by Charles Matthias and Ryx
Pars I: Disipicio
(k)
Saturday, May 15, 724 CR
So what does it mean for something that exists, be it a physical thing or an intellectual thing, to be a dependent object in the logic of Haquino?
Charlie regarded the middle-aged raccoon dressed in a simple brown robe with a tired _expression_; the rat had allowed himself only a few hours of sleep the night before so he could finish up as much of his arithmetic lessons as he could before finding the scholarly Temple acolyte to begin his instructions. With so little sleep he'd not dreamed properly and that made him out of sorts. He had been alert the first few hours of the day but now as the mid-morning hour wore on toward noon he felt drowsy as if a heavy blanket had been draped across his mind.
Charlie? the raccoon prodded him with a glance. Are you listening?
Charlie blinked and looked away from the window, not that the view beyond offered any insight upon the raccoon's discussion. The small diamond shaped panes of imperfect, bubbly glass looked out at nothing more than the dilapidated rose vines climbing the west wall of the Duke's stables. The first blush of spring was beginning to interest a few buds from their winder sleep but the continued shade of the early season had not awakened them wholly. In the distance the hulk of the old giant pumping the smith's bellows was a vast misshapen shadow against the inside of the bailey wall. In his huge hand the tiny bellows handle, easily as stout as Charlie's thigh, looked like nothing so much as a twig twisted by the imperfections of the glass. After looking outward his inward look toward his tutor was suddenly cast into gloom. Elvmere's private study looked just as the rest of the Temple library did; close, spare, and jammed floor to rafter with shelf after shelf overladen with books and scrolls. A sense of fastidiousness remained as there were no books stacked in haphazard heaps in the corners, here, as other studies sported. The small writing desk was spotlessly clean and a small shuttered lantern stood at one corner beside the inkwell.
Elvmere, the raccoon lounging on the opposite side of that desk, was regarding him archly down the length of his angular muzzle with an uplifted quirk of his whiskers. Charlie chuffled softly through his own whiskers and drew a breath. Aye, aye. Dependent object. That means that the object depends on some other object or objects to exist prior to its own existence. He waved one hand distractedly as if that might move the lesson along, though he knew from long experience that it was a wasted effort.
And what do you mean when you say 'prior to its own existence'?
I mean only that if any one object that the dependent object depends upon did not exist, then the dependent object couldn't exist either. At the very least he was grateful that his tutor had decided to use the morning to refresh his mind on what they'd been studying before the hunt. The abstract concepts of philosophy, and even some of the ideas of arithmetic, made his head swim worse than too much wine. As an afterthought he added, Time has nothing to do with it. Time is an object too.
The raccoon's muzzle twitched in a slight smile. And what does Haquino say of time? Is that a dependent object? And if so, on what does it depend?
Charlie put his paws to his head and rubbed the fur in front of his ears. Ugh, I... I don't remember.
Elvmere narrowed his eyes and lowered the slate tablet in his paws. Did you sleep well last night?
Not as well as I usually do. I'll be in better shape next week. He rubbed his eyes with one paw, blinked several times, and then did his best to smile at the raccoon acolyte. The weariness gone from his voice, he asked, So what does Haquino say about time? A shift of his eyes toward the glass revealed no more vine or hulking giant at the smithy but an expanse of gray slate rooftops. Charlie hardly blinked at the changed vista. Despite not having felt any motion the study, and with it the entire Temple as it never changed on the inside, had been lifted to some height in a tower to make room elsewhere for some other thing the Keep had need of.
That is not how this works, Elvmere reminded him with an amused churr coloring his words. His brown robe shifted on his shoulders with each twitch of his lush, gray and black ringed tail. If you do not remember what Haquino said, then you must do your best to tell me what you think. Come now, young man, tell me if time is a dependent object and on what might it depend.
