When there is a Mother below, there is no Daughter beside, and Mother beside mourns her.
People move on with their lives.
They don't forget--of course they don't forget--but the things that consumed their lives take up smaller pieces. We are born to survive, and though that is true of creatures bound by more traditional rules of evolution, it is particularly true of those who are immortal.
Immortals are not known for reproducing regularly. They live, individually and eternally, or they do not exist.
The seasons follow Mother beside's moods. She does not always force this, though she can. Often, it is simply the natural way of things. Often, none but Mother beside could say whether the moods follow her weather, or the weather her moods.
When her daughter is away, she mourns, for she knows her daughter's hurt, and for this is the closest thing to death that Daughter beside is likely to experience.
Yet, still. People move on with their lives. Mother beside is no different in that.
There is winter, and there is snowfall, and these reflect her moods. The weather reflects her emotions. The gods give us names for many things, and concepts for more. Though the word is not named after her, there is a word for Mother beside's happiness in the midst of her mourning.
Apricity.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Friday, September 21, 2012
Clock
It's a fairly standard classroom. On a northwest corner, which means it has a splendid view of the main green area and a parking lot, and that the sun gets in everyone's eyes if no one draws the shades in the afternoon.
There's a clock, though it is perpetually frozen at 7:15. I've never been sure if that was 7:15AM or PM, though I wonder every time I go in the room. Chances are good no one knows--it's been stopped long enough to be relegated to, "No one considers telling maintenance" status, and chances are good that there had been no classes between 7 and 7 the day it stopped, so even the first class who saw it stopped probably wouldn't know.
I'm the timekeeper, because I always wear a watch, and because I check it nigh-compulsively, so I might as well be. Classes end ten minutes before the hour, so the church bell that chimes on the hour only tells us when class starts, not when it's finished.
The timekeeper is usually more important than I am, I'm told. Someone has class just after choir, and so we have to end at ten minutes before the hour on the dot, or else they'll be late to math, or biology, or whatever else. This year, no one has class after choir is supposed to end, so the whole affair is rather more casual.
Our director doesn't keep us. Or rather, she doesn't make us stay. Every time, she'll ask, "Do you mind staying a few more minutes?" If someone says yes or has an uncomfortable look, she'll dismiss us. If everyone is just looking around, checking for anyone else to have an issue, we'll sing for a few minutes more--five or ten, twenty once when we had a concert the next week.
In an old room, where the sun shines too brightly in your eyes and the clock hasn't told time more often than twice a day for some years, I have my favorite class.
There's a clock, though it is perpetually frozen at 7:15. I've never been sure if that was 7:15AM or PM, though I wonder every time I go in the room. Chances are good no one knows--it's been stopped long enough to be relegated to, "No one considers telling maintenance" status, and chances are good that there had been no classes between 7 and 7 the day it stopped, so even the first class who saw it stopped probably wouldn't know.
I'm the timekeeper, because I always wear a watch, and because I check it nigh-compulsively, so I might as well be. Classes end ten minutes before the hour, so the church bell that chimes on the hour only tells us when class starts, not when it's finished.
The timekeeper is usually more important than I am, I'm told. Someone has class just after choir, and so we have to end at ten minutes before the hour on the dot, or else they'll be late to math, or biology, or whatever else. This year, no one has class after choir is supposed to end, so the whole affair is rather more casual.
Our director doesn't keep us. Or rather, she doesn't make us stay. Every time, she'll ask, "Do you mind staying a few more minutes?" If someone says yes or has an uncomfortable look, she'll dismiss us. If everyone is just looking around, checking for anyone else to have an issue, we'll sing for a few minutes more--five or ten, twenty once when we had a concert the next week.
In an old room, where the sun shines too brightly in your eyes and the clock hasn't told time more often than twice a day for some years, I have my favorite class.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Tale
Between this post and the previous, this blog hit 5,000 views.
Once upon a time, I wrote a story. Well, truly that would be something like several thosandce or millionce upon a time, but I finished this one, which takes it down by a few orders of magnitude.
Specifically, I wrote this story--a mash-up of Stardust and Thor--while on an exceptionally long pair of plane rides and a layover when I should probably have been doing homework. I was flying back from a visit to Oberlin, and now I am beginning school here, and should probably be doing homework. Symmetry!
Below the story are several comments, all of which I appreciated. One word, however, surprised me. The word was, "Gaiman-y". I'm sure the commenter thought that I had been trying to emulate Neil Gaiman's style, as he had written Stardust, and so I took the comment for the compliment it was. I appreciated it beyond that because I admired Neil Gaiman's style. But, since A) I like to think I have a style of my own, B) Neil Gaiman can change style quite a lot between his books when it strikes his fancy, and C) I had never read Stardust, only seen the movie, the fact that someone thought I had mimicked his style struck me as odd. So, as one does when someone makes a comment I do not understand, I reread the story.
Oh, I thought. It's a fairy tale.
Which, in a way, it wasn't at all. Fairy tales are supposed to come from aural tradition, and have specific rules which I bent and skipped around every which way. But, in another more important way, of course it was. I was taking the stories of my culture, the world I knew, and putting them together in the fairy tale format. The fact that I happened to be adding together a movie based on a series of comic books based on a mythology and a movie based on a fairy-tale-ish book and then pushing those through the oddity that is my mind didn't matter terribly much. Or rather, it did.
Fairy tales are retellings. Even fairy tales like Hans Christian Anderson use the stories we grew up with, the rhythms and patterns we have in the back of our mind that tell us what should happen next. I used the patterns in the readers' minds, and used a few cues to tell them which headcanons I was accepting, and which I was tossing aside. There's no more obvious way to introduce an AU than describing canon and then saying, But that's not this story, and if there was a more obvious way to establish that I was trying to keep their personalities functionally the same, I did not know it. Having reread the story and thought, I reread the comment and smiled.
And that, dear children, is the story of how the most perplexing comment became my favorite.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Persephone, Kore, Prosperina
She was taken, a long while ago, longer ago than any could remember. Her mother found this, and so flew into a rage, or fell into a depression, but the important thing is that her mother was moved to an emotion, and that her mother was the mother whom we may call Mother Nature, Mother Earth, Harvest.
Mother lost her child, lost her to the barren below, and so all above became barren. Unlivable, nearly--not truly unlivable, as you know for we are not all dead, but many died, and many other prayed to Mother and to Father and to anyone above who might listen.
Father above came down to Father below on behalf of Mother beside, and asked Father below to give Mother beside her child.
The child was strong. People forget that sometimes. They take her image and dissolve it into one of tears and suffering and silliness, forget what she did. Sometimes we forget that the ability to endure is a virtue. Or we focus on the fact that she ate six seeds--six seeds of fresh fruit, when she had gone without any food, of above or below or beside, for so much longer than the months that we wait until harvest. She made one mistake, and that was important, but its importance is no reason to forget her strength.
The ferrier, the one who fed Persephone-Kore-Prosperina-Sleeping Beauty-daughter-child the pomegranate seeds, told Father below that she had eaten. Father below was pleased, for eating food of a realm binds one to that realm, and so now the daughter of Mother beside would stay with him.
Father above mediated, and decided that the daughter should remain below for one month for each seed she had eaten, and above for the other six. Half the year she is Daughter beside, and half Mother below.
Half the year she stays happily in her mother's place for her, where she dances in the light, and her mother makes light for her.
Half the year she sits by the one who stole her, and though her mother is moved by emotion, she sits unmoved by anything, and she endures.
(There was one good thing, in Father below's home. A young man came through, who had the power to move her to tears. But that is his tale, and this is hers.)
Mother lost her child, lost her to the barren below, and so all above became barren. Unlivable, nearly--not truly unlivable, as you know for we are not all dead, but many died, and many other prayed to Mother and to Father and to anyone above who might listen.
Father above came down to Father below on behalf of Mother beside, and asked Father below to give Mother beside her child.
The child was strong. People forget that sometimes. They take her image and dissolve it into one of tears and suffering and silliness, forget what she did. Sometimes we forget that the ability to endure is a virtue. Or we focus on the fact that she ate six seeds--six seeds of fresh fruit, when she had gone without any food, of above or below or beside, for so much longer than the months that we wait until harvest. She made one mistake, and that was important, but its importance is no reason to forget her strength.
The ferrier, the one who fed Persephone-Kore-Prosperina-Sleeping Beauty-daughter-child the pomegranate seeds, told Father below that she had eaten. Father below was pleased, for eating food of a realm binds one to that realm, and so now the daughter of Mother beside would stay with him.
Father above mediated, and decided that the daughter should remain below for one month for each seed she had eaten, and above for the other six. Half the year she is Daughter beside, and half Mother below.
Half the year she stays happily in her mother's place for her, where she dances in the light, and her mother makes light for her.
Half the year she sits by the one who stole her, and though her mother is moved by emotion, she sits unmoved by anything, and she endures.
(There was one good thing, in Father below's home. A young man came through, who had the power to move her to tears. But that is his tale, and this is hers.)
Friday, August 31, 2012
Firsts
A few months ago, I wrote of lasts and firsts. I'm back there again, this time entering a school rather than leaving one. Here is how it felt to me:
You are shown a large canyon, which you are meant to cross by jumping. This is possible, though difficult. You are shown this canyon often in pictures and other media, though you don't really understand the process of jumping yet. So you go off, and you learn jumping--not just because you will need to jump that canyon, but because canyon-jumping is a good skill. Along the way, you pick up a variety of other skills, some of which will help and some of which won't.
Then, you get a bit closer to when you're meant to jump. You start learning more about the canyon, though not a lot. You may visit it, and some of your friends are on the other side. They come back and visit every now and again--you can jump back, though most people don't do it a lot, because it's a bit of a pain. Some of the ones who jumped over smaller canyons do it--they get graded on things other than jump length, usually--but you saw the other sides of those canyons and decided you didn't particularly like any of them.
All that was school up until sophomore year of high school. During junior year, you're still training, but by the end your stretching, then walking toward the canyon. You start jogging, and feel like you're going faster than you've ever gone. There's a break where you walk in the middle, because you realize that the canyon is a ways off yet.
Then, you're running. Your life has come down to this one thing: just running. Whatever happened in the past doesn't matter, unless you think to be happy that you took some course in running, or berate yourself for being so slothful, before or now. Some people help--this is a marathon, and you need water, sometimes food, nearly always support, though sometimes the best support is simply being left alone to run, because this is life. This complete and utter focus, and this speed, these compose all your life. You finally reach the canyon, and you, along with many friends, jump.
The world goes black.
You think you're going to make it. Are you going to make it? You can hear a few classmates asking similar things, and others speaking from the other side. A few fall before the other side, and, to your surprise, they live. The surprise is odd, as you knew the canyon was not that deep. Still, it feels odd to know that one can miss this and be...fine.
In freefall, the world is different. A little disappointing. No total and complete focus, like the running. It feels a little empty for the first bit, though your feelings improve as time goes on.
You get your vision back, and can see, before most of the others, that you are right on track. The rest of this is freefall, and all will be well for you. Others stress for what seems like the longest time, the same stress you felt in the darkness, though the fear feels foreign to you now.
The ground. You see it coming, and make the most of this last bit of freefall. The running meant you could do little else, and you've been doing what you could to enjoy the in-between space after the stress before the canyon, before the stress after it. You'll be running again.
You hit the ground running, and take off at the same solid sprint you did right up to the other edge of the canyon. You get a few odd looks, and finally someone takes your arm, slowing then stopping you.
"You know," they say, "You have time. No rush."
You blink and step back, staring at the person, as it occurs to you that running isn't the only thing in your life anymore. Jumping the canyon isn't a major goal--it isn't even a particularly difficult one, anymore. You pause, trying to remember the last time you weren't running.
Then you thank the person, shrug at yourself, and go off to find what this side of the canyon has to offer.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Fox and Rabbit
Once there was a trickster named Rabbit, who often fell into misfortune and always dug her way out of it. Fox, who lived close by, was in the habit of finding her way into trouble and falling out of it.
A few miles from the pair of them, there lived a farmer who raised chicken and planted lettuce and corn. Now, Rabbit could live fine off what she could find in her neck of the woods, but lettuce was her favorite treat, so sometimes she'd sneak into the farmer's garden and run off with a few leaves of lettuce. She would always wait until the farmer was asleep, and she'd always only barely get out before the farmer shot her.
Fox could also live fine off what was around where she lived, but she happened to have a weakness for chicken. She wasn't much for planning, so she just copied whatever Rabbit did. Fox'd check every night to see if Rabbit was setting off to make the journey, and then Fox would follow. While Rabbit was sneaking silently into the garden, Fox would trot into the chicken coop. But, as Fox didn't choose for herself when she ate the chickens, she always took as many as she could, and so raised a great ruckus among the chickens and the metal in their coop.
As the farmer's sleeping quarters were nearer the garden than the chicken coop, she would awake to see Rabbit snatching a few leaves from her lettuce garden, and run off to shoot her before checking on the chickens--by which time Fox would have run off, scared from the shots and with a fat dead chicken in her mouth.
"Fox," Rabbit grumbled one day, when she'd nearly got her tail shot off the night before, "Why do you always make such a noise when you take the chickens?"
"Why not? It's never hurt me." Fox gave a smile and eyed Rabbit in a way that mad Rabbit a bit more careful.
"But what of the dead chickens you leave in the chicken coop?" Rabbit asked earnestly. "Wouldn't you rather have them, too?"
"I suppose..." said Fox.
