The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Rest

"I believe in Truth, signor Alejandro."
"And I know my Sage does too."
"Whatever the truth of this matter is..."
"It changes nothing for me."

I closed the ancient tome, with its ancient secrets.
Put it back with the rest, back with my books.
So much knowledge, a trove of information.
My office, a monument to knowing, to seeking answers.
And yet, did I believe in "Truth"?

"I believe in the heart and its hunger", I admitted.
"In stories", I added.
I hesitated, for a moment, then found her gaze.
"The gods provide a story", I whispered.
I felt daring enough, trusting enough.
"And stories have a truth of their own."

On the edge of blasphemy, perhaps, to share this with a priestess.
Then again, what's an artist?
If not someone who tries to dance on the edge?
(And my trust is, sometimes, not misplaced)

She nodded, slowly. Such a peaceful expression.
"I find I agree", she said, simply.
"So the question becomes..."
"Which story do you want to act in, and why?"

What story did I want? Good question.
How does one even know what one wants?
When one has been uprooted from their past, from their life?
A refugee has lost their own beginning.
And it is easy to fumble a story that starts in media res.
Spokes know I have fumbled, often.
I said as much and she listened, politely.
Her eyes ever-kind. With a peace I can but envy.

"I think it is, perhaps, not so complicated in the end"
"The soul is restless", she explained, "It seeks."
A soft smile formed in the corner of her lips.
She was standing, already, to leave.
Speaking with the tone of something self-evident.   

"It seeks rest", she said. Simply.

[Don Nadie]

A Scam

We went together. A small dig.
Sunset burning above the ancient ruins.
The eerie silence of history.
And, in the distance, the echoes of wardrums.

"It's all a scam", she stated.
Certainty and dissapointment, in her voice.
"And I hate being on the wrong end of it".

I would've liked to deny her but, in truth...
In truth, she was not thoroughly wrong.
The system is rigged. As though in purpose.
A careful balance to impede progress, it feels like.
Though I suppose some would call it "stability" instead.
(And is there not some virtue to stability?)
(When the alternative is bloodshed?)

"I just try to do good where I am, getting involved"
"Try to protect myself, to protect those I care for"
"Try to help"
(Try was, perhaps, the key word there)

She tilted her head, alongside her familiar.
Echoing one another in kind skepticism.
And I smiled. I think, with resignation.

"Okay", she said. Dismissal, disbelief, or both?
"I am not important, but I still protect the people I care for", she added.
"That's what good wizards do".

I cleared my throat, I looked ahead.
We had things to do, things to dig.
And I focused on that, yes.
Rather than on how often I have fallen, historically, for scams.

[Don Nadie]

Promotion

At the Assembly, the usual.
Chaos and dramatics and overwrought statements.
The hysteria of a double-White seat boiling.
A difficult month ahead of us, and his proposal, ahead of me.
A promotion like a sentence.

"I cannot defend everything you do, and will not"
My whisper in his ear, while our new Legate argued.
Measuring my words, for the sake of doña Aaisha.
"Don't you want someone more reliable?"
He smirked, perhaps drug-addled detachment. I know it well.
"I have had Ghalish and Aubrey as Prelates, my dear"
"I am not so delicate"

The Assembly carried on, the usual chaos.
Almost by design, almost as though shepherded.
(One is reminded of green scarves, of dormant powers)
(One is bound to dwell in paranoia. A distraction)
Meanwhile, I smoked, and listened, and pondered.
I could take a step back and renounce responsibility.
Or try to help, through hard times.
Try to. That's the key word.

"Do you think I'm being stupid, señora mia?", I whispered.
He had gone up to address the Assembly.
His usual nonchalance, verging recklessness and idiocy.
"How so?", she inquired. As ever, poised in her uniform.
"I have never managed to convince him. To make him choose right"
"What hopes do I have, as Prelate?"

She took a moment to answer.
He was winding up, some speech about plans and aims.
So many plans, in our eyes. In our League.
So many high hopes. And so many dangers, too.
(Long are the knives)

"Ultimately", she said, "it is not the Prelate's duty to advice the Legate"
"Nor to convince him of anything"
Her tone was calm, her hand moved swiftly taking shorthand notes.
"It is to be there, if the Legate is indisposed"
Her tone was cold, passionless. It seemed, to me, unusually so.
"All you need to do", she said, "is be alive"

And I smirked, as the Assembly continued. 
A tall order.

