The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Mystery & Revelation

We were in my office. A pleasant distraction: to teach.
Though in the midst of so much dust, and Ash, and paper.
His scent, of flowers, was out of place.

"I could tell you what I think most likely", I admitted.
"But that would rob you, I think"
"Knowledge is a path: Mystery and Revelation"
I was leaning close. My fingers on the ancient alphabet.
"Entwinned", I murmured, as I traced the old symbol, "Like lovers"
I raised my eyes from the tablet, to meet his.
"To just give answers", I added, as his ears grew pink.
"Is to break the embrace"

If you ask an Izdur, they'll tell you Knowledge is a thing passed down the Ages.
Because they cannot see that is just tradition.
If you ask an Astronomer, they'll claim knowledge is a tiny speck of truth.
Because they cannot see that is just a fact.
And they are arid, all of them. They have, in themselves, no meaning.

In dusty room, we had turned to Artwork and books.
"Behind every door", I explained, "there are three more, to open"
"And thus all you learn", I added, "will bring more questions"
The amount of times I'd repeated those same words.
And yet, I never tire of this. Of teaching others to seek.
Teaching them to desire Revelation. To seek Mystery.

The path of Knowledge is the path of Passion.
From one to the other, and again. The embrace, unending.

Thirst, never sated.
Hunger, never quelled
Desire, never allayed.
Truth, never finished.

To know one facet, one inch, is to seek another
                                                          and another
            and another                and another                        and another
                            and another                    and another
   For the heart never fills, and the search never ends.

"You need to be careful, though", I pointed. "Knowledge burns."
We were turning to Caliphal history, now. Where discretion matters most.
"There are some that don't want things known"
"Those who'd kill to uphold their story"

Through my collection of secrets, a couple offered, to decypher.
Apetizers, to grow his hunger. A tablet, a book, a mural.
Fire and Sun and Madrassas. Guiding him, never telling.
Desire, sparked by absence. The glint in his eyes, decided.
Fearless. As so many of us are. Dangerously so.

"I'm a criminal, remember?", he jested. Perhaps, defiant?
I found myself smiling, regardless, at the little outlaw.
"Oh, yes", I ruffled his hair, amused, "A fearsome one"
For once, he didn't blush. Just smiled, in earnest.
(His hair was soft, so clear against my fingers.)
"Scholarship can't be beholden to fear", he whispered.
"Else", he added, "it's someone else's version of events"

I have seen it before, in others, that tone.
It never fails to make me proud.

"Indeed, my dear friend", I whispered.
It was late. I was tired. I don't know when I had gotten closer.
"Knowledge is desire", I added. "And like all desires..."
"...it is best indulged"

[Don Nadie]

Further, Further Reflections on the Nature of Historiography

Say what you will about the Fourth, they like gossip as much as anyone.
They're just a bit coy about it.

"She wanted to speak and have her truth in my History."
"Of course, she called it "the" truth".
"Sometimes", I added, with an amused smirk, "people do that".

The tiny Daoud looked stern behind his cowl.
A classic Izdur, I suppose. Seeking, yes, but cowardly.
Seeking with the certainty that the seeking will end.
Seeking, to find respite. Not to go forward.
Knowledge, not as desire but as destination.
As I said, cowardly. Still, worth noting.

"The gathering of information must be unbiased and impartial"
His declaration so certain and steady and self-assured.
"It ought not to have any color commentary", he added.
"nor objective beyond accurately and dispassionately accounting the events"

I smirked. Cowardice is enviable, sometimes.
Oh, how they fear the Darkness of not-yet-known.
Oh, how they fear Mystery.
How they fear to seek, how ashen their heart.
How empty their desire.

"'Objectivity'", I said, simply, "is a rhetorical device"
"Attepts at it are either meaningless collections of dates..."
"Or lies, hiding their biases"

The Sergeant intervined now, munching still on his throng-baked muffin.
(A man must allow himself a poisoned gift here and there!)
He had remained so very still for so very long.
Since I mentioned his silences and reactions, too, carried meaning.
Lieutenant Teg cannot hide forever.

"So acting as a gossipmonger is alroight if yer upfront about it?", he scoffed.
I did not deign answer that. What for?
Gossipmonger and storyteller are, after all synonims.
""Ye would besmirch the good name of a lieutenant"
"Just 'cause an "interesting" tale."