"If you kept quiet, then you could take more than one back," Rabbit said. "And if you learned to pick your nights, then you wouldn't have to wait on me to want some lettuce--you could just go and eat a few chickens whenever you wanted."
"Very well. What can you teach me?"
"Well, you surely know that chickens are harder to catch than a few pieces of lettuce." Fox preened a bit as she nodded in agreement. "So you'll need to follow three rules if you want to catch them quietly. First, you'll have to go on a full moon." Going on a full moon wouldn't make any difference, but Rabbit didn't much like the idea of Fox eating up all the chickens--after all, rabbit meat was mighty tasty to a fox. "Second, you've got to go in quickly and quietly. And, third, when you leave the coop with your chickens, you've got to wash up in the water basin--as long as you've got water on your snout, the farmer can't follow you home even if she finds some chickens missing the next day." These rules struck Fox as reasonable, and so she agreed to them.
The next full moon, Rabbit snuck into the lettuce patch, and Fox snuck into the chicken coop, each as quiet as could be. Rabbit listened for Fox's footsteps into the chicken coop, then settled into some bushes a ways off to munch her lettuce and wait.
Fox splashed in the water barrel, being as thorough as she could, and naturally being quite loud in her splashing. A lamp lit in the house, and the farmer came out with her gun. As soon as she saw Fox, she shot after her, and Fox took off running, two chickens in her mouth.
When Rabbit came back to her home--after the fuss had died down--she found Fox waiting for her. "I nearly got my tail shot off!"
Rabbit hid a smirking twitch of her whiskers. "Didn't you wash up?"
"Of course! That's what got the farmer after me in the first place. I don't think your rules did me a lick of good."
"Well, did you get to eat more chickens than usual?"
"Yes...but that was just because I was quiet and quick, not because of anything you told me!"
"Then you've learned a good lesson, Fox." Fox started, realizing she'd been tricked, and Rabbit hopped into her home. By the time Fox recovered enough to chase Rabbit, she'd had already hidden herself neatly away.
Fox did learn, and she's come up with many tricks since then, but she learned her first from Rabbit, and has run three steps behind her ever since.
"I suppose..." said Fox.
"If you kept quiet, then you could take more than one back," Rabbit said. "And if you learned to pick your nights, then you wouldn't have to wait on me to want some lettuce--you could just go and eat a few chickens whenever you wanted."
"Very well. What can you teach me?"
"Well, you surely know that chickens are harder to catch than a few pieces of lettuce." Fox preened a bit as she nodded in agreement. "So you'll need to follow three rules if you want to catch them quietly. First, you'll have to go on a full moon." Going on a full moon wouldn't make any difference, but Rabbit didn't much like the idea of Fox eating up all the chickens--after all, rabbit meat was mighty tasty to a fox. "Second, you've got to go in quickly and quietly. And, third, when you leave the coop with your chickens, you've got to wash up in the water basin--as long as you've got water on your snout, the farmer can't follow you home even if she finds some chickens missing the next day." These rules struck Fox as reasonable, and so she agreed to them.
The next full moon, Rabbit snuck into the lettuce patch, and Fox snuck into the chicken coop, each as quiet as could be. Rabbit listened for Fox's footsteps into the chicken coop, then settled into some bushes a ways off to munch her lettuce and wait.
Fox splashed in the water barrel, being as thorough as she could, and naturally being quite loud in her splashing. A lamp lit in the house, and the farmer came out with her gun. As soon as she saw Fox, she shot after her, and Fox took off running, two chickens in her mouth.
When Rabbit came back to her home--after the fuss had died down--she found Fox waiting for her. "I nearly got my tail shot off!"
Rabbit hid a smirking twitch of her whiskers. "Didn't you wash up?"
"Of course! That's what got the farmer after me in the first place. I don't think your rules did me a lick of good."
"Well, did you get to eat more chickens than usual?"
"Yes...but that was just because I was quiet and quick, not because of anything you told me!"
"Then you've learned a good lesson, Fox." Fox started, realizing she'd been tricked, and Rabbit hopped into her home. By the time Fox recovered enough to chase Rabbit, she'd had already hidden herself neatly away.
Fox did learn, and she's come up with many tricks since then, but she learned her first from Rabbit, and has run three steps behind her ever since.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Cassidy May
Cassidy May knew her priorities.
Many people did, she found. They might pretend they didn't, or try not to think of it, but they knew, and she'd been taught to be honest with herself.
They were nearly always the same, too. The shared ones, anyway. Where you valued yourself varied with your self-worth, and there weren't any words for different kinds of friends, so those could go anywhere, but family was easy.
First, the children. Many people genuinely had trouble here, but Cassidy May didn't, because she had but one child. A beautiful child with hair as dark as night, whom she'd die or kill for.
Next, one's mate. This was an important term, and one Cassidy May couldn't find a perfect word for. One's spouse almost always counted, and one's boyfriend or girlfriend rarely did unless you were married in every way but the ceremonial one. The salt and pepper shakers were mates, because they weren't a whole thing without the other. That's what a mate was. And, though a mate would nearly always occupy this space, you would do more for a mate you had a child by.
Then came siblings. This was where people would start to balk at her. Those who weren't siblings would say siblings should come after parents, and those who had siblings but not mates would insist that siblings would always be more important. But those who had both tended to go quiet in the way that meant agreement.
Some cousins and some friends were siblings, in truth, and were sorted that way. It would be hard to choose between them, but the issue generally didn't come up--if only one sibling was in danger, you all fought for them. If more than one was, you fought for everyone. Siblings fought for each other.
Next came parents. It was easier than one might think to put parents after one's children, mate, and siblings, because your parents saw it as their grandchildren, their child's happiness, and their children. Cassidy May never asked, and they never said, but this is the highest place on the list that the parents would accept.
The rest got fuzzier. No etiquette, no demands. Friends didn't need to be family to be some of the most important things in the world to you. But, important as they were, they were still friends, and there was no familial duty to them. That was what a friend was, when they weren't family, too--you choose them, every step of the way, and they choose you. Cassidy May could imagine choosing to anger a family member for the sake of a friend, or even to cut off all contact. But when it came right down to life or death, she knew where she'd place herself.
Whatever else family might be, it wasn't a choice.
Many people did, she found. They might pretend they didn't, or try not to think of it, but they knew, and she'd been taught to be honest with herself.
They were nearly always the same, too. The shared ones, anyway. Where you valued yourself varied with your self-worth, and there weren't any words for different kinds of friends, so those could go anywhere, but family was easy.
First, the children. Many people genuinely had trouble here, but Cassidy May didn't, because she had but one child. A beautiful child with hair as dark as night, whom she'd die or kill for.
Next, one's mate. This was an important term, and one Cassidy May couldn't find a perfect word for. One's spouse almost always counted, and one's boyfriend or girlfriend rarely did unless you were married in every way but the ceremonial one. The salt and pepper shakers were mates, because they weren't a whole thing without the other. That's what a mate was. And, though a mate would nearly always occupy this space, you would do more for a mate you had a child by.
Then came siblings. This was where people would start to balk at her. Those who weren't siblings would say siblings should come after parents, and those who had siblings but not mates would insist that siblings would always be more important. But those who had both tended to go quiet in the way that meant agreement.
Some cousins and some friends were siblings, in truth, and were sorted that way. It would be hard to choose between them, but the issue generally didn't come up--if only one sibling was in danger, you all fought for them. If more than one was, you fought for everyone. Siblings fought for each other.
Next came parents. It was easier than one might think to put parents after one's children, mate, and siblings, because your parents saw it as their grandchildren, their child's happiness, and their children. Cassidy May never asked, and they never said, but this is the highest place on the list that the parents would accept.
The rest got fuzzier. No etiquette, no demands. Friends didn't need to be family to be some of the most important things in the world to you. But, important as they were, they were still friends, and there was no familial duty to them. That was what a friend was, when they weren't family, too--you choose them, every step of the way, and they choose you. Cassidy May could imagine choosing to anger a family member for the sake of a friend, or even to cut off all contact. But when it came right down to life or death, she knew where she'd place herself.
Whatever else family might be, it wasn't a choice.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Heart's Blood
The first clue that I had it was paranoia.
Well. One could make an argument that the first clue was being fucking stabbed, but the second symptom is paranoia, and I happened to be drunk for the first symptom. And obviously, if I get drunk, then stumble back saying I got stabbed, it must just be an early manifestation of the paranoia. Which, y'know, hadn't actually manifested yet. But who's counting?
The second symptom was paranoia. Then mood swings, which were dismissed as part of the paranoia--they might well have been, though I've been told mood swings can manifest first. I'm not entirely sure why they bothered telling me this. I'm sure it could have waited.
Waited until after what, Kissinger? I'm glad you asked. And mildly surprised you know my name.
You remember the "fucking stabbed" part? Yeah. It was half-stabbing, half-injection, though it felt for all the world like a slick knife. And it's this weird chemical thing that has been explained as "magic" when I asked, which isn't actually any more of an explanation than, "science", but apparently explaining the thing I asked about was less important than talking about the theory of the manifestations of various symptoms.
I'm above a tray. They gave me some local anesthetic, which is good since they sliced straight from skin to heart, but any drug that would put me under would kill me with this "magic" in my system, so I happen to be wide awake. They gave me my computer when I made the point that a paranoid whose heart was being drained was not going to fall asleep. The doctor didn't seem entirely used to the idea of a functioning paranoid. I thought that they might kill me, not that they'd be stupid enough to do it when I'm in screaming distance of this many people. Or something. Admittedly, my justification for this is growing fuzzier as the magic wears off.
The first inch or so in the dish was this green stuff. It didn't smell like anything, but it looked deadly. Apparently that's an instinctive reaction, which is impressive if you ask me. Humans have instinctive reactions to smells and sensations--rotting human flesh, for instance, or fire--but that sort of reaction to a thing I just saw? That's rare. We have to learn that fire is hot, for heaven's sake. Sight just doesn't link up to instincts that often.
They sliced between two ribs, by the way. Apparently all the slime will drain out on its own, once we give my body a way to push it out. I'm not supposed to touch it, though they didn't need to tell me. Like I said--this green slime looks like death. I don't want to know what it feels like.
After a while, the slime started thickening up--like exposed blood, moving more sluggishly. Someone came in with a really small hose, like a dentist tool, and turned it on high power into the slit. The goop came out in chunks in the bubbly-white stream of water, then stopped coming altogether. The doctor sprayed for a bit, then, ah...
Apparently the local anesthetic doesn't effect visceral pain. Or something. I dunno. It wasn't pain, really, it was more my entire body deciding that nothing was important except using my sensory system to say STOP. Apparently that's normal.
She took out this really smooth blade. There were two sharp edges, the flat of the blade bowed outward, and the whole thing looked like a chunk of graphite. Whatever it was, it wasn't as soft as graphite, since it didn't come off on her gloves.
There were two more. One was actually grown into my heart, so she had to twist it like a loose tooth hanging on by that last thread of gum. Which, you may remember from childhood, hurts like hell. Again, no sharp pain--just the visceral THIS IS BAD from every part of my body, strong enough to unfocus my vision.
The hose again, this time in the incision, to dislodge the last bits of diamond-graphite-whatever. Visceral pain. I'm probably boring you by now. Honestly it bored me; the visceral pain was still the whole-body NO of the first two times, but when I got my wits back I thought it was sort of boring of the disease to be reduced from paranoia and other psychological difficulties to just some random spasms of pain.
The shiny grey bits landed in the tray. One hit the tray itself and went ting, a few hit the goop and didn't make a sound beyond a very quiet plop, and one hit another chunk of the stuff and made a quieter tapping noise.
The hose water cleared up, though I hadn't noticed that it'd been a little gray until that moment. Then it added another color, and I got one more boring split-second of visceral pain before she took the hose out and I recognized the shade: the peculiar orange of blood in water.
"Almost done," she murmured soothingly. It got pretty boring. A needle that I couldn't feel, a tiny thread stitching the hole together through the blood. She might as well have been sewing up a hole in my shirt.
"That will smart a bit when the anesthetic wears off," she said. "And you'll get a small bruise that should fade two weeks. The"--she used a word that had four syllables and sounded Greek--"was transferring the physical pain into psychological pain, so if you've got any scrapes, you'll start to notice them, and we'll be keeping you overnight for observation. Change the bandage according to the instructions on the packet and don't sleep on your stomach and you'll be fine. Only use the bandages we provide, because..."
I nodded, eyes dipping drowsily. It was more information than I felt like processing, but it boiled down to not disturbing the bandages and following the instructions on the paper I'd be given. That was intuitive enough.
I slept.
Well. One could make an argument that the first clue was being fucking stabbed, but the second symptom is paranoia, and I happened to be drunk for the first symptom. And obviously, if I get drunk, then stumble back saying I got stabbed, it must just be an early manifestation of the paranoia. Which, y'know, hadn't actually manifested yet. But who's counting?
The second symptom was paranoia. Then mood swings, which were dismissed as part of the paranoia--they might well have been, though I've been told mood swings can manifest first. I'm not entirely sure why they bothered telling me this. I'm sure it could have waited.
Waited until after what, Kissinger? I'm glad you asked. And mildly surprised you know my name.
You remember the "fucking stabbed" part? Yeah. It was half-stabbing, half-injection, though it felt for all the world like a slick knife. And it's this weird chemical thing that has been explained as "magic" when I asked, which isn't actually any more of an explanation than, "science", but apparently explaining the thing I asked about was less important than talking about the theory of the manifestations of various symptoms.