[Don Nadie]

Of Ashes

I left for a day and a half and returned to find chaos. The Legion unhappy with the allotment, the Banda gloating with greed and hopes for war. Refugees invited into the city by someone (none will take responsibility). Things getting out of control. Everyone overwhelmed, everyone overwhelming.

People died. People died and died and died. There are excuses, but they are all voided by one same thing: this shouldn't have happened.

Paranoia seeps into some already. Ricario shows concerning signs, reminds me of Domhnall at first. Defensiveness turning into fear turning into useless, constant war. Worse still, there's some reason. Long are the knives of the Consulate, and I know firsthand the workings of the Greenscarf. Whatever the case, chaos is exploited, the dead paraded as props for some heinous performances... And things can still get worse.

Ibn Ghalish found me. Conspiracy, he claimed.
"Your sweet lover has truly done it now...", he said.
"Will you stand by him? For love?"
I tried to perform myself, careless, playful.
Distant like a lightless start, because who can trust what he says?
And still, he reached me. A stab, to the heart. 
"You're so truly ill informed these days, Alejandro", he smirked.
"Mizzar has turned your brain to mush", he added.
"And your heart, to ash"

Three bodies, I saw, when I chose to investigate instead of punching him. Target-practice, said the biggest chaos-monger in the Well. Three, flayed and buried in the desert. Half-truths were given, perhaps excuses. The more I investigate, the more muddled the matter becomes. Is there a conspiracy? Whose? Brookers and mercenaries and electioneering and refugees. The truth seems unattainable.

It may not matter. What matters is making the deaths stop, because I still see those flayed bodies when I close my eyes. And there isn't enough mizzar in the room, not enough mizzar in the Well, to cleanse the taste of ash from my mouth.

[Don Nadie]

A Degree

It was good to catch up.
The constant of friendship standing still.
Knowing he trusted me, even in disagreement.
(I dislike how used I am becoming to mistrust)

"Maybe when I burn out of politics, I'll enroll in the Sandstone", I jested.
"Get a dregree in Canal Dredging"
He did not smile, but stared and said:
"Less dirty".

[Don Nadie]

Promises

I've got a new painting. "Promises". A beautiful thing, a landscape so loaded with symbolism I find myself wondering whether its author was influenced by the Orentid masters. It is a melancholic thing. A barren landscape, an oasis of receeding waters, a dromedary. It evokes hope in desolation - igniting, or dying out.

Appropriate, perhaps. A good artist knows his clients.

It hangs right behind my desk, at my back when I sit. It is better that way: the painting brings too many things to mind.

"The Tale of Why the Camel Cries"
"I have broken every promise I ever made"
"In the eye of a storm, oaths are drawn in ash"
"When the waters are gone, this one will last sometime. Then, onrush"

Art. As ever, reaching out.

[Don Nadie]

The Torch

Once, there was a burning Torch.
Oh, how bright it burned, how passionately.
How much it wished to share its light with the world.

"She defies the Wheel", he sputtered.
"Maybe some day you'll grow a spine, Alejandro"
"And defend your beliefs".
The foam-mouthed idiot stared, his eyes burning.
"I've got enough of a spine to oppose you"

And so the Torch came to the forest and lit it.
It came to the garden and set it on fire.
It came to the palace and embraced it in embers.
It came to the school and spread out its sparks.

"The idea that mortals can become gods", I pondered, softly.
We were in my office, as ever. Her kind attention.
A conversation often had in hushed tones.
For this hi/story has layers.
The deeper one goes, the more truth opens.
"It is not as strange to the Wheel as some would tell you"
Truth, blooming slowly, like a flower

Oh, how bright burned the forest, the garden, the palace, the school!
They lit the night like shining new stars.
And the Torch basked in the warm glow, and was happy.