The accusation rang for a moment in the dark, ashy hall.
I glanced at my notebook. At the story we were discussing.
At the splotches where terror and mourning stopped me.
Do they think this calling is a pleasure?
None of them is brave enough to face it.

"Samtom, I am much more subtle than that", I sad, softly.
"Believe me, ye aren't", he replied.
A man made of scoffs, that one. I shrugged, closing my notes.

"I am a performer", I declared, sincerely. For once.
"You do not know all the roles I can play."

[Don Nadie]

High We Flew

                                                                                      There's nothing quite like it. Nothing quite so vibrant.
                                                                                      The singing fountains, the blooms, the scents and breezes.
                                                                                      Bel-Ishûn, ecstasic above our rooftops.                       
                                                                            o
                                                                    t
 
                                                          w
                                                    e
                                                l
                                           f
                   
                                    e
                              w
     
                      h                                                                                                         ~  Ecstasic (frozen) far above  ~
                  g                        
            i                                                                           One nodding, because he flew above its meaning.
     H                                                       I suppose I could've expected the reception of the poem.

                                                                                                                                         One crying, because he truly understood.

                                                                                                                                                      ~  The picture, not the heart, of love ~
The dorky noises, the political pleasantries, the blindness, the delight
                                                       all of those I expected.

His gratitude, however, did take me by surprise.
It was warm. And I was thankful.

[Don Nadie]

In an Unverdant Stage

When you stand, sans the Band
In an Unverdant Stage
all the sand in this land
can't hide Cup from this sage

I was happy with the story, I suppose. Happy, too, with the public, the music, the flow of the Tale, the breeze. Being a story with poetry and song, I had written beforehand, which lacks a bit of the improvisational, ecstasic quality that a Tale sometimes gains when made up on the spot, images improvised and fished from the heart, in a simple spark of passion. Still, the things I added (the improvisations, and changes, and rhythms that make a Tale a Tale) were good, I thought. In hindsight, I should've called Feydsiyyar's prison a minaret instead of a tower, though. Didn't realized that with the Tower there, there was an extra layer of meaning I had not intended. Perhaps a happy accident but... I prefer that my digs be deliverate, as a rule.

The stage, however. The stage was much more strange. I think this was the first Tale I planned ahead and told elsewhere... All other Tales since I left were much more improvised affairs. And it was so odd, not to be in the Verdant Stage, whose glories and flowers I still sing about so often. I only realized it too late, when I stood up, ready to start. To tell the Tale, to don the mask of the Storyteller, I had to wade through an ocean of nostalgia...

But it would've felt weird to stand at the Krak, and tell there the Tale. It would've felt so very strange. No other Balladeer has taken to art - yet I remain producing, performing. If I were to stand there, while they do not... It'd feel as though I was trying to insult them. Or perhaps a Rossan would try to charge me. Or a myriad other possibilities, horrid one and all, whose consideration is enough to make me tearful. Perhaps they don't care (probably, nobody else cares.

I miss it, my Stage.

But I shouldn't overthink it, I suppose. The Tale worked, people enjoyed it, people learned from it. A love story, and one with a happy ending, I thought, when I composed it. Yet I failed to realize what Bashir brought up: why did Feydsiyyar have so many beaus afterwards? Is it a love story if the love is not forever? I hadn't even stopped to consider that detail. I think the Alejandro that I was when I arrived would've said the lived together happily ever after. I suppose that's another fantasy I've come to discard.

(They were there, also. She was there. She didn't really speak to me)
(I shivered, softly, when she spoke with him. He had seemed strange)
("Storyteller", he said, instead of Alejandro, and it is nothing, but it nibbles at me)
(The wind rustling their ayabas. In her eyes, strange truths)

[Don Nadie]

Verdant Is the Garden

I trusted her like a vine trusts the sun, so I followed to the shelter.
"Example amidst the Voiced", I had called her, to the Legate.
And not without reason: valiant, honorable, defiant. 

"It is for you", she said.
"And you alone"

I hesitated. A part of me? Fearful.
The part that knew this came too easy, to me.
For I am a creature of vices, and no vice runs deeper than this.
Fate, upon its threshold.
But I surrendered. (If I can't trust her, who can I trust?)

"I swear it shall be so", I answered.
"Upon the bones of the saints"
"And the names of my mothers"

How easily, with what familiarity I took the knee.