I'm above a tray. They gave me some local anesthetic, which is good since they sliced straight from skin to heart, but any drug that would put me under would kill me with this "magic" in my system, so I happen to be wide awake. They gave me my computer when I made the point that a paranoid whose heart was being drained was not going to fall asleep. The doctor didn't seem entirely used to the idea of a functioning paranoid. I thought that they might kill me, not that they'd be stupid enough to do it when I'm in screaming distance of this many people. Or something. Admittedly, my justification for this is growing fuzzier as the magic wears off.
The first inch or so in the dish was this green stuff. It didn't smell like anything, but it looked deadly. Apparently that's an instinctive reaction, which is impressive if you ask me. Humans have instinctive reactions to smells and sensations--rotting human flesh, for instance, or fire--but that sort of reaction to a thing I just saw? That's rare. We have to learn that fire is hot, for heaven's sake. Sight just doesn't link up to instincts that often.
They sliced between two ribs, by the way. Apparently all the slime will drain out on its own, once we give my body a way to push it out. I'm not supposed to touch it, though they didn't need to tell me. Like I said--this green slime looks like death. I don't want to know what it feels like.
After a while, the slime started thickening up--like exposed blood, moving more sluggishly. Someone came in with a really small hose, like a dentist tool, and turned it on high power into the slit. The goop came out in chunks in the bubbly-white stream of water, then stopped coming altogether. The doctor sprayed for a bit, then, ah...
Apparently the local anesthetic doesn't effect visceral pain. Or something. I dunno. It wasn't pain, really, it was more my entire body deciding that nothing was important except using my sensory system to say STOP. Apparently that's normal.
She took out this really smooth blade. There were two sharp edges, the flat of the blade bowed outward, and the whole thing looked like a chunk of graphite. Whatever it was, it wasn't as soft as graphite, since it didn't come off on her gloves.
There were two more. One was actually grown into my heart, so she had to twist it like a loose tooth hanging on by that last thread of gum. Which, you may remember from childhood, hurts like hell. Again, no sharp pain--just the visceral THIS IS BAD from every part of my body, strong enough to unfocus my vision.
The hose again, this time in the incision, to dislodge the last bits of diamond-graphite-whatever. Visceral pain. I'm probably boring you by now. Honestly it bored me; the visceral pain was still the whole-body NO of the first two times, but when I got my wits back I thought it was sort of boring of the disease to be reduced from paranoia and other psychological difficulties to just some random spasms of pain.
The shiny grey bits landed in the tray. One hit the tray itself and went ting, a few hit the goop and didn't make a sound beyond a very quiet plop, and one hit another chunk of the stuff and made a quieter tapping noise.
The hose water cleared up, though I hadn't noticed that it'd been a little gray until that moment. Then it added another color, and I got one more boring split-second of visceral pain before she took the hose out and I recognized the shade: the peculiar orange of blood in water.
"Almost done," she murmured soothingly. It got pretty boring. A needle that I couldn't feel, a tiny thread stitching the hole together through the blood. She might as well have been sewing up a hole in my shirt.
"That will smart a bit when the anesthetic wears off," she said. "And you'll get a small bruise that should fade two weeks. The"--she used a word that had four syllables and sounded Greek--"was transferring the physical pain into psychological pain, so if you've got any scrapes, you'll start to notice them, and we'll be keeping you overnight for observation. Change the bandage according to the instructions on the packet and don't sleep on your stomach and you'll be fine. Only use the bandages we provide, because..."
I nodded, eyes dipping drowsily. It was more information than I felt like processing, but it boiled down to not disturbing the bandages and following the instructions on the paper I'd be given. That was intuitive enough.
I slept.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
First
Gather 'round the camp fire, little ones all. I've a story to tell.
There is a place, oft described simply as gaping chaos, twixt frost and fire. It swirled, and still does, and once it brought together two important shapes. One was nearly like a man, though no more so than he was like a bear, and who was warm, though could find a home in the snow. One was a cow, who ate what was around and gave milk to the man. From these two shapes came nearly everything else, directly or indirectly.
Three came before the two. One might call them sisters, though they did not have parents any more than the cow, or the man. If you saw them for what they were, but did not ask their names, you would call them the fates. They know all that has happened, and all that is happening, and all that will happen. They keep the stability needed for life in this world, and they weave the threads that mark one forgotten, unsung, or remembered throughout the world. Fate. Duty. Future.
The three may have had power over the gaping chaos, or perhaps had as little power over it as any other being. But what came from it--they knew that, had that.
They weave threads, weave lives. And I, though I may be but one thread, weave stories. I make something of nothing, as the three's originating chaos did.
There is a place, oft described simply as gaping chaos, twixt frost and fire. It swirled, and still does, and once it brought together two important shapes. One was nearly like a man, though no more so than he was like a bear, and who was warm, though could find a home in the snow. One was a cow, who ate what was around and gave milk to the man. From these two shapes came nearly everything else, directly or indirectly.
Three came before the two. One might call them sisters, though they did not have parents any more than the cow, or the man. If you saw them for what they were, but did not ask their names, you would call them the fates. They know all that has happened, and all that is happening, and all that will happen. They keep the stability needed for life in this world, and they weave the threads that mark one forgotten, unsung, or remembered throughout the world. Fate. Duty. Future.
The three may have had power over the gaping chaos, or perhaps had as little power over it as any other being. But what came from it--they knew that, had that.
They weave threads, weave lives. And I, though I may be but one thread, weave stories. I make something of nothing, as the three's originating chaos did.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Spun Gold
Almost everything has rules. We forget our own, often, because we are so used to them. And we forget the rules of ordinary things, for they are around us so often. Even so, we know them. We can spot when a tree's growth has been disturbed, because some rules for trees are, "Grow like this in no wind. Grow like this when someone has sliced through you. Grow like this when the wind always blows in this direction." Such rules are unbreakable, for the tree does not know how to break them.
Humans have rules. These rules are breakable, so we know the penalty is death. Eat regularly, but do not eat this. Breathe. Be around others occasionally, though they need not be human.
Similarly, other folk have rules. Their rules of growth are not a tree's, nor their rules of food a human's. But the rules are still there. There is one creature, a small one, who often goes covered in the dust of the road--for dirt does not make such a being ill, but stillness does. It is gifted with many wondrous powers of metalworking, and needs little food, little rest.
The being's rules are at once selfless and selfish. The being may only work in service of a deal made with another. Working, always, for another, but without payment. This is a rule, and one of this kind could no more break this rule than you could drink poison.
One day, during his travels, such a being came by a room where a maiden lay weeping. He climbed up the wall and slipped through the window in the rock. "Why do you cry, miss?" (Lack of politeness leads to lack of deals leads to idleness and illness. His mother had made him memorize that one as a boy, in exchange for a trip to a stream he had been interested in.)
"My father has told the king that I can spin straw into gold, and if I do not spin all the straw in this room by morning, then the king shall kill my father and me both for lying to royalty."
"Why do you not spin?"
The woman turned to him, then adjusted her gaze downward to account for his height. "I can't!"
"Oh." The littler one paused. "I could. What would you give me, for doing it?"
"I--I can't thing of anything I could give of value to one who could spin straw to gold. But my father dressed me as well as he could for my visit to His Majesty, would you take this silver ring as payment?" The woman took a simple silver band off her ring finger.
"Silver is quite valuable to me," the metalworker said. It was true, if misleading--not, more valuable than gold, but still valuable, since he could not take the gold he could spin. "The ring is payment enough for spinning this room. Rest, and it shall be spun when you wake."
The woman gave him her ring, and let the wheel's spinning lull her to sleep. The next day, the little spinner slept in a nook where a stone had fallen out of the castle, for he had need of a rest after having spun all that night.
That evening, he was again woken by crying. He climbed around the king's castle until he found the new and larger room, with the same woman. "Why do you cry now, dear?" (The second time you make a deal with the same person, make sure they know you remember them. Do not be forward, but be friendlier than you were last time. The piece of advice his elder sibling had given him, when they met and exchanged wisdom.)
"The king--he demanded that I spin another room of straw into gold for him, and tells me that if I do not, he shall kill me at dawn for impudence, and take father's mill as a lesson to those who raise ill-mannered children."
"Ah." The little metalworker looked about. "I could spin this in a night. What would you give me, if I did?"
"I--I have a bronze charm, on my necklace," she said, tapping a circle of bronze that hung on a flimsy-looking chain. It had an image of a dove carved into it.
"That much bronze is not of much value to me"--her face fell--"but the working on it is. Hand me the necklace, and rest. The gold will be spun when you wake."
The woman gave him her necklace, and let the wheel's spinning lull her to sleep. The next day, the little spinner searched for the third and largest room filled with straw. (The advice he'd told his sibling when they met was, When you've made two deals of the same sort with the same person, there will probably be a third.) He settled in the straw, and waited to hear the king's terms this night.
"Weave this straw into gold. If you succeed, then you shall be my wife the queen." Then he left the room.
"No threats?" The metalworker commented, jumping down from the straw.
"I don't think he feels he needs them anymore," the woman said back.
"Right." He looked around the room and was glad he had come early rather than looking for her. He could spin the room into gold in a night, but only barely. "What would you give me, if I spun this to gold in a night?"
"I have nothing left to give you," she said softly. The woman might have wept, but it was the third night where she might die the next day, and there's only so much weeping a body can stand.
"Hm." He glanced about the room for any inspiration, then noticed the small indentation he had left in the straw. "Your firstborn child, when you are queen."
"He won't make me queen, not really."
The little spinner shrugged. "Then you would lose nothing. Is it a deal?"
The woman hesitated, then nodded and shook his hand.
"Rest. I shall spin."
The woman slept fitfully. The wheel lulled her to sleep, but she had troubled dreams that night. The little spinner put it down to not being worn out from crying and not knowing if he could spin as quickly as he said he could.
After that night, the small fellow wandered, as was his wont. Eventually, he judged that there had been time enough for a child to be born and weaned, he returned to the castle to finish his deal. He climbed the walls and looked for the queen, this time starting as far away from the rooms of straw as he could, since he was searching for a place where the queen felt safe enough to sleep.
"Your Majesty," he said by way of greeting. "I have come for the child."
Pain flashed onto her face, and it surprised him. His mother had sent him off on his own earlier than this, and humans left their children to churches all the time. Why...?
"Can't there be another way?" she begged. "Please, another deal?"
The begging was what made him stop. Facing death for herself and her father, losing the only valuable possessions her family had ever had, she had never begged, only bargained. "Very well," he said, trying to think of something he could do. Betting would do, he decided. Gambling the child, and leaving him in his room as neutral ground until the gamble was decided. "If you can guess my name in three days, then the child shall be yours."
The woman nodded, but clutched her child rather than shaking hands. The little spinner slipped out.
The first night, she guessed odd names, which were all the odder for being odd human names. He knew some of his kind who took common human names to blend in, but he had never seen one of his take such a rare name. He shook his head at every guess.
The next night, she guessed a few names that were somewhat common to his kind, and exceedingly rare in humans. They had more syllables, and had the right rhythm to them.
Just before sunset of her last day, the little metalworker went to the forest and found a trusted servant the queen had sent to search for names. He played the part of a bard, and asked for a few coins to perform a song. The servant, who had not been able to find any names but the ones the queen had already guessed, flipped a few coins at the little spinner, on the half-hearted hope that the song would have some name she had not yet found.
Though the queen thinks herself wise,
None she sends use ears, only eyes,
And look as they might, they'd never see,
A name only spoken--'Rumpelstiltskin', me!
The servant leapt up without another word, to tell the queen of what she had heard.
When Rumpelstiltskin entered the room for the last night of guesses, the queen could hardly contain her delight. She guessed two names, which she doubtless thought were silly guesses--names common among humans, perhaps even from friends she'd had when she was young. Then, eyes glittering with suppressed laughter, she asked, "Is your name...Rumpelstiltskin?"
"Oh! You have won the bet, Your Majesty, and I must be off." He bowed low, then bounded out the nearest window, all pent-up energy and wanderlust.
Three days was far too long to be in one place.
Humans have rules. These rules are breakable, so we know the penalty is death. Eat regularly, but do not eat this. Breathe. Be around others occasionally, though they need not be human.
Similarly, other folk have rules. Their rules of growth are not a tree's, nor their rules of food a human's. But the rules are still there. There is one creature, a small one, who often goes covered in the dust of the road--for dirt does not make such a being ill, but stillness does. It is gifted with many wondrous powers of metalworking, and needs little food, little rest.
The being's rules are at once selfless and selfish. The being may only work in service of a deal made with another. Working, always, for another, but without payment. This is a rule, and one of this kind could no more break this rule than you could drink poison.
One day, during his travels, such a being came by a room where a maiden lay weeping. He climbed up the wall and slipped through the window in the rock. "Why do you cry, miss?" (Lack of politeness leads to lack of deals leads to idleness and illness. His mother had made him memorize that one as a boy, in exchange for a trip to a stream he had been interested in.)
"My father has told the king that I can spin straw into gold, and if I do not spin all the straw in this room by morning, then the king shall kill my father and me both for lying to royalty."
"Why do you not spin?"
The woman turned to him, then adjusted her gaze downward to account for his height. "I can't!"
"Oh." The littler one paused. "I could. What would you give me, for doing it?"
"I--I can't thing of anything I could give of value to one who could spin straw to gold. But my father dressed me as well as he could for my visit to His Majesty, would you take this silver ring as payment?" The woman took a simple silver band off her ring finger.