"Domhnall made him Grand Mufti", he explained.
"The Magistrate that's helping him, he's Domhnall's, too"
I gritted my teeth, lit a cigarette.
"Of course he fucking is", I grumbled.
Pondering, not for the first time, how much easier things could be.
(And how horrible, too)
If he killed himself.

And when a few hours passed, they burnt out.
And the Torch found itself in a darkness even deeper.
In a loneliness cold and endless.
Surrounded by ashes.

[Don Nadie]

By the Gate

I was covered in Ash, in blood.
Never has an orcan raid been a clean affair.
The Gate was before us, cleanness and peace.
(Won, as ever, at a prize)
When he asked for a moment to speak.

"Life", he whispered, "is getting harder for traitors".
"Rose is growing thorns"

My body tensed, I lit a cigarette.
I felt defensive, yet performed courtesy.
It wasn't I who betrayed the Rose, my idea of it.
But that's not something you explain to Ballestrieres.

"I like you", he continued, "So I offer"
"Come back. Live. Love. Drink. Learn"
His tone was serious, dour.
"You could be a Lyrist", he added. "One day".

I took a puff, my eyes onto the distant horizon.
The dunes of Ash, the emptiness, the shimmering under Pra'raj.
And tried to hold my heart, which still rang so loudly.
Ambition, heroism. They still echo. Still wanted.
Even now.

"I gave up those dreams long ago", I replied, tensely.
He tweaked his moustache, I couldn't quite read his expression.
"Those dreams will chase you", he said.
There was a sharpness to his posture. To his eyes. To his rapier.
"And become nightmares"

[Don Nadie]

Scribbles

[Manic scribbles, written in some almost invisible inks. There are some wine stains on the page.]

In dreams, in dreams - I see them:                   
         Alphabets, clues, stories!               
The world to be decyphered               
                     right behind the eyes!            

         Awaiting, therein, in Darkness 
                      the onrush and the Tale!           

                                                   Oh, if they were written!             
               Oh, if only they were written!   
The carving the scroll the ever-shifting calligraphy of the sands!                

         The story, written.
      The past, written!
                 The Breaking of Things, written!
   That which cannot be said in words, written!

   

If they were only written within our eyelids!      

What a lesson it'd be                                 
      for those able to read.

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

In Twilight you embrace,
                        like lovers.

[Don Nadie]

Every Time

Every time. I wake up with my hair a mess, my mouth a wasteland, a headache that makes the whole world tremble, and I tell myself: never again. Every time I say that I should talk to Khalid or to Marcellus, that they'd understand, that they'd provide some spiritual guidance, and not judge or hurt or be dissapointed. Every time I reflect that the Wheel turns, and thus there's no shame in turning and returning. Every time, I tell myself they'd show me that my flaws do not overshadow my virtues. Every time I clean the stains and wash myself, and tell my reflection that I need to be stronger, that I am stronger, that I do not need the ecstasis Their mysteries provide. Every time, when I dawn tired to my very bones, my soles sore, my lips parched and my heart just so briefly empty, I reflect that I do not need Their oblivion. Every time I think there must be other ways to deal with dread and anxiety, besides descending at night to the secret places, besides the reckless dance with death and forgetfulnesss in the darkness.

And every time I come out with my most practiced smile and find out, yet again, that I am not strong enough.

[Don Nadie]

A Personal Matter

She took me to the Tower - "a personal matter", she said. I was guarded. What was personal anymore, between us? I should've guessed it was about you. It was always about you.

She is always, sadly, about you.

I see, in her, echoes of the woman we loved... Each, admittedly, in our own way. She rings softly, in her dedication, in her desire, in her burning and burning for you. She holds your memmory so tightly her fingers bleed.

I thought, at first, she just wanted your memory to be respected, opposed attempts to turn you into a Saint. What can I say? I understand you were not. I am also far too aware of how these stories, these lies help us endure a dying world. Hence why I simply try not to intervene in how you are remembered. The story of you is not you, any longer. You are beyond reach, and beyond care.

"I will take with me the last remnants of her memory", she said. Her eyes shone with such decision, behind the glasses. "And then", she continued, "I will be her only friend, her only company, her only lover".