So she raised her hands and the vines rose with her and in the vines there were shapes there were faces there was will and future and past as the remnant of the Garden drew arround us its veil and we delved softly as the eye opened and we were yes we were driven taken moved slid together as one her and I so close that it was as though the outlines of the self had diluded and mixed like watercolors in the rain and rain it was rain it was a deluge of truth undiluted a deluge of truth unending the way the self was elsewhere and fate and truth came to me like a lover pressing like a lover eager like a lover needfull like a lover like a lover and--

in  the  verdant  garden
the  green  leaves
rustle  in  onrush
red  is  the  rose
white  is  the  lilly
entwinned  like  lovers
the ages

A gasp, then, as though emerging from deep waters.
(Fate, I suppose, has depths unknown)
And a frown and a pondering and a quiet conversation.
A swift return, to the city. Questions.
Mundane questions, in the city, of history.
As history and the vision felt strangely entwinned.
And when I asked the most pertinent question, to this most pertinent witness...

"It was never needed, Alejandro", she said, calmly.
"We may prefer to think it was"
"But the Wheel knows"

[Don Nadie]

But I Want To

Above us the glistening, saphire sky. In his hands, untouched coffee.
Sadness, pooling at the corner of his eyes.
Too many memories and too many emotions.
Nostalgia, and mourning, and jealousy, and strange, nameless things.
(I am, of course, familiar)

"Let's make things even", I whispered.

And without asking for permission (a vice, I know) I pulled him in.
(So slim, under that ugly robe)

"Hugs always help me", I explained, softly
"When I'm feeling too much, all at once"

Reticent, it took him a few moments to return the gesture.

"Yhou dhon't have tho choddle mhe, yhou knhow", he murmured.

His voice, muffled by my scarf. What prides we hold onto.
Elsewhere, the noise of merchants, of birds, of camels and soldiers.
But that was elsewhere. Here, a friend was overwhelmed.

"I don't", I said, "but I want to"

Holding him a moment longer, for touch carries comforts no word can.
Letting him go free.

"And", I added, "I like indulging my desires"

That did the trick, finished driving away the dark clouds.
And after such rains,
                                       red bloomed the roses.

[Don Nadie]

Echoing

To be dissapointed on politics should be, by now, our little city's official sport. Still, I have lived a number of elections (ten, to be specific) and this is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the dullest, most uninspiring, least stimulating of them all. The Gold have refused to run altogether, and I don't blame them: between Qari, Sol Auk, and the repeated fielding of Ariel as their candidate, they've lost much support. Marcellus has been dragged out of retirement with reticence by Cosine, and does a daily Bellows and nothing else. Between his supporters in the Accord (despite the many failings of his style) and his fan club, it seems all but granted he'll win. Specially considering Akna...

I've tried not to think too deeply on that, I suppose, because I feel guilty. By now, I was too eager to take the opportunity not to run when she asked. It was an easier path, one which allowed me to sidestep responsibility, and I took it, grateful that it also allowed me to be a decent friend. Zol Nur, however, said that my acquiescence benefitted nobody but Akna (not the city, not the League, not the elections), and I didn't quite believe him... Until the meeting, in all its horridness.

It was such a terrible affair. We had very few members in attendance (and I suppose those who are members only so far as it benefits them might as well be called "leeches" instead). Akna seemed to rely on people somehow thinking that because she was part of stopping Ricario (or, in her speeches, she personally did - nevermind the roles of Rosie or our dearly missed Jordan) people are going to give her the reins.

I told her to organize events. To reach independent voters or those known to vote for other Leagues. I told her to pass laws that were actually popular, instead of badly-phrased meassures she gets pushed into, and later regrets. But here we are. Her main moves, thus far, to court the Tower's vote (as though they'll choose her above Marcellus... Honestly, if they did, it'd mean she's giving them way too much) and a couple bellows, here and there. I will have to force myself, to vote for her.

Estellise's second coming said, yesterday, that the politics of this city reward the boring. If she's right, these two will be exceedingly succesful candidates. At least, neither of them is a Sol Auk. And they are both friends, and decent people. That is a consolation.

Still, it irks me, to see the White League like this. I keep thinking of that vision. Of the lillies and the roses and the strange little flowers that bloomed, all entwinned. There was such hope in that vision. It keeps echoing within me, as I bite my tongue not to be too bitter against Akna, not to be so open as to be hurtful (what's the point on being hurtful, at this stage of the game?).

