Discarded

Discarded

Postby Glenn » Fri Sep 20, 2019 5:19 am

Like any other skill, carpentry had certain thresholds. The most basic things didn't take much effort. He was a fell creature (re)made to worship aestheticism above all, to marry it, somehow, with all other, more conventional (purer?) ideals. To look at this warped and ragged table in the midst of this quite ruined priory, caused him physical pain. To write on it, to utilize it, to value its function over its form, caused his stomach to clench in a constant agony. There was something divine to that, wasn't there? It was an evident truth, instant retribution. People searched their entire life for a sign, and there was his. Certain faces caused him pleasure, others pain. A songbird's melody the first, a toddler's screetching the second. Had things gone differently, this would have been the new state of humanity, no more doubt or confusion, nothing subjective or unsure, a new survival mechanism for a changed world.

Despite various and spirited attempts tor aise him up, there were limits to his capacity. He was the first to admit this. Humility had been something to work at, a contradiction, of sorts, in those days he was quite shining and pleasing, but it was part of the recipe for special reasons, to contrast a person he had never even known he had once been. It served him well, now, for it allowed him to admit and wonder, to break faith yet not claim some other, easy, answer, and there were answers to be found.

When he wrote upon this table, it hurt him, always the same amount, never less, never better, nor did he become more use to it, no matter how much he might inwardsly hope to, or outwardsly claim to. When one lied to one's self, it became somehow impossible to lie to another. There were so many truths that the Lady did not deem worthy of his limited and focused knowledge.

He tried to understand and he wrote and he tried to understand.

Cherny,

Now it has been months. Not many. Some months. I have not sought you out. I have listened for good deeds, thinking they might be you. Never have I been a coward, not since being taken in and finishing my training, but I am in this. I do not know the answers. I know not the questions. You knew and you tried to make something of it. Something good. You lived up to my standard, real or fake. Now I try to live up to yours. Something good can come from something bad if only we work hard enough. But this. I can not tell what good ought to be. My heart tells me wrong. I feel I could ask you but I cannot bear to. I can stand some burdens but only some. This is selfish and cowardly and weak, but I cannot bear to disappo


He did not tear up the letter. He did, however, fold it over upon itself many times, creating nothing more beautiful than a small, uneven square. It, like other attempts that preceeded it, would be discarded. Too honest? Too vulnerable? Too painful? Embarassing. Weak. Wrong. It was wrong. This remained wrong. Cherny, if he did good, did more without Gahald there to question it. He knew too well how easily one wrong idea could send everything spiraling down.

With a wince, he stood from the table. He would repair this place, but it would not be beautiful. It would simply serve. Somewhere in the midst of the pain of that act of defiance, he might find the words for his squire. The voice to cry for help.
Glenn
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