I did not have the heart to tell her you never were a single-lover knight. Your gallantry was like a mirror, your heart was too full. I identify, of course.

I probably should've shrugged it. But I felt so deeply sorry. I still felt the echoes of the woman I cared for, so much. Tried to counsel her, on how living for absolutes withers the soul, on how that path is one of unhappiness. She would have none of it. She would not listen.

"She was a Waradim", I said, finally. "She'd want you to move on"

"Then she can come", she replied, sternly. "And fix the woman she left behind".

I sighed, I surrendered, I said my goodbyes.

For all her flaws, one cannot deny one thing: she is, in her self-destructive fanaticism, faultlessly honest. You would hate it, I'm sure, as much as I do.

[Don Nadie]

One Victory

He seemed so sad, when we crossed.
I was just out of a meeting. A lesson, really.
Secrets and history and conspiracy and politics. Preparations, mostly.
And he looked so crestfallen.

"He'll be dead by tomorrow", he said.
A mournful whisper. He sounded so defeated.
"And there's nothing I can do".

Before I knew what I was doing, I had taken a knee.
And was hugging him, tightly.
His little frame trembling, with sorrow.
A glance at the Pyramid, a sigh.

"It's hard to know those you love make decisions that destroy them"
"But I'll try talking to them", I promised.
"So long as we draw breath, things may change", I added.
(I spoke from the heart.)
(Because, perhaps stupidly, I still believe it.)

I left him, I rushed to the Bellows, then her shrine.
Doing my best not to think of the word "try".
Not to be haunted by past failures.
And at her shrine, the icons smiled with endless mercy.
And she offered kindness. For she is a kind woman, of a kind Sage.
But she saw through appearances, too.

"Many others could've caused the same effect on one such as him", she reasoned.
"He is ill, Alejandro. Of the mind"
And I knew she was right, was she not?
Self-destruction is a pull. It can be stalled, but not defeated.
"I do not care about the blade or the bolt", I replied, my voice cracked.
"I care about tending the wound"

A kind woman, of a kind sage.
She was willing to offer one concession.
I left, then, to seek him.
Hope, brimming; a prayerless tithe left at her altar.
For when Life triumphs, one must be thankful.

We climbed, then, to a dune. He sat, so tiny and frail.
The blue robe too big for his weakened frame.
"I do not make such announcements thoughtlessly", he said.
His every word, a statement. The finality of what's written in stone.
"I will not try to appeal to emotions", I said.
"Though I must state that many would suffer great discomfort, if you were gone"

Instead, reason was brought to the fore.
Aims examined, and dealt with. An compromise posed.
Then the two parties, together.
The meeting, the negociation, the success.
For once, success.
One victory, to hold tightly when despair rages.
So I sought him, hugged him again, gave him the news.
A small, if somber celebration.

Which, of course, was ruined when the Banda turned him into a chicken.

(What echoes of my time in the Rose it brought.)
(Their uncanny ability to ruin things.)

[Don Nadie]

Home

Once, there was a little crab.
And the little crab came upon a little shell.
It was shiny, and perfectly-fitting, and warm.
So the little crab made it his shelter.

"Have you considered coming home?", she asked.
Her expression serene as ever.
I sighed, lit a cigarette. A long puff.
"What does "home" mean?", I asked.

Thus, the little crab carried this shell over his back.
And skittered with it, at the bottom of the sea.
And though it was a hard life, and a heavy burden...
He was content. As much as a crab can be.

"Let me put it differently, Alejandro", she continued.
The cigarette smoke curled, shimmered eerily as it mixed with the incense.
"What do you want?"
A sigh escaped my lips. My eyes climbed to the rafters.
"Peace, and love", I whispered.
"To wake up without burdens, to await the future without dread"

Over time, alas, scratches grew on the shell.
As its shimmering surface met the rocks of the seabed.
And moss took root, and muck stained its shimmer.
So that the shell came to feel tight, and dull, and ugly.

"And yet", she said, "love and peace isn't enough."
"All it takes is one man to meet the stone against his brother's brow"
Her tone, soft. Her smile, a sphinx's.
"And there it is: all that he was, spilled on the sand".
"They miss you, Alejandro", she insisted. "

Thus, the shell was left behind.
Not without pain, or sweat, or effort.
And the little crab stretched its limbs onto the waves...
And sought, new shells, new rocks, new places.