Charlie took a deep breath and pondered the question, trying to remember the various dizzying lessons he'd endured beneath the encyclopaedic scholar. He knew that all of his studies were important for a man of his rank and abilities, but he would far rather have Elvmere's musical accompaniment than his instruction. Still, he would never let it be said that he did not try his best; his father expected nothing less.
I suspect time is a dependent object. Time is the way we know that other objects have changed, so time is dependent on the existence of objects that can change. If an object cannot change, then it doesn't make any sense to talk about time.
Elvmere's smile widened and he nodded his head. An interesting and astute observation. Haquino agrees with you in part though you should review his writings to understand more precisely. For now, suppose there is an object which cannot change. Does it follow that time cannot be dependent on such an object?
Charlie frowned and felt his frustration return. Elvmere would not let him avoid answering questions that made his head hurt trying to understand the logical puzzles, and even when he did answer them, the raccoon only followed them with a question even more confusing! I... I'm not sure. Let me think. He took a deep breath, one eye casting toward the door, wishing that his mother or sister would come and interrupt them and spare him his metaphysical ordeal. But the passage remained empty, and he heard neither claws nor boots approach his study.
He set his chew stick between his incisors and gnawed for several seconds as he grappled the conundrum. When he lowered the stick he spoke in a quiet, measured voice, thinking always on the next phrase. For time to be dependent on an object, there have to be some ways this can be. Time only makes sense if there are objects which can change. So there exists an object that cannot change. So nothing any object which can change can cause a change in the object that cannot change. Ugh. Which means that the only way an object which cannot change can be... uh... can be a dependency of time, is if some object which can change is dependent on the object which cannot change. And that dependency would have to be independent of time... I think. Am I... am I answering your question?
Elvmere lifted his slate and scrawled a note to himself, green eyes filled with good humor. You are trying. These can be challenging concepts. But you need to ground yourself in the basics before you are able to better understand what time is. Or what it means for an object to be incapable of change. But we shall work through the subtleties together. Now let us step back...
Both raccoon and rat lifted their ears when the click of paws walking up the hall announced Charlie's hoped for reprieve. Peter, his younger sibling who had waited in the Temple proper to bring him any messages were they sent, stepped around the frame and waited beneath the lintel. Pardon me, Lord Charles but a message just came for Acolyte Elvmere from the Temple.
The raccoon smiled and lowered the slate into his lap. What is the message, my child?
The Lothanasa wants you to come to her study as soon as you can. I don't know why.
She probably needs me for rituals or prayers or to investigate some mote of history. Elvmere's serene _expression_ settled the young rat's trembling whiskers. Thank you, my child. Lord Charles, I wish you to review the same chapters of Haquino's work that I assigned you last week. We will discuss the history of the Midlands next time.
Thank you, Elvmere, I will learn. Charlie had never known Elvmere to wonder why he had been summoned; the raccoon always set aside whatever he was doing to answer the Lothanasa's summons. It irritated Charlie's father from time to time, but that was the closest his father ever came to uttering an unkind word about the raccoon. The two were incongruous friends; one staid and taciturn while the other was boisterous and extravagant, yet they had somehow formed a friendship that had lasted longer than Charlie's years. He remembered, only at the last sweep of the raccoon's tail disappearing out the door, that he had meant to ask what Elvmere knew of his adoption. In his lassitude he had forgotten, just as he had forgotten so much of Haquino's circuitous philosophic observations.
Peter waited in the doorway until Elvmere had left. The young rat glanced up at his older brother waiting for instructions. The two stared at each other for a few long moments until Charlie's brain once more lurched into cogent thought. He grimaced with a sigh when he realized that his brother was awaiting his wishes. Do you not have other duties, Peter? I have no immediate needs, thank you.
Yes, Milord Charlies! the boy squeaked and turned so quickly he lost all poise.
Wait! Charlie said in a friendlier tone. Peter skidded with a scratch of claws on polished stone and whirled about with an excited widening of his eyes. Performing a task for their brother always seemed to leave the two young boys in breathless pleasure. Tell my mother I will be in my father's study until lunch is prepared. She'll understand. Despite the twitch of his whiskers and tail Peter straightened himself and, with a valiant effort, regained his composure. He bobbed his head up and down with a smile and left to do as asked, though with more poise than his earlier scamper.