"Silver is quite valuable to me," the metalworker said. It was true, if misleading--not, more valuable than gold, but still valuable, since he could not take the gold he could spin. "The ring is payment enough for spinning this room. Rest, and it shall be spun when you wake."
The woman gave him her ring, and let the wheel's spinning lull her to sleep. The next day, the little spinner slept in a nook where a stone had fallen out of the castle, for he had need of a rest after having spun all that night.
That evening, he was again woken by crying. He climbed around the king's castle until he found the new and larger room, with the same woman. "Why do you cry now, dear?" (The second time you make a deal with the same person, make sure they know you remember them. Do not be forward, but be friendlier than you were last time. The piece of advice his elder sibling had given him, when they met and exchanged wisdom.)
"The king--he demanded that I spin another room of straw into gold for him, and tells me that if I do not, he shall kill me at dawn for impudence, and take father's mill as a lesson to those who raise ill-mannered children."
"Ah." The little metalworker looked about. "I could spin this in a night. What would you give me, if I did?"
"I--I have a bronze charm, on my necklace," she said, tapping a circle of bronze that hung on a flimsy-looking chain. It had an image of a dove carved into it.
"That much bronze is not of much value to me"--her face fell--"but the working on it is. Hand me the necklace, and rest. The gold will be spun when you wake."
The woman gave him her necklace, and let the wheel's spinning lull her to sleep. The next day, the little spinner searched for the third and largest room filled with straw. (The advice he'd told his sibling when they met was, When you've made two deals of the same sort with the same person, there will probably be a third.) He settled in the straw, and waited to hear the king's terms this night.
"Weave this straw into gold. If you succeed, then you shall be my wife the queen." Then he left the room.
"No threats?" The metalworker commented, jumping down from the straw.
"I don't think he feels he needs them anymore," the woman said back.
"Right." He looked around the room and was glad he had come early rather than looking for her. He could spin the room into gold in a night, but only barely. "What would you give me, if I spun this to gold in a night?"
"I have nothing left to give you," she said softly. The woman might have wept, but it was the third night where she might die the next day, and there's only so much weeping a body can stand.
"Hm." He glanced about the room for any inspiration, then noticed the small indentation he had left in the straw. "Your firstborn child, when you are queen."
"He won't make me queen, not really."
The little spinner shrugged. "Then you would lose nothing. Is it a deal?"
The woman hesitated, then nodded and shook his hand.
"Rest. I shall spin."
The woman slept fitfully. The wheel lulled her to sleep, but she had troubled dreams that night. The little spinner put it down to not being worn out from crying and not knowing if he could spin as quickly as he said he could.
After that night, the small fellow wandered, as was his wont. Eventually, he judged that there had been time enough for a child to be born and weaned, he returned to the castle to finish his deal. He climbed the walls and looked for the queen, this time starting as far away from the rooms of straw as he could, since he was searching for a place where the queen felt safe enough to sleep.
"Your Majesty," he said by way of greeting. "I have come for the child."
Pain flashed onto her face, and it surprised him. His mother had sent him off on his own earlier than this, and humans left their children to churches all the time. Why...?
"Can't there be another way?" she begged. "Please, another deal?"
The begging was what made him stop. Facing death for herself and her father, losing the only valuable possessions her family had ever had, she had never begged, only bargained. "Very well," he said, trying to think of something he could do. Betting would do, he decided. Gambling the child, and leaving him in his room as neutral ground until the gamble was decided. "If you can guess my name in three days, then the child shall be yours."
The woman nodded, but clutched her child rather than shaking hands. The little spinner slipped out.
The first night, she guessed odd names, which were all the odder for being odd human names. He knew some of his kind who took common human names to blend in, but he had never seen one of his take such a rare name. He shook his head at every guess.
The next night, she guessed a few names that were somewhat common to his kind, and exceedingly rare in humans. They had more syllables, and had the right rhythm to them.
Just before sunset of her last day, the little metalworker went to the forest and found a trusted servant the queen had sent to search for names. He played the part of a bard, and asked for a few coins to perform a song. The servant, who had not been able to find any names but the ones the queen had already guessed, flipped a few coins at the little spinner, on the half-hearted hope that the song would have some name she had not yet found.
Though the queen thinks herself wise,
None she sends use ears, only eyes,
And look as they might, they'd never see,
A name only spoken--'Rumpelstiltskin', me!
The servant leapt up without another word, to tell the queen of what she had heard.
When Rumpelstiltskin entered the room for the last night of guesses, the queen could hardly contain her delight. She guessed two names, which she doubtless thought were silly guesses--names common among humans, perhaps even from friends she'd had when she was young. Then, eyes glittering with suppressed laughter, she asked, "Is your name...Rumpelstiltskin?"
"Oh! You have won the bet, Your Majesty, and I must be off." He bowed low, then bounded out the nearest window, all pent-up energy and wanderlust.
Three days was far too long to be in one place.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Witch-Queen (Witch)
Not the same story as the other two, but inspired by the same idea.
Once, there lived a princess who was also a witch. She make her land perpetually prosperous and well fed. For reasons of her magic, she could not marry without love, even when her parents died, leaving the kingdom without heirs and without the respect her parents had drawn. Many armies came to take the lovely kingdom, so the witch-queen drew up a thick and thorny bush about her home. When the armies failed, the kingdoms began to send princes and other nobles from their lands, to win her heart.
From her room in the highest tower, she would challenge each suitor to make their way through the thorny bushes, where just-slashed thorns would grow back as soon as one entered, striking through armor and skin. None could defeat her magics.
One day, a young man rode up to the bush nearest her tower. "Hail, Witch-Queen."
"Hail, traveler," the witch-queen said, coming to her window. "Are you here to present a suit?"
"No, Your Majesty. I merely wished to meet one as strong in will and magic as yourself."
She nodded, a large enough gesture to be seen from the top of her tower. "So you have done." Many nobles took great offense at such replies, and it was a simple enough way to have fewer fertilizing her briar and more protecting their people.
The man grinned widely enough for the witch-queen to see it from her tower. "I would know you better than an exchange of hellos. I have some magics of my own, and I am in need of a tutor. Whoever taught you must be a fine teacher indeed."
"I taught myself."
"Then you are more powerful than any tale has told me."
And the witch-queen granted him some of his wish, for it is bad luck to turn away a traveler, and because a fellow mage interested her.
Soon enough, the witch-queen allowed the man within the thorny bushes, though when the witch-queen slept, the young man stayed in a room which locked from the outside. Friend or not, the man was indeed versed in the craft, and gaining new talent each day.
"May I not sleep somewhere more comfortable?" The man asked after dinner, in his eighth or ninth month in the witch-queen's palace.
"You may choose any chambers in the castle, though I shall place a lock on any chambers you choose." The man was no noble after her heart for a prize, and anything else was irrelevant.
The man smiled. "I may choose any chambers in the castle?"
The witch-queen nodded. "Should a servant wish to not share a room with you, they could always move."The witch-queen did not say, but thought, If you wished to do one harm, you would not need to enter their chambers.
"There is one room I enjoy, I admit." The man smiled in a way that made something twist in the witch-queen's gut. "I quite enjoy the view from the room atop the highest tower in this palace."
The witch-queen's eyebrows rose, and then she laughed.
"As I have given my word, so shall it be. You may move in a week, when the smith has made an appropriate lock, and I have spelled it as I need."
The man rose from the empty table. "Thank you, Your Majesty." He said with a smile and a deep bow.
By the next week, they shared chambers, though not a bed. Because it was most convenient, their lessons gradually moved to before breakfast and after dinner, when the subjects petitioning the witch-queen were in their beds, and even the bravest of suitors would not enter the thorny bushes.
"How did you learn all this on your own?" the man asked as they settled for the evening.
The witch-queen looked at him, considering. Then she said, "Magic is simple to do on oneself."
He nodded.
"The ruler is the land. The magic you know me so versed in is magic of the land. Every spell I cast, I cast on myself." They remained quiet for a time after that, and the witch-queen knew that there would be no more lessons discussed that evening. She dimmed the lamp.
"What does that do to you?"
"Hm?"
"You are the land. You drew up a great wall of thorns to protect you home. I may not know as much magic as you know, Your Majesty, but I know enough."
The witch-queen shrugged. "I became what my people needed, as the land did. I could only wed one whom I loved, but I promised my mother and father that I would marry if I could." She stared at the ceiling. She'd never told anyone that. "I could not be marrying the first man who came along. I put up thorns against armies, and thorns against suitors."
There was a silence long enough for the witch-queen to believe the man had fallen asleep before he said, "You parted the thorns for one."
The witch-queen glanced at him, his eyes bright and keen in the moonlight. She remembered what she had learned of him: that he was clever, quick to learn, and kind to her and to her subjects. And, though he had not been handsome when they first met and his appearance had never changed, she found herself thinking him quite handsome now.
"A kind stranger who asked for entrance, rather than demanding it as a right. Yes."
"And who counts himself blessed to have gotten as far as he has." He smiled. The witch-queen thought, Oh. That's what that is.
"I love you," she said, tasting words that she hadn't used since her parents' death.
"I love you, too." Odd to hear him say it second. He had declared his love ages ago; she had simply ignored his heart as she ignored the other suitors'.
"And had I not?"
"Then I would have a wonderful teacher and a better friend than most could find in several lifetimes." He paused. His brow furrowed. "Do I ask you to marry me, or do I ask you to ask me?"
"I will be sure to look it up later, and then we shall both say that the correct person asked." The witch-queen nodded to herself. "I always wanted to wed at midsummer, when I was a child."
The king-to-be grinned widely. "That sounds wonderful."
The witch-queen kept her powers, and at midsummer gained a witch-king. The thorny bushes about her kingdom remained, and every summer, from that day to this, bright roses bloomed upon them.
Once, there lived a princess who was also a witch. She make her land perpetually prosperous and well fed. For reasons of her magic, she could not marry without love, even when her parents died, leaving the kingdom without heirs and without the respect her parents had drawn. Many armies came to take the lovely kingdom, so the witch-queen drew up a thick and thorny bush about her home. When the armies failed, the kingdoms began to send princes and other nobles from their lands, to win her heart.
From her room in the highest tower, she would challenge each suitor to make their way through the thorny bushes, where just-slashed thorns would grow back as soon as one entered, striking through armor and skin. None could defeat her magics.
One day, a young man rode up to the bush nearest her tower. "Hail, Witch-Queen."
"Hail, traveler," the witch-queen said, coming to her window. "Are you here to present a suit?"
"No, Your Majesty. I merely wished to meet one as strong in will and magic as yourself."
She nodded, a large enough gesture to be seen from the top of her tower. "So you have done." Many nobles took great offense at such replies, and it was a simple enough way to have fewer fertilizing her briar and more protecting their people.
The man grinned widely enough for the witch-queen to see it from her tower. "I would know you better than an exchange of hellos. I have some magics of my own, and I am in need of a tutor. Whoever taught you must be a fine teacher indeed."
"I taught myself."
"Then you are more powerful than any tale has told me."
And the witch-queen granted him some of his wish, for it is bad luck to turn away a traveler, and because a fellow mage interested her.
Soon enough, the witch-queen allowed the man within the thorny bushes, though when the witch-queen slept, the young man stayed in a room which locked from the outside. Friend or not, the man was indeed versed in the craft, and gaining new talent each day.
"May I not sleep somewhere more comfortable?" The man asked after dinner, in his eighth or ninth month in the witch-queen's palace.
"You may choose any chambers in the castle, though I shall place a lock on any chambers you choose." The man was no noble after her heart for a prize, and anything else was irrelevant.
The man smiled. "I may choose any chambers in the castle?"
The witch-queen nodded. "Should a servant wish to not share a room with you, they could always move."The witch-queen did not say, but thought, If you wished to do one harm, you would not need to enter their chambers.
"There is one room I enjoy, I admit." The man smiled in a way that made something twist in the witch-queen's gut. "I quite enjoy the view from the room atop the highest tower in this palace."
The witch-queen's eyebrows rose, and then she laughed.
"As I have given my word, so shall it be. You may move in a week, when the smith has made an appropriate lock, and I have spelled it as I need."
The man rose from the empty table. "Thank you, Your Majesty." He said with a smile and a deep bow.
By the next week, they shared chambers, though not a bed. Because it was most convenient, their lessons gradually moved to before breakfast and after dinner, when the subjects petitioning the witch-queen were in their beds, and even the bravest of suitors would not enter the thorny bushes.
"How did you learn all this on your own?" the man asked as they settled for the evening.
The witch-queen looked at him, considering. Then she said, "Magic is simple to do on oneself."
He nodded.
"The ruler is the land. The magic you know me so versed in is magic of the land. Every spell I cast, I cast on myself." They remained quiet for a time after that, and the witch-queen knew that there would be no more lessons discussed that evening. She dimmed the lamp.
"What does that do to you?"
"Hm?"
"You are the land. You drew up a great wall of thorns to protect you home. I may not know as much magic as you know, Your Majesty, but I know enough."
The witch-queen shrugged. "I became what my people needed, as the land did. I could only wed one whom I loved, but I promised my mother and father that I would marry if I could." She stared at the ceiling. She'd never told anyone that. "I could not be marrying the first man who came along. I put up thorns against armies, and thorns against suitors."
There was a silence long enough for the witch-queen to believe the man had fallen asleep before he said, "You parted the thorns for one."
The witch-queen glanced at him, his eyes bright and keen in the moonlight. She remembered what she had learned of him: that he was clever, quick to learn, and kind to her and to her subjects. And, though he had not been handsome when they first met and his appearance had never changed, she found herself thinking him quite handsome now.
