by Ilah Sef
[EMAIL PROTECTED] (mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED])
How do you bear the weight of the years?
They cluster around his feet like children around a storyteller of old; wide
eyed and fascinated, they hang upon every syllable. And he, missing only the
motley costume, holds them spellbound as he plucks towers and palaces, kings
and armies, like a magician reaching baubles from the thin air. Byzantine
and Egypt, Pharaohs and Caesar and Kings - he folds back the cloth of time; a
jeweler displaying his wares and each jewel shines beneath the polish of his
care. His web has reached out and drawn them all in - Daniel with his slow
smile and bright eyed Jessica with her quick and greedy mind; the deceptively
fragile beauty, Louis, who kneels with awe as though before a living saint.
Even distant Gabrielle and aloof Armand; Gabrielle intent with unblinking
stare at the night sky beyond the window pane, Armand with book in hand, the
pages of which have gone unturned for the last hour as each succumbs to the
lure
of the storyteller's craft.
All of the young ones, and I. Too old to sit at his feet like the children,
too drawn to turn away. Just beyond the door, unheard, unseen, cloaked in
shadows. I rest my cheek against the cool wall, trace the texture with a
fingertip as I let his voice wash over me. Memories stir, shift lazily beneath
the
patina of the ages as he touches on things I know, places I have seen. So
many things and so much distance between then and now; the years lay like the
heaviest of quilts, smothering, and it seems as though each night only makes
them heavier still. But his words have a beauty to them all the same and it
draws us in, moths to the candle flame, to circle about the memories of the
oldest of us all.
At length the story ends and even Jessica is too rapt to utter forth another
question that would launch the next tale. They disperse, his disciples -
Daniel to the hunt, Louis to his quiet pursuits, Gabrielle to her solitude -
each alight with the visions and thoughts they take from him, tumbling
through
their minds. Armand's eyes flicker towards me as he departs but we exchange
no words - it is not the moment for that yet and so we step around what
remains unsaid, biding our time. He passes on, and in a matter of heartbeats
the
room that was only just filled with eager ears is emptied, home only to the
shadows and echoes of the moment past.
And when even their heartbeats have passed beyond hearing, the last footfall
faded, he looks up and his dark gaze turns towards my shadow. "You're
welcome to come in."
His voice is soft, his tone gentle. And like the wild creature coaxed from
its hiding place I step out from the shadows. He rises as I approach, ancient
courtesies to both of us, and together we stand and regard one another.
Before him I am as Daniel is to myself - naught but a child, and his years
were
countless when my mother bore me beneath her heart. Yet I do not feel as I
should, there is no frisson of awe as I look at this, my Queen's firstborn
son.
Perhaps... Perhaps there is no awe left in me. When one has seen the gods,
touched them, what is left?
He studies me as well and it is his eyes that unman me. Dark and liquid,
inscrutiable - he was in the prime of life when she took him and our faces
might
be of an age, timeless and firm. But our eyes... it is the eyes which tell
the age and his tell of so many ages, so many countless empires and centuries
swept away into the scouring grains of time. To look into those eyes is to
see a span of life such as the thoughts can not comprehend, a yawning abyss
which the mind flinches from, drawing back in self preservation. And yet it is
also to see a soul - thin, worn to the bare planes by the passing of the
years; grown, engulfing all that the owner has seen and known, layered and
multi-faceted... the soul of a man.
I stand closer to him than I ever have. For the first time we look at each
other and as those impossible eyes search over me I wonder what he sees.
"Marius." Oh, just to hear my name upon his lips. He walked among my people,
knew them, surely lived as one of them. On his lips I hear my name as I have
not heard it in centuries, not from any lips - not from my contemporaries;
Mael of my mother's people, my beautiful Greek enchantress. My name as a
Roman would speak it, the inflection just so, the sounds just such. It shocks
me
to my core. Such a simple thing and I can not remember when last I heard it
so and to hear it now is only to remember such a great length of time. How
much worse must it be for him, who bears three times my age?