I think that spilled me. To miss.
"I miss all of it, Selsi. I miss the faith, the certainty"
"But what do you want me to do, Selsi?", I asked.
"I was found wanting by the Grandmaster", I said, my voice cracking.
I felt the warm wetness of tears.
(Why is it, that I always cry?)

Alas, no matter how far he travelled, no matter how much he tried...
Every shell had stains, every shell felt tight, at places.
So the little crab wandered and wandered at the bottom of the ocean.

"Balladeers are set up to fail", I whispered.
"What we want to be. What circumstances force us to"
"The beast we must tame, with neither carrot nor stick"
I paused. Dreadful, the dawning of realization.
"They", I corrected.

And though he enjoyed many things, and suffered many others...
No shell ever felt like home, again.

[Don Nadie]

Go, Sinner

Alkab. Verdant, glorious. The capital, smaller than expected. Ancient in style. Terracotta towers, from whence prayer-calls rang. All over, the scent of incense, the fervent chants of the Kulamendes, the fields of wheat, of mizzar, of vines and olives and much else.

"Breadbasket of a dying world". I had an abstract notion of this, but it wasn't until I saw its verdant shores that I truly realized to what an extent all of the Great Ash Desert depended, to survive, from this region.

"Alkab deals with everyone", they told us.
We did not knew to what an extent this was.
We couldn't imagine.

I think we assumed they were just lucky, blessed, greedy, rich. For, were their docks not full to the brim with people, with wealth from all over the region set at their feet for the sake of survival? I think we assumed they could be persuaded, for why else would they have asked us to do this? How wrong we were. Perhaps we should've expected a trap.

We were insulted. We crossed him, his riding boots as polished as ever, his smirk and self-assurance. Wish I could've stabbed him, but it was neither time nor place. An alliance, he was making, perhaps. We kept our calm, for we were meant to engage in diplomacy. Or, as they called it, in begging. Humbled, we were brought to their halls, demands were made of us with the self-satisfaction of those who know their clients have no alternatives. Take their offer, or starve.

But then we tried to do what we had been asked to. And the impossible came to pass.

* Pillar * Stone * Root * Tree * Shadow *
* The crackling of metal * The shimmering of things * The time not of this time *

* It was Slow *
* We, of the Onrush *

* In the meeting of our Times, we were found wanting *

* It was right in its judgement, we knew * The booming tones, echoing from otherwhen * Should not have bowed to the request *
* In the bowing, weakness * In the weakness, fault * In the fault, sin * In the sin, forbearance * 
* Compacts spoken * That those who hunger be fed * That those who want, be given * That those who need, lack no more * Compacts signed *

* IN INK * Our fault, resplendent * Our mistake, echoing * OF EARTH *
* GO SINNER *
* GO EAT *

[Don Nadie]

Red Tape

[A bitter parody, written with transparent irritation]

To pursue this investigation one must first apply for an authorization of Learning. This shall be reviewed by a seventeen person-council, who must come to an agreement by three-quarters majority, within a two-month period. In case of agreement, which shall be communicated exclusively via posting in a public board atop Mount Kulkund, the applicant is given seven and a half work-days to fill sub-application 17-V. They will also be provided with a Provisional Learning Title, which entitles them to be watched with great suspicion by the Legion, should they attempt to Learn before the full application process is completed. The sub-application 17-V will be denied three times over a seven-month period, with only the fourth time being seriously considered by a Legate, his pet fish, the cousin of the sister of Sorazin Bey and His Sublime Majesty's Main Washerwoman. Said judges meet every time a red moon coincides with the turning of the month, and discuss applications by a system of lottery. After a successful application of 17-V, a Learning Permit is issued, with which the applicant is entitled to delve into those most pernicious and dangerous of subjects: basic reading and arithmetic.

[A note at the bottom]

At least the Sister helped.
At least most of those actually involved want to learn.
But Wheel Above, Ricario and Domhnall have no idea of how difficult these things are to organize, in the first place...