"A kind stranger who asked for entrance, rather than demanding it as a right. Yes."
"And who counts himself blessed to have gotten as far as he has." He smiled. The witch-queen thought, Oh. That's what that is.
"I love you," she said, tasting words that she hadn't used since her parents' death.
"I love you, too." Odd to hear him say it second. He had declared his love ages ago; she had simply ignored his heart as she ignored the other suitors'.
"And had I not?"
"Then I would have a wonderful teacher and a better friend than most could find in several lifetimes." He paused. His brow furrowed. "Do I ask you to marry me, or do I ask you to ask me?"
"I will be sure to look it up later, and then we shall both say that the correct person asked." The witch-queen nodded to herself. "I always wanted to wed at midsummer, when I was a child."
The king-to-be grinned widely. "That sounds wonderful."
The witch-queen kept her powers, and at midsummer gained a witch-king. The thorny bushes about her kingdom remained, and every summer, from that day to this, bright roses bloomed upon them.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Witch-Queen (Woman)
QueenThere are many ways to spin a tale.
...
However, neither witch nor woman nor queen was content to leave it at that. Her kingdom needed an heir.
The witch-queen knew romantic love, or what it was supposed to be. She also knew that she had not felt it. Sex held little interest for her, and though she knew that was what pure and innocent women were supposed to say, she also knew that most women didn't mean it.
But the geas had never mentioned sex, simply love. The witch-queen knew of love. She sent out a new challenge: one of cleverness and charm.
The first test was to find the messenger, the second to politely ask for the password to gain entrance to her kingdom. Since the witch-queen chose the servants she sent, three suitors made it past.
The man from the south was golden as the sun, from his hair to his skin to his tawny eyes, and as outspoken as one would expect. The northeasterner was dark and quiet as the night: deep colors to his skin and hair, deep and quiet thoughts behind his eyes. The northwestern man was starlight itself, true blond hair, eyes silver and skin a few shades away from it.
The sunny one was charming, but cared little for non-social pursuits. The dark man was quiet, but polite, and opened up like a moon flower if one spoke to him without forcing him into small talk. Dear starlight was the only one everyone seemed to get along with happily, for he could sit in perfect silence and read, or he could chatter for hours on end. The witch-queen took to thinking of him as a mirror, reflecting whatever his conversational partner wanted. When she asked him his favorite book, he responded with hers. If the dark man asked the same question, the northwestern man chose a title that made his eastern neighbor smile, and when the sunny one asked, he grinned and said, "Oh, I don't care for reading; I'd much rather spar."
When the sun grew tired of being stuck in one place for so long, the witch-queen gave him passage back to his kingdom. When the night had grown bored of every book in the palace, she let him go as well. "You've won by default, it seems, mirror."
He looked at her, eyebrows drawn up. "No. I would win if you loved me." Mirror spread his hands. "Those were the terms, and I abide by them."
The witch-queen looked at him. "Have you ever loved someone, in the way people expect?"
"I am everything one expects, Your Majesty." But he smiled as if he hid something.
"That sounds tremendously shallow of you."
The man raised his eyebrows, the first surprised gesture he'd made over his entire visit. "I have never felt a particular affection for the flesh," he admitted. The witch-queen thought of other reflective things. The deepest lakes and streams could reflect perfectly, on a still day, but shake them the right way, or look past your reflection, and suddenly you see life and rocks of every color and breed, all the way down...
"But?" she asked.
"I am like you, Your Majesty." That moment, when you've looked past your reflection for so long, and someone swims beneath you. "One does not need to want physical touch to love."
The witch-queen sat, and gestured for her mirror to do the same. "We would need to, if we married," she said simply. "Personal desires aside, I am a queen, and I shall need heirs."
"Does that mean you love me, then? Since bastard heirs are generally frowned upon." He smiled.
"You are as attentive as I am. You know I do."
His smile turned into a grin. "It is traditional to say it, Your Majesty. Like this: I love you. I want to marry you and raise children with you."
The witch-queen smiled back. "I love you, too. I've been envisioning us married in spring, and eventually raising children who learn to walk among wildflowers, and little else makes me so happy as to think of being married to someone clever enough to play the game of courts against me." She raised an eyebrow. "Sufficient?"
"Well, this is never going to be boring," he laughed.
"Oh, I hope not. T'would be dreadful to misjudge you so horribly."
Friday, July 20, 2012
Witch-Queen (Queen)
Once, there was a clever princess who was also a very powerful witch. She could make buds bloom, flowers fruit, and heal the unhealthy. While her mother and father were young yet, she was a blessing upon the land.
As is the way of things, her power came at a price. Should she marry and not love her partner, her powers would disappear, and what she had healed would rot with her magic. An odd price, certainly, but it was the rule her magic gave her. Had she not been a princess, this might have been fairly simple. But then, if this geas were simple, the magic doubtless would have chosen another one. Such is the way of things.
At first, this rule was a small annoyance. As a girl, the princess could help far more than most her age, and took well enough to etiquette and diplomacy to endear herself to those who might otherwise become jealous. A younger sibling could always marry for political reasons. Odd though it might be for a younger to marry before the eldest, anyone would understand. Her mother and father had their daughter in the first year of their marriage, and so all believed another child would come swiftly. They believed this in the first year, and the second.
On the princess's sixteenth birthday, none believed there would be another child.
Suitors had always courted the lovely princess--those brave enough to approach a witch, and confident enough to believe they could win her heart. Noble after noble approached the princess, all foolish and arrogant. Many understood how to play the game, but the princess played it better than they did. She saw their lies, and saw all of them for what they were: poor liars, immature tricksters. She could perhaps love one who could play the court as she did, but never one who thought her less than she was. Everyone who approached her underestimated her.
One day, she awoke to find that her parents lay dead in their bed, still holding each other. The princess-now-queen knew what was coming then, and come it did: armies upon armies. Her kingdom had been prosperous for decades under her care, and blessed even before that. Even split between her three neighboring kingdoms, her kingdom would be a bounty, and they knew she would not let it die. Though it would have been easier, there was no reason for one to marry her to gain the kingdom. They would simply attack it.
The princess had only ever healed and brought bounty to her land, so it was little wonder that no one thought of what else powers of growth could do.
Around her kingdom she drew up thick, thorny bushes, as tall as a score of men and at least as deep as three at any place. As a show of her confidence, she had three palaces built, facing each of the three attacking kingdoms. In summer, she lived in the central palace where her mother and father raised her, in fall, she moved Northwest of it, in winter, South, and in spring, Northeast. In each palace, her bedroom was in the tallest tower, a boast and a challenge to any who would attack her home.
The queen was willing to give her life to her kingdom, as any good ruler would, and give it she would, however long or short it might be.
...
As is the way of things, her power came at a price. Should she marry and not love her partner, her powers would disappear, and what she had healed would rot with her magic. An odd price, certainly, but it was the rule her magic gave her. Had she not been a princess, this might have been fairly simple. But then, if this geas were simple, the magic doubtless would have chosen another one. Such is the way of things.
At first, this rule was a small annoyance. As a girl, the princess could help far more than most her age, and took well enough to etiquette and diplomacy to endear herself to those who might otherwise become jealous. A younger sibling could always marry for political reasons. Odd though it might be for a younger to marry before the eldest, anyone would understand. Her mother and father had their daughter in the first year of their marriage, and so all believed another child would come swiftly. They believed this in the first year, and the second.
On the princess's sixteenth birthday, none believed there would be another child.
Suitors had always courted the lovely princess--those brave enough to approach a witch, and confident enough to believe they could win her heart. Noble after noble approached the princess, all foolish and arrogant. Many understood how to play the game, but the princess played it better than they did. She saw their lies, and saw all of them for what they were: poor liars, immature tricksters. She could perhaps love one who could play the court as she did, but never one who thought her less than she was. Everyone who approached her underestimated her.
One day, she awoke to find that her parents lay dead in their bed, still holding each other. The princess-now-queen knew what was coming then, and come it did: armies upon armies. Her kingdom had been prosperous for decades under her care, and blessed even before that. Even split between her three neighboring kingdoms, her kingdom would be a bounty, and they knew she would not let it die. Though it would have been easier, there was no reason for one to marry her to gain the kingdom. They would simply attack it.
The princess had only ever healed and brought bounty to her land, so it was little wonder that no one thought of what else powers of growth could do.
Around her kingdom she drew up thick, thorny bushes, as tall as a score of men and at least as deep as three at any place. As a show of her confidence, she had three palaces built, facing each of the three attacking kingdoms. In summer, she lived in the central palace where her mother and father raised her, in fall, she moved Northwest of it, in winter, South, and in spring, Northeast. In each palace, her bedroom was in the tallest tower, a boast and a challenge to any who would attack her home.
The queen was willing to give her life to her kingdom, as any good ruler would, and give it she would, however long or short it might be.
...
Friday, July 13, 2012
Outside
There’s a glass dome.
Inside the dome, there lies a beautiful place. We can see it through any screen. There, people are normal. They are all quite similar, and all fairly happy. They are sometimes hurt, in the ways we are hurt, but there are ways that we are hurt that they do not have to worry about, and ways we are commonly hurt that they rarely are.
Sometimes people inside the dome give me odd looks. “Well, if you don’t like it outside there, why don’t you just come in?” Occasionally, others understand a bit better. “You could pass, if you just did your hair differently. Why don’t you?” Some understand better still, and stand near the edge—even come outside. They don’t understand perfectly, but they understand that they don’t understand. That means a lot.
One day, while chatting with Jordan on our opposite sides of the dome, I saw something glittering on her side. “What’s that?”
"What?" Jordan turned her head, then looked back to me with a grimace. “Ah. That’s the dome.”
I furrowed my brow. “But this is the dome.”
Jordan shook her head. “This dome is easy to move through, so we call it the gauzy dome. That dome”—she nodded her head—“is impossible to get through.” She rolled her eyes. “They just say we’re not trying hard enough.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I couldn’t think of a polite way to say, You do the same thing, so I just said, “Thank you.”
A thought had occurred to me, and one I thought important. I set out to test it. I walked for months, stopping wherever I thought I saw something.
I was right. There were other domes—I saw dozens. Some of them had other domes in them, like the one I’d grown up closest to. It was obvious, once I was looking. Some touched other domes, and being in either seemed to make it easier to go to the other.
Then I came to a very large one. It was peculiar enough that I hardly recognized it as a dome at first. Every dome I had come across arched away easily, like someone had taken a half-sphere and planted it in the ground, to grow and shrink as necessary. This one was different. It arched toward me, not away, and the material was lighter and somewhat opaque, more like gauze than glass.
I went still.
Then, very slowly, I craned my head back. It arched up and over, in a perfect line that kept me separate from…well. Them.
It’s always ‘them’, isn’t it?
Inside the dome, there lies a beautiful place. We can see it through any screen. There, people are normal. They are all quite similar, and all fairly happy. They are sometimes hurt, in the ways we are hurt, but there are ways that we are hurt that they do not have to worry about, and ways we are commonly hurt that they rarely are.
Sometimes people inside the dome give me odd looks. “Well, if you don’t like it outside there, why don’t you just come in?” Occasionally, others understand a bit better. “You could pass, if you just did your hair differently. Why don’t you?” Some understand better still, and stand near the edge—even come outside. They don’t understand perfectly, but they understand that they don’t understand. That means a lot.
One day, while chatting with Jordan on our opposite sides of the dome, I saw something glittering on her side. “What’s that?”
"What?" Jordan turned her head, then looked back to me with a grimace. “Ah. That’s the dome.”
I furrowed my brow. “But this is the dome.”
Jordan shook her head. “This dome is easy to move through, so we call it the gauzy dome. That dome”—she nodded her head—“is impossible to get through.” She rolled her eyes. “They just say we’re not trying hard enough.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I couldn’t think of a polite way to say, You do the same thing, so I just said, “Thank you.”
A thought had occurred to me, and one I thought important. I set out to test it. I walked for months, stopping wherever I thought I saw something.
I was right. There were other domes—I saw dozens. Some of them had other domes in them, like the one I’d grown up closest to. It was obvious, once I was looking. Some touched other domes, and being in either seemed to make it easier to go to the other.
Then I came to a very large one. It was peculiar enough that I hardly recognized it as a dome at first. Every dome I had come across arched away easily, like someone had taken a half-sphere and planted it in the ground, to grow and shrink as necessary. This one was different. It arched toward me, not away, and the material was lighter and somewhat opaque, more like gauze than glass.
I went still.
Then, very slowly, I craned my head back. It arched up and over, in a perfect line that kept me separate from…well. Them.
It’s always ‘them’, isn’t it?
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Summer and Winter
There are many tales of the seasons, and of how the gods brought them into being. Some of them are even true.
“Winter, dear, hurry up!” Summer called over her shoulder, green skirts swishing over skin the color of fertile earth, under hair like fresh grain. “It’s nearly time.”
“Sunset isn’t for some minutes yet, Summer,” Winter said. Winter had been as young as Summer, some months ago. His hair had been true blonde, his skin as pale and smooth as ice, his eyes a blue or a purple so pale as to be nearly white. Winter was pale yet, but a wan pale now, rather than a youthful one. Gray hair, rougher skin, failing eyes.
Summer laughed and ran back to him. “I know. But the sooner you get there, the sooner you can rest, and the better you’ll feel next long night. Look at me: I was there nearly an hour early, and I feel fantastic!”
“You’ve only just woken,” Winter chuckled as Summer nearly danced around him, “of course you feel fantastic.”