It keeps echoing, and echoing, and echoing.

entwinned like lovers
the Ages

[Don Nadie]

A Little Lesson

Last evening left me thinking about how much I like teaching... And how I wish more people would hire me. There's some pleasure in gathering the disparate pieces of evidence, all the matters I have record of, and weaving out of them a narrative. I suppose it is just another case where the arts of the storyteller and the historian meet. But there is a thrill in the improvisational aspects of it, the leaps of deduction and fancy, the questions, the telling. When one is in conversation, history feels alive and ringing, and one can almost feel it all arround us.

The topic, I suppose, didn't hurt either. A lovely one. Even if it made me tearful, at times. I suppose it was to be expected. He and I both have had our own burdens on the topic. In different ways, of course. I suppose that is one thing I failed to touch in my lesson. How multi-faceted it can be. How the heart can break (and bloom) in a thousand different ways. It tried, at least, to be supportive and inspiring. All one can do in these situations, really.

"Well, it's fine, because it's not serious", he shrugged.
Warding himself against the future, my poor friend.
I sighed. "Yes. You do keep saying that".

[Don Nadie]

Ooooh Sha-lala

[Tears stain this little draft of a Tale]

Once there was an egg that fell from the Heavens above.
And from that egg, a boy was born.
(For an egg may hold many things)
(And an egg from the stars, doubly so)

He was strange, of course.
(As is to be expected of a boy who came from an egg which came, in turn, from the Heavens above.)
And he was perhaps a little stranger when he started than when he ended.
Or perhaps the other way arround.
Though strangeness, too, is in the eye of the beholder.
And perhaps, from the Heavens above, he seemed more normal
(Or even weirder. Perhaps)

Regardless, such is the way of things: that they end.
(Even things that come from an egg which comes from the Heavens above)
Yet there are many ways of ending.
One can end things by marrying and being forever happy.
One can defeat the dragon and ride into the sunset.
One can be happy forever and ever. One can sleep under the mountain, with the fairies.

The boy who came from the egg which came from the Heavens above ended with a friend.
Holding his hand, softly, to keep him afloat. Saving his life.
And losing his own, in turn.
For life is a fragile thing.
(Even the life of a boy who came from an egg which came from the Heavens above)

That was his end: a hero.
And before his end, there were many things.
Most of them odd, some of them tender.

Ooooh, sha-lala

"Thank you", he said, "take this"
A drum found its way to my hands.
"You'll probably make more use of it than I"

And I can't believe that stupid thing was our last conversation.

[Don Nadie]

Honesty

This may be a new record for me, I reflect: the making and the breaking of a promise, separated by barely a few phrases. Then again, a few phrases can contain a world of turmoil, and truth, and importance. These surely did. We were both shocked and uncertain, talking about what we just saw, talking about my involvement in it, small as it may have been. Zain. His death. His resurrection. We were looking at the pyramid, concernedly, when he said it. And then, said:

"I thought you should hear it".
"In case either of us ends up a bloody mess in the streets".
And much else was said, besides.

My response was, upon reflection, inadequate. I just feel so uncertain, at times. As thought I was walking on shifting sands that may swallow me whole, if I'm careless. In these matters, I'm used to performance: gallantry and chivalry, dramatic bows as one gives flowers. Like a bad imitation of Lynneth, I suppose. I never quite had her success, at knighthood. 

This time I tried honesty, instead. Bumbling my way through it, like a child learning to walk.

I was so awkward, so uncertain, it was almost a relief, when the Sergeant called upon me. Duty (suicidal, heroic duty) is an easier thing to handle. I looked at him, who but moments ago had asked me to stay away from the whole matter. To be safe.

He sighed - I think he saw it: that I couldn't refuse.
"Go", he said, irked. "Do what you have to"

So I went, and I did. But not before another whisper and another at honesty. Clumsy, uncertain, in the midsts of walking back on a promise. But honesty, nonetheless.

[Don Nadie]

The Tale of the Boy Who Loved His Goat

[A Tale has been recorded here, and nowhere else.]

Once, there was a boy who loved his goat. And one day a Storm came. And because the boy loved his goat, when he heard it bleat... He rushed past his parents, and rushed out, to seek it. And the storm raged so wildly that he couldn't see, but only heard, as the home where his family was taking shelter came crashing down. Burying them beneath.

Once, the boy had a goat, and somehow lived through the storm. And as he walked into the wilds, by the shores, he told himself that any moment now one of the Saints would come. Santa Azucena, perhaps, who was his favourite. She would ride atop the waves on her white horse and save him.