Charlie followed him out, down the passage outside Elvmere's study door, through the vaulted doors of the Temple, and into the wide arcade beyond, every muscle in his body taut with expectation. He watched his brother flash as he strode through the pools of bright spring sunshine slicing in through the narrow architrave windows along one side of the corridor. Only once he had disappeared into the deeper shadows of the corridor at the far end of the arcade did Charlie begin to walk as well.
He chose no immediate direction, merely contemplating where he wanted to go and trusted in the Keep's subtle shifting to get him there without too great an expense of time. It seemed that, whenever he wanted to get somewhere swiftly it took the better part of an hour or more yet, when he wished to dawdle he found himself where he needed to be after only a few paces.
The sunlight was pleasant against his face as he crossed the small garden bordered by the arcade and into the shadows against of a recessed door arch. No door stood within, merely an open may leading to an upward spiral of stairs. Without pause Charlie entered the gloom of the stairwell, the only light given provided by small arrow loups and narrow casement windows set every few steps. At the top he came to a landing and, on that landing, a single door upon which was the crossed oar and trident of his House.
Pausing briefly at the door Charlie traced the points of the trident; a tool both bringer of the sea's bounty and letter of blood in battle. An icon with double meaning, so much like his life. Dropping his hand to the latch Charlie pushed the door open. He had no fear that anyone might hear the door opening; Misanthe would be in the solar with Suria and the other ladies at this hour shortly before the mid-day meal, unless she was in the kitchen alongside the cook and scullions actually making it with her own hands. She was as much a dichotomy as the trident and Charlie himself; a noblewoman with the spirit of service not expected, or even dreamt, from one of her station.
Of course, that meant that the household staff absolutely adored her. She was a very strict mistress, but fair and compassionate. She actually saw to it that their immediate staff received worthy compensation from the House coffers and at least one day of each seven off to rest, if not two when demands were at an ebb. With his father away and Charlie capering about the forest the staff had likely enjoyed that two day reprieve, only to have their work doubled upon Charlie's return complete with dirtied clothes, sweaty horses, and used accoutrement.
Through the door the gloom of the stairwell continued, amplified only by a blinding pool of bright sunlight spilling across the dark, polished wood of his father's desk. On the wall behind, as with Elvmere's study and Charlie's own reading room, were shelves packed tight with books and scrolls and the collections of his father's years of travel. Intricate wooden models were artfully displayed on pedestals to either side of the door through which Charlie entered; Whalish oar-driven drommonds similar to the Sea Horse, another Pyralian in design but so huge compared to the drommond Charlie had never understood if the scale was accurate or not. It had twice the reams of a drommond and was thrice as long if not moreso. Pyralian script intricately painted upon its prow named it the Iron King. A few miniature siege engines, trebuchet and mangonels that actually functions, sat poised as if to defend the study from miniscule invaders.
Such things were all familiar to Charlie, he had even played with many of them in years past, and broken them more than a few times. He ignored the displays and walked past the large desk to the back wall of the study where a line of leather bound journals stood in a neat row on two shelves. As his eyes grew accustomed to the glare of the sunshine reflected from the polish of the desk Charlie could read the gold inlaid text on their spines easily.
His father kept detailed journals of his day to day activities, and in teaching Charlie about important events in the history of their house, their duties, and their political and economic arrangements. He often instructed Charlie to review select dates in those journals where some nugget of information had been carefully preserved. The dates were written on the inside cover of each book, and so he drew one out after another, checking those dates until he finally found one rather early in his library that framed the June from fifteen years ago.