Summer helped Winter to his place of rest, an oddly tall peak for the area, where he would rest for the next few months, as Summer had rested in her spring when her hair had been dull and her feet heavy. “Rest well, dear friend.”
“Thank you, Summer,” he murmured, then yawned. “See you around even night?”
“Of course.” She sat by him until the sun touched the horizon, then stood.
With Winter resting, there would be fewer flowers, more fruit. It was an energetic time of her life, and a draining one. An exciting one.
Summer strode out to greet the new younglings.
“Come on, Summer,” Winter said quietly. “Almost there.”
Summer had faded. Her hair was the white of age now, rather than the lively corn-blond it had been early in her season. Her skin was still the deep color of fertile soil, but it had less shine in it, and had roughened some.
From a distance, Winter might look the same. He was pale, his hair was pale, and his irises were the palest one could have without all but the pupil being white. But, for all his pallor and quiet, he was as strong at his height as Summer was at hers. Burning or freezing feels the same. Everything else is a matter of personal preference.
“I did more than I should have, I think,” Summer mumbled.
“It’s fine. Rest now. Come on, there you go.” He took her arm and led her into the hot spring.
“See you spring’s even night, mm?” Summer asked drowsily.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Summer safely deposited, Winter went out to the land. The trees welcomed him already, with bright leaves and a satisfying crunch under his feet. The animals were quieter, but no less clear: a hundred hundred breaths moving air to the same beat. Trees abscising, animals resting, Summer settled…there was only one thing left, to make the land truly Winter’s.
He made it snow.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Knowledge
There are facets to everything.
Some people talk about two sides to the same coin. That’s true, as far as it goes. Male and female; good and evil; black and white; up and down. But, the closer one looks, the harder it is to be a coin, the easier to be a spectrum, or a jewel. Genderqueer; well-meant harm and accidental help; gray; sideways or counterclockwise.
There’s an old story. The stories that survive that long must be important, mustn’t they? If the Book of Kells were just another story, it would be lost. We lose so many important ones, oh dear Alexandrian library, how could anything unimportant remain?
But then, what could be unimportant?
The story begins with paradise, where another provides all food and shelter, where bodies are not yet sexual, nor shameful. Then a man gives birth to the first woman, donating a bone, a deep part of himself, just as a woman risks her life and health in any normal pregnancy. The paradise remains—this birth is odd, to us, but no sin.
(Father did it; Father can do no wrong.)
The great provider, the one who gives shelter from the outside and keeps food in this home, makes one rule. Though there are many sources of food, many fruit trees, there is one they may not eat of. It is poison, if they eat it they shall die.
Then, a snake—as in any story, intelligent, and as is common, a force opposed to the order of things. Any creature who is always bright and usually chaotic will often be trickster, as this one may be.
Try the fruit of the tree. No ill will come. Try it.
(The snake appears to be of paradise. What reason had she to distrust it? What reason had she to trust it over Father?)
She takes a bite, and has an epiphany, or the reverse of one. A realization of self, a recognition of body. She covers herself, and goes to the man whose rib was the first part of her to exist.
(She is of paradise. What reason had he to distrust her? What reason had he to trust her over Father?)
He eats of the tree, and has the same inverse-epiphany, or so close as to appear identical. He sees why she covered herself, and covers himself.
The provider sees that they have covered themselves, sees that they have eaten of the tree, casts them from paradise. Casts them into where they must work for their own food, out of Father’s house.
Some call this Original Sin. Indeed, it is the first time any broke a rule.
Others question. The tree was a Tree of Knowledge. They were curious, without experience, without knowledge. How could they have done anything else? Father was wrong to expect different
Others say it isn’t wicked, or good, but another facet on the same jewel. The boy and girl needed to grow into the first man and woman. The woman ate first, as girls mature more quickly than boys. She gifted him knowledge, as a member of the tribe would initiate another into the world of the adult. The questioners are right, Father paved the way, but not to bad. Simply to the next thing that would happen.
Regardless. They were forbidden the tree, and ate of it. They grew more capable, and had to work on their own. Such is the way of the world.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Transformation
The first step is fake. Or, at least, done from expectation rather than compulsion. The brew takes some time to take effect, as I noticed the first time I took it, when I didn’t know what to expect. Those around me think it simply becomes easier to slip between. As far as I can tell, the reverse is true.
Though maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it just feels so natural, now, that I can do it whenever I please, so after drinking it I feel no different. I feel as though I can be the same as the first time, whenever I choose to, and perhaps only when I choose to, drink or no.
But the first time I drank…I still remember that.
I expected nothing. They hadn’t told me anything, except that it would make me a better warrior. It smelled of alcohol, and something else. I thought little of it. Courage. Others started growling, and I thought, That’s an interesting part of the culture. Becoming closer to animals, when they were about to start a fight. It made sense—they slept closer to their dogs than the tribe that had taken me before this one, and their dogs were closer to wolves than any I had ever seen.
A few started up a howl, and the others ran after them as one. I noticed that I was following, then I stumbled. A warrior to my right caught me, nudged me up, jerked her muzzle toward the front. Follow.
From there, it was…red and black, impacts and silence and growls.
The next morning, I woke up by the river, amidst a pile of my tribe and our furs.
My memories of that battled have never become clearer, but they have never faded. I cannot tell you the face of any I fought, any I saved, any who saved me, but I can still hear the howls, growls, and snarls.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Companion
There’s a rule.
There are many things people call rules, where Harriet works. Don’t kill; don’t forget; don’t be obvious. But they’re all guidelines. Any book in which they’re written has without a good reason written after in white ink and in a very small font. Any conversation where such a rule is spoken, without a good reason hangs unspoken between the interlocutors’ eyes.
But there is a rule, one rule, for those who guard what needs guarding. One who knows each world, and knows enough to know that (nearly) everything is worth protecting.
The rule is simple: Never get attached.
The rule is simple, except when it isn’t.
She reached her hand through the hole in the wooden fence. Her hand met another hand, very smooth, smoother than the day before. Manicured, Harriet guessed.
“Hello, lovely.” Neither knew the other’s name, the other’s face—safer that way hangs in the air, between every word they speak—but Harriet knows this woman well enough to know her lovely. “Relaxing day?”
The other woman’s hand shifted in a way that meant a smile. “Yes. Beautiful day at the spa. You’d’ve hated it.”
Harriet laughed. The other woman could get Harriet to laugh; that would be enough to earn lovely on its own.
They spoke for longer, of many things. The evening was beautiful, as long as it lasted. Their date night always one of challenges and achievements and wonder and lips brushing gently over knuckles.
Harriet broke first, as she always did, when she stopped thinking, What a bright mind; what a lovely voice, what expressive hands, and started thinking, A woman with exactly this shade of skin, with enough money to pay for a spa day, but at a job that lets her hands run as rough as she feels like, that needs neither calluses for practicality nor smooth skin for perfect appearance—
Harriet stood, suddenly. “I should go.” She said that a little differently each time, but their last words, never spoken, were always the same.
I’m sorry. I can’t figure out who you are. If they ask, I can’t know you well enough to answer.
There are many things people call rules, where Harriet works. Don’t kill; don’t forget; don’t be obvious. But they’re all guidelines. Any book in which they’re written has without a good reason written after in white ink and in a very small font. Any conversation where such a rule is spoken, without a good reason hangs unspoken between the interlocutors’ eyes.
But there is a rule, one rule, for those who guard what needs guarding. One who knows each world, and knows enough to know that (nearly) everything is worth protecting.
The rule is simple: Never get attached.
The rule is simple, except when it isn’t.
She reached her hand through the hole in the wooden fence. Her hand met another hand, very smooth, smoother than the day before. Manicured, Harriet guessed.
“Hello, lovely.” Neither knew the other’s name, the other’s face—safer that way hangs in the air, between every word they speak—but Harriet knows this woman well enough to know her lovely. “Relaxing day?”
The other woman’s hand shifted in a way that meant a smile. “Yes. Beautiful day at the spa. You’d’ve hated it.”
Harriet laughed. The other woman could get Harriet to laugh; that would be enough to earn lovely on its own.
They spoke for longer, of many things. The evening was beautiful, as long as it lasted. Their date night always one of challenges and achievements and wonder and lips brushing gently over knuckles.
Harriet broke first, as she always did, when she stopped thinking, What a bright mind; what a lovely voice, what expressive hands, and started thinking, A woman with exactly this shade of skin, with enough money to pay for a spa day, but at a job that lets her hands run as rough as she feels like, that needs neither calluses for practicality nor smooth skin for perfect appearance—
Harriet stood, suddenly. “I should go.” She said that a little differently each time, but their last words, never spoken, were always the same.
I’m sorry. I can’t figure out who you are. If they ask, I can’t know you well enough to answer.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Restless
EDIT: The html for this was not cooperating. If it didn't make sense to you on first read-through, that's because it made no sense. I've fixed it now.
This was written as part of a challenge to write thirty things in thirty days based on thirty prompts. The posts from this challenge are tagged "challenge", and the title to the posts are the corresponding prompts."You'll only find peace while traveling."
Spells, Samantha decided, should be more dramatic than that. Really. There should be chanting, or markings, or at least a moment of clear focus, for heaven's sake. But no, the spell that defined her entire life was six words in the vernacular. It wasn't even a good story. She couldn't even remember what she'd done! It was embarrassing. And now...
"It's in my bones," she whispered.
Most people wouldn't mean that quite so literally, her bones whispered back, in their annoying, upper-crust-accented way.
"Stop it." Samantha paused a moment, then tried mouthing, [Can you hear me like this?]
Of course. If I were a being of air, I would be much easier to live with. She felt the voice ring with a definite smirk. Sam couldn't explain how she knew that, but then, the voice wasn't really coming in through her eardrums, so that was hardly odd.
She kept her mouth closed this time, and thought, Can you read my mind?
It was hard to keep time, without a watch and away from any place with a big town clock, so she counted steps. At twenty, she tried moving her tongue without her lips, [Can you hear me like this?]
Of course. Again, immediate and smug. Good. It couldn't read her that deeply.
[What happens if I stop?]
You know.
Sam did. That hunger, thirst, itch, lust, want, that started in her feet and moved up, until she couldn't focus, could hardly eat, certainly couldn't sleep, until she ran and ran and ran, drinking in every new sight and sound. She'd fought it, at first.
[But no injury.]
A laugh, one that wouldn't be anything but genuinely amused if it didn't echo through her rib cage, ick. No food, no water, no sleep, and then you run mindlessly until you collapse. But no, no injury beyond that. I need none to prod you into finding me something new.
[It isn't new to you,] she bit out, as far as she could without opening her mouth.
I like how new things taste. Besides, if I set you running until you saw something I hadn't seen--well, you'd die first. And then where would I be?
Sam's eyes flickered to the knife at her belt. [Huh.]
You won't do it. There was just the barest something, so slight it didn't translate into anything but a feeling, wouldn't be there if she weren't actually in the same body.
[But if you make me miserable enough, I might.] She walked to a weeping willow, drew her blade, sat under the bowing branches. [You like the taste of new things, but you're not a being of air.] Another flicker of understanding. Instead of pushing at the creature in her bones, pulled the feeling closer. [You like things to be a little the same. You don't want me attached, but you're attached to me.] Sam put the blade to her throat. [How attached?]
You wouldn't. You wouldn't! The cry went from echoing to buzzing, climbing in pitch as the spell woven through bone reacted.
"It's balance," Sam murmured. "You can't make me too miserable, because I might." She put the knife in her lap. "But I won't, because you can still make me plenty miserable." Her fingertips lay on the hilt now. "We rest, at the next town. I will be friendly, and I will stay until I am done," her bones thrummed indignantly, "or until I sleep with someone, whichever comes first. Just because I'm not starving doesn't mean I'm happy with this set-up. Deal?"
Her bones went quiet. Deal.
"Good." Sam closed her eyes. [Do you need to sleep?]
No.
[Then keep watch. Neither of us wants me dead yet.]
Friday, June 8, 2012
Love and Trust
There are two rooms in two houses.
The first house is the one she got when she was still working her way up. She didn't like it very much--not the best neighborhood, no front yard to speak of, difficult to have any decent privacy--but she keeps it, because it's hers, and because people expect it. In that house, she allows herself two luxuries: two places she needed, not for her work, but for herself, before she would consent to living in such a house for decades, for the rest of her life.
The first is not one of the rooms, but a back yard. It is small, but present, and enough to grow in. She's made it good publicity, since it is organic and environmentally friendly, but first and foremost her garden is her garden. Life from her, feeding her. That keeps her grounded, no matter how many people might try to knock her down. When something goes too horribly at work, she thinks, garden, and her head clears. There's hardly room for what she's managed to fit, but the garden is there. It's hers.
The second luxury in the tiny house is her room. In the dining room, there rests a blank panel that swings out if you press here. Behind, there is a room without a visible floor, because it only barely fits her bed. On each of the four walls, there are books. No one has ever seen this room, though a spouse would, if she married. Anyone she trusted completely would see it.
The second house is a luxury in itself, and she knows it. It's a second house, how could it be anything else? But her work demanded something, some show of status--it was a second house or a mansion. She hated living alone in large places. They always felt cold, and hollow, and empty.
So she bought the place, a small, cozy space, and snapped a picture from the right angle, and put a picture in the right place in her first house. She dropped, "my cabin," or, "my retreat," when necessary, using the latter just enough and in the right tone that no one ever asked to attend. Whatever her words said, she made her tone say, "my sanctuary," "my sacred space," "the place I go to be alone."