And because Santa Azucena was coming, he walked forward and didn't let himself falter.

Not even when the goat he loved died and he had to eat it. For little meat was availible, and even less water. And goat's blood was better than nothing.

At long last the boy saw people. And while he was dissapointed it was not a santa, he still cried with joy. For people meant food and shelter, did it not? The boy was a boy, after all. Sixteen or so, barely on the cusp of becoming a man, and was used to adults being kind, and loving, and protective, and tender. So when it turned out they were a roaming band of bandits, it took him by surprise. The first lash took him by surprise. Of course one gets used to everything. Or at least, eventually everything loses its surprising qualities.

Blunted by use.

But still, the boy had his stories! So he knew any day now, as he emptied the latrines on the coast or went for water or did any of the endless chores, he'd meet a golden fish who'd give him three wishes. Mum, his goat, and the loss of all those scars. A bit selfish to go for his mum, considering his whole family was dead but... Who are we to judge?

And sometimes, when he felt the desire to escape and it was so bright and burning that he'd jump off a cliff, just to make it go away... He told himself the Tale of how angels rescued people who were very, very good. And he was very, very good. So he didn't jump.

The lash, the hunger, the *word here, scratched* all of it, he endured. Because there were tales always there, to endure with. And every tale was a lie, and every tale was hope. And every tale kept him alive one day longer. So that, when opportunity came, he was alive to take it. And run. And run and run and run until his lungs burnt. Until he saw in the distance a light.

And under that light, a Hakarawi so kind that, to his eyes, he felt like Warad himself. And this Hakarawi gave him food and water and drink and, seeing his state, gave him a blanket. And with deep and lovely voice he recited...

"Once, there was a wanderer..."

"But my throat grows tired and the hour grows late", I finished.
"So we must pause here the Thousandfold Tale"

I didn't look at him. Gazed only at the stars.
I knew he was near, though. Warm, in the night.

"Let us live, and let us drink"
"in the hopes of finishing it tomorrow..."

My tone, practiced. Perfect. Even this Tale.
This Tale, most of all. Known only by her, smiling between the stars.
And now, him, too.

"Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written within our hearts...", I added
"So it's lessons would always be with us."

[Don Nadie]

On Blooming and Fighting and Mourning

 First - a party: joyful tales, delightful meals. A crown of flowers upon my brow. A delight with Storytelling and drinks. The joy of seeing bloom, upon the lips of a mournful friend, a smile. Say what you will, tales about flatulence are a classic when you need to cheer someone up.

(It reminded me of mamá, when there was a storm, and we were grumpy, and we told the same tale. I remembered how María and Blanca and Clara and I would compete to see who made the biggest noise. I felt their absence, piercing. But also with some joy, I think. Some peace, to have so many in this city I loved just as dearly as I loved them)


Second - An Ordeal: villany detained on its tracks, or at least delayed. Wading through blood and worse than blood, dashing through the lines with a smile on my lips, daring and (hopefully) dashing. Ilusion and speed and slipperiness - ever a trickster. A bit of fun at Cosine's expense, too. Never a bad thing. Coin, rejected, too. Heroes need no such thing. I felt, for a moment, a hero.

(My cheek muscles hurt, however. From all the smiling. From all the grinning. Why is such a long battle one of the few things that makes me smile like that? Why do I feel so satisfied when I stab those who'd stab me? Why is battle such a rush, such a feeling of peace and aliveness as one can rarely find? Spokes above, I know I must seem inspiring and dashing to lift the spirits of my companions, I know I must sing cheerfully but, why do I keep smiling through it in a way that feels less and less like a performance?) 

Third: A Wake Narwen was angry. When I first heard her Bellows, I thought it had nothing to do with us, with our adventure. Turns out she was angry and me, at Bashir. Someone had told her we had set to somehow attack a caravan of Elves of the Spring. That Margarethe and Marcellus, throwing arround careless rumors and... I can't even call it a half-truth, because it was quite the opposite of it. She had a right to her anger, though. I suppose I would've much prefered to include her - even though this was certainly bigger than the elves. So many corpses, and caravans...

"You know me", I said, looking at Selsi.
"the villanies you feared, if they happened before me..."
"Either I wouldn't return, or they wouldn't come to pass"

(It does cause me some sadness, however. That Narwen feels closer to Vico than to Zol Nur. That Zol Nur would choose Oro over Narwen. It is mournful, to know that sometimes our colors warp who we are, twist us and leave us unable to see the good as good, the wicked as wicked. I do wish they'd be...)