Eschewing the huge, softly upholstered chair behind the desk Charlie moved around into the pool of sunlight that reached the floor in front of the desk. He had never sat in his father's chair, and the thought of doing so while he clandestinely perused his journals made him even less so inclined. Charlies worried his incisors together and laid down on the carpeted floor, feet in the air, toes rolling his tail back and forth between each paw. He spread the book flat before him, and flipped to the back of the journal. The entries were set in October, so he skimmed the pages looking for his sire's name and mention of a bargain. Page after page he flipped going backward in time day by day, week by week, his pace slowing at times as entire sentences leaped from the page to delight him.
He may not have seen his sire's name, but he certainly saw his own. His father wrote of him with such tenderness and delight that Charlie could not help but smile and swell his chest against the rug until the crescent medallion pressed through his fur and poked insistently against his flesh. And there were also allusions to his mother's pregnancy though he did not stop to actually read any of the entries until his father's hand became shaky in August. Intrigued, Charlie pulled himself closer so his snout hovered over the old pages that had yellowed at the edges. His eyes savored every word.
Tenth of August in the year Seven-Hundred-and-Nine Cristos Reckoning,
The surprises and delights with which my life began to overflow two years past when I began my travels from Metamor to reclaim my birthright have taken a turn I never thought, never dreamed possible. Already a father I have become through Charlie, the dear boy who shares my gift and who has come into my home these last few months and whom I have named my heir, I did not look to be a sire of any offspring of my own. And yet and yet! I am to be a father twice!
Misanthe told me the joyful news today, fearful that I would be wroth with her. The sly fox had suspected for the last few weeks, but did not even hint at it awake or asleep until she was certain, hiding it out of fear until she could no longer hold the news at bay. In the land of her birth one of her station becoming pregnant with a child of the House she served was punishable by death or banishment. She thought she was barren because servants were made so in her land and she had been subjected to that many, many years ago. So, when she finally realized what had happened, she was beside herself with terror.
For my part I never thought anything would come of our fleshly dalliances. But I had forgotten what I had preached others to seek of Metamor's curse; healing! And now Charlies shall have a younger brother or sister!
I will not allow this child of mine to be called bastard. Once what she had told me had sunk in she would gift me with a child! I demanded that she join me as more than a mere servant, but as wife, and take my name, my station, and that which she had already claimed my heart. To allay suspicion as to the child's parentage I will have this ceremony done as swiftly as can be arranged. Gods be blessed she has agreed and the ceremony will be held in a week's time.
I have asked my friend Elvmere to officiate, much to his consternation considering his current status, but I assured him that I could would entrust no other to the fate of my family. He did have some reservations of a more ecclesiastic nature as I have never made secret my many intimate assignations with countless others. He wished that I lay aside such adolescent delights, despite the reason I entered into them. We did exchange in a rather heated debate on the matter, but in the end I impressed upon him the importance of what the ultimate purpose of them was, though I did promise that I would find other means That will certainly be a challenge, as I have already explored countless methods and found the one that works the most efficaciously, but I have agreed. I do agree, in the end, that he is right and I will, perforce, strive to use other methods such as I did with Charlies sire.
Though I am to give my own flesh to this new child, I will not forsake my promise to Charlie. He is my heir and will always be so. I love him dearly, more than I ever thought I could, and count his sire as a dear friend after our year's journey together. I would never make his sire and his mother's sacrifice a vain one by breaking my promise to them and Charlie.
But this new child, ah, what a world of delights I find myself! I can scarcely find words of thanksgiving and god to whom to offer them.
Charlie wished he could remember that time more clearly, but he'd only been two years old. And while he and all those born as rats were remarkably capable at that age, he could not recall a single clear memory until he was four.
But as happy as these entries were, and the way in which they made him recall his childhood, they were not the reason he was reading his father's journals. He had not known that his father had given healing to his sire but there was no reason to assume yet it had anything to do with his adoption; best to keep an eye open for any other such references though. He resumed flipping backward, through the rest of August, and then through July with nary a mention of any bargain for Charlie, only snippets of his adjustment to living at Metamor and the frequent visits they made to the Glen so he could be with his litter-mates.
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May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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