That one is more isolated. It had to be, to give the right effect. That is no luxury, that is work, that is showing off to impress the right people. Nor are the books luxurious, to her mind. They are the ones she cannot bear to part with--torn, beat-up, almost disintegrating, old, well loved, hers. They do not fit in the reading room, so they were in storage until she had her reading cabin.
The bed, here, is in one of the rooms she takes pictures of. She can't sleep without books around her. But there is one room she never photographs, she wouldn't even let someone she trusted completely photograph. Show them, yes, but not let them document.
In the heart of the cabin she built, she has something she calls a waiting room, though she only calls it that when no one can hear her. It is behind a bookshelf--push here and the wall and shelf swing in. She sleeps in her reading room, but she only enters this one to dust and polish.
Her garden grounds her, makes sure no one can knock her down.
Her reading room is home, where she can forget the world and sleep.
But this, this room...
Two chairs, one candle in the center of the table, and a small kitchen off to one side. No division--the dining room and the kitchen are the same room, in her waiting room.
Whenever she's in a relationship and her partner want to know if she loves them, or asks her to marry them, she thinks, Would I show them this room?
If she can imagine them in the waiting room to her home, her heart, then they get to come in. They can see the cabin, the room, even the reading room in her first house, that most guarded of sanctuaries. If not, she's honest.
She hasn't been able to say, "Yes," yet. But she may, someday, so she keeps the room. Sometimes, on the days where she takes down a romance novel and wears rose perfume, she imagines cooking with someone else, in that room.
The first house is the one she got when she was still working her way up. She didn't like it very much--not the best neighborhood, no front yard to speak of, difficult to have any decent privacy--but she keeps it, because it's hers, and because people expect it. In that house, she allows herself two luxuries: two places she needed, not for her work, but for herself, before she would consent to living in such a house for decades, for the rest of her life.
The first is not one of the rooms, but a back yard. It is small, but present, and enough to grow in. She's made it good publicity, since it is organic and environmentally friendly, but first and foremost her garden is her garden. Life from her, feeding her. That keeps her grounded, no matter how many people might try to knock her down. When something goes too horribly at work, she thinks, garden, and her head clears. There's hardly room for what she's managed to fit, but the garden is there. It's hers.
The second luxury in the tiny house is her room. In the dining room, there rests a blank panel that swings out if you press here. Behind, there is a room without a visible floor, because it only barely fits her bed. On each of the four walls, there are books. No one has ever seen this room, though a spouse would, if she married. Anyone she trusted completely would see it.
The second house is a luxury in itself, and she knows it. It's a second house, how could it be anything else? But her work demanded something, some show of status--it was a second house or a mansion. She hated living alone in large places. They always felt cold, and hollow, and empty.
So she bought the place, a small, cozy space, and snapped a picture from the right angle, and put a picture in the right place in her first house. She dropped, "my cabin," or, "my retreat," when necessary, using the latter just enough and in the right tone that no one ever asked to attend. Whatever her words said, she made her tone say, "my sanctuary," "my sacred space," "the place I go to be alone."
That one is more isolated. It had to be, to give the right effect. That is no luxury, that is work, that is showing off to impress the right people. Nor are the books luxurious, to her mind. They are the ones she cannot bear to part with--torn, beat-up, almost disintegrating, old, well loved, hers. They do not fit in the reading room, so they were in storage until she had her reading cabin.
The bed, here, is in one of the rooms she takes pictures of. She can't sleep without books around her. But there is one room she never photographs, she wouldn't even let someone she trusted completely photograph. Show them, yes, but not let them document.
In the heart of the cabin she built, she has something she calls a waiting room, though she only calls it that when no one can hear her. It is behind a bookshelf--push here and the wall and shelf swing in. She sleeps in her reading room, but she only enters this one to dust and polish.
Her garden grounds her, makes sure no one can knock her down.
Her reading room is home, where she can forget the world and sleep.
But this, this room...
Two chairs, one candle in the center of the table, and a small kitchen off to one side. No division--the dining room and the kitchen are the same room, in her waiting room.
Whenever she's in a relationship and her partner want to know if she loves them, or asks her to marry them, she thinks, Would I show them this room?
If she can imagine them in the waiting room to her home, her heart, then they get to come in. They can see the cabin, the room, even the reading room in her first house, that most guarded of sanctuaries. If not, she's honest.
She hasn't been able to say, "Yes," yet. But she may, someday, so she keeps the room. Sometimes, on the days where she takes down a romance novel and wears rose perfume, she imagines cooking with someone else, in that room.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Lasts and Firsts
This is my last blog post written as a high school student.
In fact, while you read this, I'll probably be out of my graduation ceremony, though I might still be in it. I might be in the middle of delivering this speech:
In fact, while you read this, I'll probably be out of my graduation ceremony, though I might still be in it. I might be in the middle of delivering this speech:
High school is a surreal experience. We enter these woods, just out of middle school, just barely finished being everyone’s elder, and suddenly we’re the young ones again. We see around us people who are already fretting over college or career, who are nearly out of the woods we have only just entered. We see old friends drifting from us or find ourselves drifting from them as we each find new interests and lessons. Now we’re there, coming out the other edge of these woods, again so old and so soon to be so young. Now friends aren’t just drifting apart; some friend we’ve had is going across the country, or we are. We won’t just be yelling at each other across dark woods; we may be shouting across stormy oceans. Skype and Facebook and Tumblr will help, but it is always easier to forget each other when we don’t have to see each other every day.
This is the moment when we all look back, to that first day we stepped on campus, or on the football field, or on stage. Freshman year seems yesterday and forever ago. Just yesterday that we stepped into these woods, forever ago that our life didn’t somehow revolve around what comes next: college applications, or job applications, or service applications, or wondering *sharp breath through teeth*—Did I make the cut?
Back then, forever ago, yesterday, the seniors were getting stressed about the same things we just went through. That one SAT test they hadn’t taken in time. A huge paper in English class. A mathematics test in something our parents didn’t understand. Juggling extracurriculars with academics. We were going through the woods, sometimes seeing perfectly and walking confidently, sometimes stumbling over tree roots in the dark, sometimes with only the next few feet visible by a torch-bearer, by a friend or a sibling or a parent or a teacher. Wherever we were, however we walked, we’re out of those woods. Now, we’re somewhere much clearer, and perhaps even more intimidating. We can see we’re entering another forest , but we can’t see the forest’s end from where we are. We have to go on faith, leaving torchbearers behind. So out we step.
And to my fellow graduating class of 2012, remember: Whenever it seems like the world is ending, it isn’t. We’re just taking over.
Which is the last speech I will write as a high school student, though not the first. I may be listening to one of the last speeches I will hear as a high school student. Regardless, if you are reading this close to the publish date, I'm going through a last or a first--last breakfast, first dinner; last day, first night; last song, first conversation.
I say goodbye as a last, and shall greet you next post as a first. See you on the side opposite, readers.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Aurora
Everything was beautiful, that day. Positively radiant.
It was my first blessing. I was so very, very young, back then, still dazzled beyond words at the great hall, the great food, the twelve matching golden plates. Exactly twelve, that's important. Her parents had twelve made, just for the christening of their daughter, and they invited twelve fairies to be her godmothers and to grant her blessings. I would go last, being the youngest, and so simply watched and listened and waited my turn. Everything was so beautiful, distracting, gorgeous, I hardly touched my food.
The eleventh finished, and I stood, ready with my blessing, one of a sweet singing voice, for singing was always a splendid talent for a royal, even when no one thought it necessary. The girl's mother, the Queen, looked at me and smiled. I remember every glowing moment from that day.
The doors slammed open. Rhamnusia stood there, radiant in all her frightening glory, silencing the grand hall.
I've experienced pain severe enough that it deafens one, occasionally. I don't think it's ever been a physical thing. It's just a complete shift of focus, to the one point where your body is screaming to Pay attention! This was the only time I remember fear doing it. The only thing I cannot remember from that day are her words, though even through the fear, her intent was clear enough.
"Rhamnusia!" The Queen said, smiling with only the slightest strain in her eyes. "So glad you could make it. We, ah--" To all of us, she had said, 'We prepared a golden plate for you,' but they had not.
I stood, and moved to her."'Nusia," I greeted, curtsying. "Your seat is just here, I am so glad you could--"
"That is not my seat."
I bobbed up from my curtsy.
"You prepared me no place. You forgot me." The room remained silent, and I forced myself not to tremble. "You never shall again." Rhamnusia stepped up to the princess's crib and placed a hand on her forehead, as if about to bestow a blessing.
"On the first hour of the girl's fifteenth year, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die." She looked up. "Remember, next time." And she left, one step at a time. I knew how the story would go--a puff of smoke, a laugh, and then she was gone. But no. It was not that no one could lay a hand on her. It was simply that none of us dared.
I stepped forward, gifts of song behind me, and placed a hand on the girl's forehead. "Death is not a jealous one. I am sure he will not miss you for the years you live, when you spend so much time with his brother." The murmurs were starting up again, people comparing stories, already what happened being turned into something a touch more palatable. "On the first hour of the girl's fifteenth year, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and sleep a hundred years and a day." A hundred years would be at least fair, to stave off death. The day was good faith, for I did not know Sleep as well as Death, and knew not how jealous he might be.
There came more, after. A hundred and fifteen years of after, then a day and the dear princeling who walked through the parted briar to kiss our dear princess, the day we all woke. But this is the day I remember, and this is the story I have to tell.
It was my first blessing. I was so very, very young, back then, still dazzled beyond words at the great hall, the great food, the twelve matching golden plates. Exactly twelve, that's important. Her parents had twelve made, just for the christening of their daughter, and they invited twelve fairies to be her godmothers and to grant her blessings. I would go last, being the youngest, and so simply watched and listened and waited my turn. Everything was so beautiful, distracting, gorgeous, I hardly touched my food.
The eleventh finished, and I stood, ready with my blessing, one of a sweet singing voice, for singing was always a splendid talent for a royal, even when no one thought it necessary. The girl's mother, the Queen, looked at me and smiled. I remember every glowing moment from that day.
The doors slammed open. Rhamnusia stood there, radiant in all her frightening glory, silencing the grand hall.
I've experienced pain severe enough that it deafens one, occasionally. I don't think it's ever been a physical thing. It's just a complete shift of focus, to the one point where your body is screaming to Pay attention! This was the only time I remember fear doing it. The only thing I cannot remember from that day are her words, though even through the fear, her intent was clear enough.
"Rhamnusia!" The Queen said, smiling with only the slightest strain in her eyes. "So glad you could make it. We, ah--" To all of us, she had said, 'We prepared a golden plate for you,' but they had not.
I stood, and moved to her."'Nusia," I greeted, curtsying. "Your seat is just here, I am so glad you could--"
"That is not my seat."
I bobbed up from my curtsy.
"You prepared me no place. You forgot me." The room remained silent, and I forced myself not to tremble. "You never shall again." Rhamnusia stepped up to the princess's crib and placed a hand on her forehead, as if about to bestow a blessing.
"On the first hour of the girl's fifteenth year, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and die." She looked up. "Remember, next time." And she left, one step at a time. I knew how the story would go--a puff of smoke, a laugh, and then she was gone. But no. It was not that no one could lay a hand on her. It was simply that none of us dared.
I stepped forward, gifts of song behind me, and placed a hand on the girl's forehead. "Death is not a jealous one. I am sure he will not miss you for the years you live, when you spend so much time with his brother." The murmurs were starting up again, people comparing stories, already what happened being turned into something a touch more palatable. "On the first hour of the girl's fifteenth year, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel and sleep a hundred years and a day." A hundred years would be at least fair, to stave off death. The day was good faith, for I did not know Sleep as well as Death, and knew not how jealous he might be.
There came more, after. A hundred and fifteen years of after, then a day and the dear princeling who walked through the parted briar to kiss our dear princess, the day we all woke. But this is the day I remember, and this is the story I have to tell.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Conviction
Convictions form the heart of anyone's power.
Though conviction alone is not enough to accomplish one's goals, nothing
matters without conviction. All the ability in the world will come to nothing
if the person with the power has no impetus
to use it. Therefore, when discussing power, one must discuss conviction. My
favorite language for doing so comes from Dungeons
and Dragons: The game separates the characters well, while still leaving
them leeway enough to be as dynamic, static, round or flat as the character
demands.
Alignment
In Dungeons
and Dragons, there are nine alignments: Lawful, Neutral, and Chaotic pair
off with Good, Neutral, and Evil. These define the basics of a character’s
morality, and most characters fit the alignment one would expect: a knight in
shining armor would be Lawful Good; Robin Hood would be Chaotic Good; most flat
villains would be Chaotic Evil; Lex Luthor would be Lawful Evil. The
interesting part comes from working out what each alignment means. What makes a
character an alignment is the character’s motivation—so what motivates Robin
Hood that sets him apart from a knight? What makes Lex Luthor different from
the sort of villain who twirls his mustache?
A character need not be intelligent or stupid to
be a specific alignment—and so an Evil character does not need to go around kicking
puppies and distressing damsels. That could lose valuable allies! An Evil
character simply thinks only of his
or herself. Evil is selfish. On the opposite side, a Good character can be an
idiot who accidentally harms people left and right—selflessness defines
goodness. Lex Luthor, like most stereotypical villains, puts himself first.
Where Robin Hood or the classic knight in shining armor regard people as ends,
as reasons to fight in themselves, Lex Luthor or the cackling villain see them
as means, stepping stones along the way.
