an Assembly I missed. A Cure, I witnessed.
There were many things, and I was exhausted.

Then, there was a white toga, fluttering atop the Pyramid.

(He thought about it, like I. Broken, wretched things, us both)
(He thought about it, and I ran to stop him)
(Because I'm selfish, because I'd go right after)
Beneath us, glimmering with possibility, the pearl of our city.
Oh, what wild flowers it could grow! How painful, the missed chances...
(And what flowers would bloom from our broken flesh, too.)

But he stepped away, and I could breathe.

"You said I've heard it all", I whispered.

I was holding his hands into mine.

"You said I'm the only one who knows it all"

(What a wretched thing he is. How unworthy)

"Well, I'd still want you to live"

(But what does the heart care for worth?)

"You can do better", I insisted, "And if you can't?"

(The heart just wants.)

"Just say the word. And we are off on a boat, somewhere"

He rested his head against me.
A moment of peace, for a moment.
For a moment, I lied to myself and all was well.
How beautiful a moment could be, for a moment.

"You absolute moron", I whispered.
"I am", he said, "in good company".

I smiled.  Idiots, the both of us.

(The heart just hungers.)

[Don Nadie]

On Being Wrong

We climbed up. To the rooftop of the Krak.
She and I, alone. As Pra'raj fell into the horizon. (I was uncomfortable. I hate it, but I was uncomfortable)
She glanced in silence, as I lit my cigarette. (I was uncomfortable, before her)
So long, her silence. (I hated that silence)
So steady, her expression. (I hated that emptiness, in her expression)

"You have betrayed my confidence", she declared.
There was no accusation on her tone.
Wistfulness, only. A rueful smile, at my...
...At my whatever. At my something.
At the tangle of feelings I couldn't quite name.

Below us the Well became busier, the freshness of the night calling.
Walkers, and preachers, and gawkers, and merchants, and beggars.
A whole world, below us. And above us, darkness.
Falling upon the world, the darkness.

"A vile thing has been spawned from your lips", she said.
"A rumor concerning a Sister"
I lit another cigarette, my fingers were trembling.
The weight of was she was saying.
"There must be no rumors concerning a Sister"
(I was drowning)

Smoke whirled upwards, to the stars above.
Drafting Prophecy. Twirling in the currents Fate.
And she stood there, before me, pitiless.
Caring not.

"You are wrong to feel the way you do", she declared.
She said that. She, who I had trusted so deeply.
"But this is a wrong of my making"
I tensed, I pressed my lips.
"I believed you were ready", she said.

I was angry, I was fuming, I was confused.
How dared she? When the heart knew, when I knew.
How dared she? When I know now, so pristine, the difference?
I was angry. (But I didn't want her to suffer)
Why did I feel sorry for her, when it wasn't my fault?
(And why did she want me to obey that Voice)

She asked for forgiveness, forgiveness for the wrong thing.
Forgiveness, she asked, but not for breaking my trust.

And then she was gone. And I was alone.
Smoking alone. Alone, up there.
(His absence, I felt his absence, up there)

"I've taken mizzar for the pain", he had said.
"If I used it to take advantage of a girl", he had added, darkly.
"It'd be a different matter altogether."

(I think he'd be angry, but I
              I wasn't (I couldn't be) angry)
             
                    (She was wrong, and I was dissapointed)
 
                                                         (Which is worse)

[Don Nadie]

Hearing God

[A swiftly written, short note. The calligraphy seems shaky.]

Why did I approach him? Probably, because I needed certainty.
Because his word was not something to be trusted. Wretched man that he is.
So I went straight to the source. And he spoke of hearing Voices.
And of God. Of hearing God, in the walls and in the depths.

"I see her", he said, "your Sparrow".
"What a horrible way to die..."

There was an edge of delight in his voice.
He was so close. The stink of something. Mizzar? Incense?
Frothing, I bet he was frothing.

"Do you want to know her last words, mister Benjázar?"

He leaned in so horribly close.
Even with the cowl, I could feel his breath on my ear.

"DOMH-NALL"