His eyes pass over me again, seeking. Taking my measure, trying to find the
why of my presence. I see the moment of it - wariness in the darkening of his
eyes, challenge in the slight lift of his chin. The shade of his maker
stands between us, a ghost of bitter history that has touched us both.
"Marius,"
he repeats softly. "Keep--"
I never even draw breath as the chill sweeps through me. I reach out,
fingertips all but brushing his lips, silencing the syllables before they can
be
released. "Don't." The steel is bitter on my tongue. "Don't say it."
Surprise in his eyes. He draws back and I allow my hand to fall. We regard
one another again, strangers, brothers, and then he nods slightly. There is
puzzlement in his eyes as he honestly tries to understand. "Why? It is what
the
others call you." He spreads his hands gently, a peace offering. "I meant no
offense."
I don't know whether to be angry or to laugh. In the end the smile is
bitter, twisted, and I wish he did not have to see it. "It isn't who I am."
Draw in
a breath, the words leaping forth whether I will or not. "It is a title, a
legend. I am no legend." Never was any fruit so bitter to mortal tongue. "And
there can not be a keeper if there is nothing to keep."
Understanding, then, but thankfully not the rush of pity cloaked as sympathy
that I brace myself for. He gestures me to a seat, resumes his own. Silence,
each waiting for the other to speak, unknowing of what to say. At length he
nods to the door. "You listen with the rest of them." There is a gleam in
his eyes that I begin to bridle at, teeth set on edge - I can not remember
ever
being treated as the child he must see me as - but a gentle smile graces his
lips and only then do I realize it is teasing, soft and harmless, meant in
friendship. I try to muster forth a smile in return but the effort fails.
"You have a gift of speaking." Awkward words, but they come to me only
grudgingly. He wonders why I am there. I do not know myself. "And so many
memories
to share."
"Thousands." The smile teases both of us now, warm and utterly gentle.
"Would you have one?"
So free to share, to offer the knowledge of the ages. A thousand and a
thousand more questions spring to mind and then to tongue. "What..." What
indeed.
What was Egypt like? What did you think of Rome? What was she truly like? Did
she ever smile? Laugh? So many questions. He waits, expectant, enjoying the
opportunity to share, real pleasure in his open expression; and at the same
time it is a test, a rite of passage, to see where my thoughts dwell and what
I shall ask for. It needs only the first question.
And then it is there and I can not help but bring it forth, acid upon my
tongue. "What is it like to lose yourself?"
I have surprised him and perhaps even slightly dismayed him. Confusion, not
knowing how to answer, not sure of what I mean - it flashes across his face
in seconds; and how adept we become at reading the smallest gesture, the
slightest change of smooth features that I may read all of that there in the
minute lines of his mouth and eyes. He draws back and there is regret and
sorrow
in his eyes. "Marius..."
"What is it like?" Stronger now, the words coming with more assurety, almost
desperation. The need to know, newly birthed, burns inside of me. "To wake
anew, to know nothing, to lose all that has gone before - what is that like?
Tell me, Khayman."
But he turns me away with a shake of his head, eyes no longer willing to
meet mine. "You don't want to know. Not really. You're too young for that."
"Let me be the judge," I say, biting the words off sharply. "Tell me."
I wait. I wait until he must look up, until his eyes, all unwilling, must
meet mine. It staggers me, the weight in those dark eyes, crashing across me
with the force of the wave upon the hapless sand. I hold myself firm and we
sit, locked in each others eyes until he slowly nods. His gaze never leaves me
as he reaches out, spanning the distance between us to brush a cool hand
across my cheek.
Blankness. Emptiness. A world painfully new, every noise, every shape, every
color an assault upon the senses without name or recognition. A world of
terror, battering and beating at a mind without point of reference. To flinch
at a sound, a motion, every passing thing a tremor that rocks the stability of
a world gone mad.
I try to jerk back, to break the contact, find I can not. Frozen, I can only
watch the pageant unfold before me, impression upon impression pouring like
fire into the theatre of my mind.
Discovery. Learning. To grasp a thing, explore it - touch and sound, taste
and sight, the newborn explorations of any babe. Learning the syllables anew,
putting thought to concept, word to object. Soft and rough, hot and cold,
light and dark. Innocent delight. World without self.
