by Glenn » Mon Jun 16, 2014 7:12 am
Four things. Four frustrating, painful, unending, unbending things. Four ways to lose yourself so deeply that you might never be found. Four hooks to pull you, one for each limb, until you stretch and strain, until you would scream out if only you had a voice left to scream with. Four things that, in and of themselves, keep you from screaming for each requires your voice, each more than the last. Each the same and each so different. Recovery.
Egris,
The first: recovery. His body's. The body had been starved. It was a simple statement, a simple concept. Not enough food. Not enough water. A month. That was not too bad, no? The body feeds upon itself, but after a time, even if some damage is done, there was a simple solution: eat food, drink water. And lo, recovery! Except for, nothing was ever that simple in Myrken. This was not simple starvation. It was an unknowing starvation. Normally, when you remove food and drink, the body suffered, weakened. It could no longer perform. There were checks. There were mechanisms to shut it down, to conserve strength. Imagine a body that could not do that, that did not know it was starving and a mind that had no safeguards at all. So he pushed. He pushed against his environment. He pushed against fate. He pushed against all the things that Glenn Burnie always pushed against. No, food and drink were not enough to fix this.
It's always interesting how a noblewoman signs her letters, don't you think? Oh, but you wouldn't know. It's only when they're writing to one that is not noble where it is interesting. The. You're not a she or a her. You're certainly not an "A." No, you're a "The." You're something, not someone. Then again, Governor Burnie is something. The Governor Burnie is something else, you see? You're a something else. Think about that. You go through life not as a person or even a thing but as the thing. I would say 'you poor woman,' but then you don't let yourself be a woman at all, even if you call yourself a Lady. You poor 'The.' You poor, rich, noble, blue-blooded 'The." There's not even a point to reading the words that follow it. They don't matter. Only the 'The' matters, which is a shame, since that Kestrel bit might actually be interesting otherwise. Ah well. I thank you for your mercy. I thank you for your pity. You needen't thank me for mine. We people tend to reciprocate. Hell of a thing when you carry with you empathy instead of dignity.
The second: recovery. His mind's. He was connected to her when she died. Oh, Wynsee would say he didn't remember. Others would say the same, but memory was more than facts. Memory was more than details. Memory was more than what happened. Memory was so much more. Perhaps the 'what' of it all had been stricken from his mind, just like everyone else's, but life was so much more than 'what.' Life was so much more than "The." He had been deluded by a monster of his own creation. He had been driven mad by the thirst. He had been attacked, down to the deepest core of his subconscious by the woman he loved. Perhaps Golben saved him, for lost as he was, she couldn't even find him, and if she couldn't find him, she couldn't perfect him. Or perhaps that wouldn't have happened at all. Regardless, even as he had regained his soul, he had lost his heart. Even as he regained his thoughts from the haze of a lost month, he had been kissed by death. The taste lingered. Physical strength came and went. Mental strength had to be summoned, had to be dragged from deep wells of responsibility and determination, wells that came up dry more often than not. He could squeeze blood from a stone, but not forever and not all the time, and it was only getting worse, not better.
I wonder though, of your contradictions, Egris. You've been remiss. I'm harder to fasten down. My people flounder in my absence. It is my kingdom but the king's matters. If I step aside I might live. If I do not, Myrken shall suffer. What is a man to make of all of that? Perhaps we can come up with a compromise where I'm a distant memory in idle minds and Myrken yet may live? I'd ask about the one where I may live and Myrken ends up a distant memory, but that seems somehow counterproductive. It rather defeats the point of living for something. I think you might even be able to understand that, though you are just a "The." I wonder what you live for? I wonder much about you. I'm afraid that my spies hadn't decided to take much notice of you. Cousins, you know how it goes, yes? Truly, from what you say, we don't need you at all, just your skin and blood. I imagine the might of Trae Kelsa probably wouldn't recognize the difference.
The third: recovery. The victims. Glenn Burnie was no mentalist. Not now. Not ever. Never again. He had certain tools however. There were certain things he could poke at and moreover, there was an understanding that only one bound to Rhaena Olwak would have had. She left broken people in her wake, pretty little baubles full of giggles and titters. Some, like the knight, he knew he could do nothing for. Others, merchants and nobles, commoners and clerks, perhaps not many, in the grand scheme of Myrken, remained. Most hadn't felt this touch, this extreme change. Most needed just a push or a prod. Most could be convinced to join the tide, to get a reward for the sake of sacrificing one's spirit. Others, some of the best and most stubborn, the smartest and most dangerous, they offended the eyes and the ears and the beauty. He had spent months with them, in the absence of a Lamai and the refusals to see a Kals. He tried to pull them back to who they were through logic and dreams and persistence and kindness, through memories and contradictions, much as he provided dear Egris. These were more than smoke and mirrors though, more than wordplay meant to distract and distrupt. These contradictions meant to break down false walls and recover the foundation of true ones. Two had gone mad in the process, hopelessly, inexorably mad, but others had shown signs. Connie Cross called herself Constance again. She remembered her past in hues other than pink and with sounds that were not covered in giggling. There was a way to go for her and for others, but there was perhaps, a light inside them that they might again reach.
So, Egris, practicality then. I'm not unreasonable when there's a sword at my throat, despite my penchant for being very effective at offensively bleeding on someone. No pretty words. I step down or what? You begin to kill my people? Or is it that you just kill me? Do you take their things? Do you round them up and cut off the head of every third citizen? Is this the face of the king triumphant? Is that how Myrken may some day be a memory? Or is it just my head on the line? What happens if you fail? Is it then yours? You must have done something fairly wretched to get shunted upon Myrken Wood duty to begin with. Do you know what happened to your predecessors? To mine? Death and threats, even perfectly reasonable threats backed up with the most proud elbow strength can only go so far. You've offered your threats. What else do you have in their stead? Honeyed promises would be nice? For my people, you see, not for myself. I'm too recent a widower. It'd be in bad taste. Provide me with something other than a harsh truth. We have no time for the harsh truth of a "The," you see. Such shoddy kindness, that.
The fourth: recovery. Myrken Wood. He was no king. He was no judge. There was no one else. Every single person, it seemed, between the Foundation and the hunger and the mob and just the basic business of government, had a complaint. He heard them every day and he satisfied no one. Those of the new wealth wanted to keep what they had gained, even though it was through Rhaena that they gained it. Those of the mob-stolen wealth wanted what they had lost, even if they had snatched it up in the first place. Those who the mob punished wanted retribution as did those who were punished by the mob after the mob. Everyone had a point. No one was pleased. No one could be pleased. It was an impossible situation yet he had to sit and listen and continue to give verdicts that made no one happy. At least they could feel heard in their unhappiness. Perhaps, just maybe, they'd turn their ire towards him instead of their neighbors and in doing so, Myrken could become whole once again. What fear had he of death in the face of the necessary fate he sought for himself?
So there it is. Thank you for writing the Council. At least now they'll know why I'm so intractable and unpleasant next time I see them. Please write back, this time without the "The," and with something more engaging than threats. I'd love to be able to get to that Kestrel. It sounds fascinating.
Yours,
Glenn