Similarly, a Lawful character need not follow
the laws of the land—indeed, that Lawful Good knight would need to work against an unjust law. Anything else would go against
her convictions. A Lawful character believes in reacting to situations as an
example of the general: that a specific situation is best dealt with by
thinking of similar examples and what turned out to be a good or bad idea in
those situations. Similarly, a Chaotic character does not disobey laws randomly.
Chaotic characters believe each event should be judged unto itself. Though laws
matter less to a Chaotic individual, this fact is because law reflects a
mindset that a Chaotic individual disagrees with. The law of the land usually
lines up with what intelligent Lawful individuals would agree with, but the
fact that something is the law is orthogonal to whether a Chaotic or Lawful
character would do it. Neither Robin Hood nor a Chaotic Evil villain
particularly factor the law into their convictions, because they do not care.
Lex Luthor or a shining knight do care, the former for convenience and the
latter for the sake of doing what is right. Just as Evil characters will not
factor other’s well-being into their motivations, Chaotic characters need not
factor in the law.
Raskolnikov demonstrates all four of these
convictions in his two competing halves. One half—the half which kills
Litzaveta—is convinced rightness lies in Chaotic Evil, taking each situation
selfishly and as the only comparable example—the selfish superman. The other
half wrote the paper justifying the killing—explaining that an “extraordinary
man…[has] an inner right to decide” what right and wrong mean, and does so for
the common good—the egotistical superman (242). That half believes in being
Lawful Good. The heart of Raskolnikov’s split is that he believes he should be and is Lawful Good, yet the patterns he
seeks to follow are closer to Chaotic Evil. In the end, Raskolnikov is True
Neutral—he cares for his family, but not for people in general, and he takes
events as things unto themselves or as parts of a whole as suits him. He
remains True Neutral to the very end—finally coming to his senses for Sonia’s
sake, rather than his own or everyone’s, and understanding that the law has its
place.
Hamlet
of Oz
Hamlet, like Raskolnikov, is split down the
middle. Hamlet, however, evens out to Lawful Neutral. Hamlet finds the idea of
allowing his father’s murder to go unavenged unconscionable, and killing his
uncle and king without adequate proof similarly awful. Hamlet’s split
originates from his lack of relevant conviction—though he may have known who he
was at university, upon coming home, he is unsure of his rightness, his
birthright, and even his parentage.
The hardest times for Hamlet are when he
believes he is “alone.” During those times, Hamlet not only doubts his father’s
ghost, but believes firmly that he lacks the power to act. His first step
towards action, therefore, must be working around this conviction. Where
Raskolnikov performed the same action by shutting himself off from everyone,
Hamlet reaches out. Horatio helps Hamlet much, partially because any back-up helps,
partially because Horatio’s agreement about the ghost and Claudius’s guilty
appearance begin to convince Hamlet that he is right. Having a second opinion
lends him the motivation to move forward.
Having gained the necessary conviction, Hamlet
moves in pursuit of his goal—revenge—however he can. Despite disliking sneaky
tactics for being closer to his father’s murderer than his father, Hamlet uses
them: “the play’s the thing”, or sending Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to their
death by sending a false message with them. The prince’s conviction gives him
permission to use less savory tactics. As Glinda said to Dorothy, “You’ve
always had the power,” but Hamlet had to “learn it for himself.” As soon as
Hamlet gave himself permission to focus on one goal and use whatever tactic
presented itself to avenge his father, the task became easy.
It is a testament to the importance of
conviction that Shakespeare created a compelling play out of a character’s
shifting convictions, with only the last scene showing Hamlet accomplishing
anything pertaining to his vengeance.
Antigone
Antigone’s conviction takes her so far that she
no longer feels she has a choice. She is, depending on interpretation, Lawful
Neutral or Neutral Good—she believes that the gods’ law is the only important
one, and needs to be followed, come what punishment may. If she follows that
law out of moral belief that the gods’ law is just, then she is Neutral Good;
if she follows out of a belief that the gods’ law defines what is makes sense
to do, then she is Lawful Neutral. Antigone herself would not care in the
slightest. She believes that the gods’ law is more important than her
relationship with her ruler or her sister, and acts accordingly. Where Hamlet
and Raskolnikov convinced themselves that their actions were justifiable,
Antigone starts with the conviction to complete her goal, to satisfy the gods’
law.
Were Antigone’s goal to bury her brother, she
would be going about it poorly. Her ruler’s guards catch her, and she is
punished and prevented from properly burying her brother, almost before she can
even cover him with a proper layer of dust.
But simply burying her brother is not Antigone’s
goal. She believes in the gods’ law, and absolutely refuses to hide. When her
sister offers to keep her secret, Antigone reproves her: “Shout it from the
rooftops.” Where Hamlet was uncomfortable with sneaky practices because they
reminded him of his uncle, Antigone actively hates them, because she feels
certain she is doing nothing wrong. The only wrong, she feels, is in those who
would bow their heads to such injustice.
This being the case, Antigone’s actions all fall
into place. She will not make a fool of herself shouting against Creon, nor
will she remain silent at his injustice. When she steps forward to bury her
brother, the burial itself is incidental. She wants her brother to go through
the proper ceremonies, just as she wants Ismene to join in her fight, but
nothing will deter her from showing that Creon’s choice was wrong. She is so
certain of that fact that, even though she loses her family, she does not go uselessly
insane like Raskolnikov did. Her conviction is strong enough to push her
forward in her goal and keep her feet firmly planted on the ground, even with
every human in her world turning against her.
Where Raskolnikov had no one, and Hamlet had
Horatio by his side, Antigone stands firm by the gods, and so no mortal power
can dissuade her.
State of Wonder
Where Raskolnikov was True Neutral for being too
split to fall anywhere else, True Neutral Dr. Swenson simply does not fit
anywhere along the alignment spectrum of a normal person. She could have
loyalty to her funders, but treats them more like a nuisance. She could be
protective of those under her care, but, again, treats them as a nuisance,
except occasionally when they make good test subjects. She protects the Lakashi
tribe she studies, but that, again, seems more out of the annoyance that
visitors would bring to her lab than any real protective instinct for the
people. With her being so uncaring about what anyone else does, it would be
easy to peg her as Chaotic Evil—caring nothing for tradition, and for no one
except herself.
Yet Dr. Swenson does not even care for herself
in the traditional way. When an experiment is dangerous, she considers her body
just another available test subject. She tests a fertility drug on herself and
becomes pregnant at a post-menopausal age, when pregnancy in a perfectly
healthy woman could be dangerous in her environment. And, though she appears to
care for no one, she is focused on synthesizing a malaria vaccine, because she
knows it would save millions of lives. Dr. Swenson’s motivation does not fall
neatly onto Good or Evil, and her methods do not fall neatly into Lawful or
Chaotic. She is a thing unto herself. She refuses to be anything else.
Most importantly, Dr. Swenson is a thing certain
of itself. Though her motivations are (nearly) incomprehensible to those around
her, she will do everything in her power to make that malaria vaccine. The fact
that she is good at manipulating people helps, but the impetus for all this is
her being certain that she is doing what she should be doing. And, unlike
Hamlet or even Antigone, she needs no one, mortal or god, to tell her so.
Protector of the Small
Keladry, knight of the realm, is Lawful Good.
She is one of the most solidly Lawful Good characters I have ever interacted
with in any format. When her friends are in danger, she puts aside her own
fears, embarrassment, and well-being to protect those in her care—and ‘her
care’ includes just about everyone. When she goes on a trip while training to
be a knight and the group she is with is attacked, she takes the lead, not
because of any given authority, but because she can and she is best for the
job. No one ever asks Kel, and no one ever has to. Like Dr. Swenson, Kel
pursues her goals with the single-minded determination of someone who knows she
is right—though Keladry “Knight in Shining Armor” of Mindelan has a more
archetypal and understandable worldview.
By the end of the book series, everyone who
knows Kel knows she will do anything to protect those in her care. Those
fighting on the other side of a war against Kel’s Tortall do not know this, and
so are surprised when Kel goes against her king and commander’s orders to save
a group of children. Though her tactical skills help, she succeeds in saving
the children because she never hesitates: Had she waited for orders, she would
have been too late; had she doubted herself, she would have scared the children
into crying more loudly and the guards would have set off the alarm. Kel’s
conviction, like Antigone’s and Dr. Swenson’s, not only moves her to act, but
pushes her beyond the bounds of ordinary people. Kel could not do what she does
with only conviction, but her conviction lends her the ability to focus
entirely on what she does.
Dounia
and Sonia: Planted Firmly
Dounia begins the tale with conviction, enduring
insult and marrying or not marrying someone for her own reasons—and only for
her own reasons. From the first page, no one can dissuade her from her own
judgment. New information may change her mind, but Dounia is devoted to her
brother and her mother, and will not be moved by offers of money or her own
security from Luzhin, nor by possibilities even from Raskolnikov himself, until
she has rational reason to change her mind. Dounia is Lawful for her
rationality and practicality, and Neutral because she works for her family,
rather than on a grand, charitable scale. Dounia differs from Kel mainly in
scope. Dounia’s mother is also Lawful Neutral, but finds it difficult to make a
stand for herself, because her ideals, though identical to Dounia’s, are
beneath a layer of worry at going against the grain. Growing up in a house with
such a worrying mother likely gave Raskolnikov his split, for lack of a role
model, and Dounia her conviction, as she needed to hold up the family.
Sonia, similarly, stands firm in her beliefs to
protect her family. Her power is a touch subtler than Dounia’s, and much
subtler than anyone else’s I have listed in this paper. Sonia is sure of her
faith in God. This first manifests in a steadfast protection of her family by
keeping them fed: she has little choice, but she has the choice to leave them,
and does not. Her most important action in plot terms employs an oft-overlooked
power: forgiveness. Sonia believes no one is beyond saving, including
Raskolnikov, who killed her friend Lizaveta. Sonia’s belief in God and
forgiveness pushes Raskolnikov to confess.
Neither Dounia nor Sonia do anything as grand as
marching across enemy lines, or curing malaria, or killing someone wicked. But
what they do is find what they believe to be right, and stand by it, come what
may. Lawful Neutral Dounia will sacrifice herself for her family, and will not
give in to an evil person, and Lawful Good Sonia redeems Raskolnikov. No death,
no blood, yet each makes the world that much better.
Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality
Chaotic Good Harry Potter in Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality
often embodies how far guile and flexibility can get one. He takes each
situation, looks at every angle, and helps all the people he can, as much as he
can. Almost nothing can hold him back, and his classmates are under the
impression that he can do impossible things. For a given definition of
‘impossible,’ this is even true. Harry outright says, “If you think hard enough
you can do the impossible,” and believes every word with good reason—the
average person’s definition of ‘impossible’ does not apply to him. Harry knows
that he can move Heaven and Earth. All he has to do is find that one immovable
spot to stand and one particularly long lever.
One day, Harry finds his best friend Hermione in
danger of a fate worse than death, because she has been accused of a crime she
did not commit. Nothing in his life has been clearer: Hermione cannot save
herself, so Harry must find a way, some way, to save her, before the next day’s
trial. It would not matter how. His conviction reached the point where any and
every option is viable, be it new evidence, morally questionable scheming,
self-sacrifice, or all of the above.
And Harry learns, first-hand, a lesson he
already knew.
If you
think fast enough you can sometimes do the impossible quickly...
...sometimes.
Only sometimes.
Not
always.
Not reliably.
Strength
Conviction spurs people into action. Having
conviction as solid as bedrock can make the world appear as if the character
gained new strength, because unthinkable options become thinkable when the
alternative is worse. But conviction cannot make something from nothing.
Conviction is a push. If there is nothing to push, all the conviction in the
world will never come to more than a zephyr.
The Dungeons
and Dragons alignment system is made for powerful characters, whose
conviction will be readily apparent. No matter how strong or weak a character’s
conviction, sufficient power will illuminate it—the knight strikes down the
dastardly villain; Batman takes down pickpockets, muggers, and murderers.
Conviction spurs a character to action, and grants them the strength of doing
what another person might believe impossible, or unconscionable.
Though all the conviction in the world cannot
make up for a lack of strength or knowledge, it extends power, and power is
useless without it. If a character finds no reason
to do anything, then there is no point, and the character would not do
anything.
Works Cited
Advanced
Dungeons & Dragons, 2nd Edition, Player's Handbook. Lake
Geneva,
WI, USA: TSR, 1989. Print.
Dostoyevsky,
Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950.
Print.
Patchett,
Ann. State of Wonder. New York: Harper, 2011. Print.
Pierce,
Tamora. Protector of the Small. New York: Random
House, 2002. Print.
Pierce,
Tamora. The Will of the Empress. New York: Scholastic, 2005. Print.
Shakespeare,
William, André Gide, and Jacques Schiffrin. Hamlet. New York:
Pantheon, 1945. Print.
Sophocles,
and Richard Emil Braun. Antigone. New York: Oxford UP, 1973.
Print.
The
Wizard of Oz. Dir. Victor Fleming. Prod. Mervyn LeRoy. By
Noel Langley,
Florence Ryerson, Edgar Allan Woolf, Herbert
Stothart, Harold Arlen, E.
Y.
Harburg, and Harold Rosson. Perf. Judy Garland, Frank Morgan, Ray Bolger, Bert
Lahr, Jack Haley, Billie Burke, and Margaret Hamilton. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,
1939. DVD.
Yudkowsky,
Eliezer. "Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality." Harry Potter
and the Methods of Rationality. Web. 04 May
2012.
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