(I suppose I wish they'd be worse members of their faction. Like I was).

[Don Nadie]

Upon the Threshold

An oath, writ upon the threshold of Mystery:

"I swear it on the Saints's bones", I said,
"and the names of my mothers"

Solemn the occasion - for trespass requires solemnity.
(Or is it trespass, when invited?)
I do not know if I hesitated too much, or too little.

(Does it matter?)
(The Cup is emptied and, at the bottom, many things become possible)               
(That would otherwise not be)

and thus she leD
downwards, few darE
newfound, embroiled oathS
ancient, the eagerness so poetiC
the path  blooms, careless radiancE
and thus softens slowly all conversatioN
our steps, by Ages untold, in blood resisteD

                                                                    And I crossed the threshold of Mystery, where dreams are woven by blind spiders
                                                                    Therein meeting Its darkness of sphinxes: the flutter of their wings, a Torment
                                                                    Therein seeking, like lover, Revelation, and finding It, with burning, eager fingers.
                                                                    Its promises murmured on the Threshold, before we break, unsated, our embrace.

It was upon my lips, Revelation:

Δ   Q   Β   Ρ

[Don Nadie]

Dreaming the Path

 
I was dreaming the path.

I whispered the words, in the ear of the statue. The names of my sisters opened the doors, yet as soon as I said them, they were forgotten forever. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I went down alone. I held, high, Jamileh's lantern. Through the ancient halls I moved, with certainty. Along the walls, faces and hands held in prayer. A thousand eyes followed my steps, and a thousand mouths cursed me. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I stepped on the Ages. My heart beat faster, and faster, too, did I walk. I knew the one I loved was deeper, the one I sought. He carried his face (or was it his?), but His name was Truth. My body ached with unsated passion. I sought Him, burning with desire. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I waded through the air. Invisible but assured, its hatred. My naked skin felt the thickness of the space. Against its stillness, my passion; against its dearth, my onrush. My heart was a drum, my heart was a torrent. The halls did not want me, but I did not let that stop me. The light of my lantern flickered and died. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

In the darkness, I divined the way forward. My every step, resisted; my desire, opposed. The Ages kept, between Truth and I, the distance. I ached as I moved forward: pain in my head, my heart, my lungs, my loins; pain in the soles of my feet. The coldness of the marble floor, thorns. In pain, I reached the threshold. In the treshold, we embraced.

When I woke up, my nose was bleeding and my sheets were stained. I was feverish, covered in sweat.

I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

[Don Nadie]

The Rumor Mill

I was, I think, a little moved when Reyer sought me. Even if I had already done my own digging, and he was the third (or fourth?) to tell me. I am, of course, an incredibly dedicated gossipmonger.

"Sharp as ever", he said.
Satisfaction glinting in his good eye.
"Still, went through some things, you and I"
"figured I might as well give you a heads up"

I found myself realizing I'm quite fond of the man. A bit of a surprise, all things considered. Who would've told the stubborn Student I was, endless annoyed at Colmes, that he'd call another Sergeant something like a friend? I suppose hell and mourning do a lot to bind people. With all the information, hopefully, this trap shall be easy enough to dodge. It may be worth talking to Caddick, at the very least.

"Good idea to be careful, always", mentioned Meadow, when I asked her.
"Reclutas", she added, "always turn thug"

Still, the new crop of Reclutas seems particularly hostile, at least with me. Eager to show their rudeness, to push around. For all his faults, Vico at least had a charm those I've met recently sorely lack. His every word was a threat, of course, but  he was relatively charming about it. If I'm going to be threatened violence, I should at least feel as though may get laid before, during, or after. Just saying.

"Of course", she added, after being the first to tell me.
Her smile serene and perfect, unbreakable.
"You didn't hear this from me"

Odd, to think of Vico nowadays. His name has been almost forgotten, it seems. Or at least, I rarely hear it. I suppose most people mourn those they loved, and not those they hated or feared. Perhaps they still drink to his health in the Fortress, but it doesn't really seem so. Mostly, it is almost as though some of the Rossans were... Relieved?

"He's just a distraction", said the Secretary, a while back.
"Will be dead and forgotten in a month"

He was very definitely not wrong.
Can't deny a certain emptiness to all of these rumors and preoccupations. As though what happens up here was an illusion... While Truth awaits me (and calls me) Below.