Wondering. Puzzlement. To look into a glass and see a reflection unknown, a
face that moves with your own emotion but which you have never seen.
Awareness of loss, of wrong. Of something missing. Feeling it, like the
phantom ache
of a missing limb, just beyond reach. Frustration. Inability to answer the
question. Who am I?
Anger. Sadness. Alone. Unable to reach out, to speak and touch with others -
desperate for contact, forever alone. A gulf of emptiness stretching out,
insurmountable, lost in the darkness. Who am I? A life made from wholecloth,
stitched together raggedly, borrowed and stolen. Stories to take the place of
memories, crafting an identity, never satisfied, a hollow shell. Despair and
loneliness.
Who am I?
"No," I gasp, pulling away. He lets me go, sinks back, allows me to do
likewise. "No... Like that-- Why? A new chance, a new start - why let the
ghosts
of the past bury it?"
Such sadness in his eyes. "The past is not a ghost. It is a part of you.
Would you cut out your heart and think to continue, never noticing its
absence?"
I duck my head, try to hide the tears that well hot in my eyes. Such a
fragile hope, neck snapped in the moment of its birth. Its loss hurts, one
more
formless pain in a pile that has grown beyond my control so swiftly. I teeter
upon pins, and I am no angel to dance there with comfort. Shaken and
scrambling to rebuild I know not what from a ruin more vast than every I
imagined,
and one more option snatched from my hands.
His touch on my hair is light, comforting. I shut my eyes tightly, ashamed
to feel the hot splash of tears against the hands clenched in my lap. He
strokes my hair back with the gentle familiarity of a father, an uncle. I want
to
push it away, I am no child... and yet the shaken part of me is strained at
the end of a tether just this side of breaking, smothered in a weight I
barely know how to hold, and it would be such a wonder to lean against that
strong
hand just for an instant; a single moment to allow me to gather myself
together again. Such an impossible, unthinkable wonder.
Foolishness.
He settles against the arm of my chair, his presence close but not too
close, his touch light and smooth. His voice is soft, unobtrusive, offered
without
encroaching. "You sleep and you wake... And yes, the world is different. And
for awhile, the wonder of that difference can be enough. It can sweep you
up and carry you along. But no innocence lasts forever. Always with you is the
knowledge; this is not your first world, this is not all there is. The
moment that is realized, innocence is left behind and you begin to grow, to
ask
'why' as any child does. And with the 'why' comes the realization that the
world will never change - it is always the same. Only the trappings change.
The
world is the same you left behind and so long as you live you will never
escape that."
My voice is ragged even to my own ears. "Then what? Death is no answer."
"No," he agrees mildly. The softest sigh escapes him, a whispered breath
against my hair. "Marius... you can not cut the past away. I know it wears
heavy, but you have the strength to carry it." Hesitation, such gentleness in
his
voice. "You bore her on your back when you were only a child. You have more
strength than you think."
His fingers brush my hair again, linger against my cheek for a slender
comforting moment and then are gone. He departs in the slip of silence,
leaving me
to gather myself without the shame of watching eyes. I draw a breath, then
another, brushing away tears with a shaking hand. Gathering the trembling
reigns of my slipping control, shouldering the weight no matter how hard it
presses upon me, two thousand years of regrets and sorrow.
But the world does not change. I can not change the past, only the future.
At length it is with firm hands that I brush my hair back, wipe the last
traces from my cheeks and stand to seek out the others.
A few of his acolytes have sought him out again, a last story before the
dawn, but he looks up as I enter. I meet his eyes squarely and answer the
question in them firmly. No, Khayman. This shall not be forgotten. His smile
as I
cross the room and urge Jessica to move aside that I might share a seat in the
circle is balm to a soul more dearly in need of it than I shall ever admit.
Strength to bear the weight of the years. I hold it in trembling hands,
grasped with tenacious nail, but I hold it still. That will have to be enough.
End.
(http://www.tc.umn.edu/~pres0049/Storypage.html)
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