by Duquesne » Thu Sep 12, 2019 5:48 am
Poised on the clean break of glass in that window, firelight is snared and glistens in reflection. And in some edge of this particular broken pane, in that reflection, the man can observe his friend and student’s despair, her confusion. Affronts are stacked one upon the other — he imagines the building of a tell, wherein former ruin lays foundation for the structure above, rising ever upward over time. Standing at its base, one may look up and perceive the height, the number of generations, the sheer mass of matter needed to raise it.
The architect stands thus, feeling dwarfed by a long unfortunate history, a mountain of occupation rising up beneath Gloria and Glenn’s past interactions. But he does not survey its entirety, this mountain, cannot possibly undertake every slope, every precipice — his mind searches only for the clearest, most reasonable path to its summit, where one day he might join them and say in earnest, The time has come - to come down from here.
“I must repair this house. Give it to a family in need of home,” he murmurs to her, when she draws near to lend her gaze also to the forlorn window and its view of a night-dark landscape. There is a calm shadow at work on his face. When he speaks next, it proves he had not been looking for distraction elsewhere, that he had heard her every word — the window had been but a lens, focusing his thoughts.
“A great deal has occurred between you, more than I expected.” He looks at her; the fire is both kind and unkind to his aspect here. Shadows deepen the noble lines of his features, a scholar’s look, and yet at once fire and shadow offer him an appearance of age beyond his years. A trick of the light, perhaps — or a glimpse into the measure of his experience.
“I hear you,” he says, green eyes darkened by the increase of his pupils; the man searches her face with deep focus. “What you have told me, what you have said without speaking — I hear you, Gloria.
“And, like you, I do not understand. I am not equipped with the tools I need to understand, not yet. I promise you, however, we will make sense of it. And you and Glenn, you will reach some consensus, some kind of amends one day. For what I see and what I hear is — this has gone on long enough.”
Spoken with an edge, a very subtle but serious edge. It is not meant for her, nor for Glenn were he to hear — it is an artifact of his own history, a former statesman’s own burdensome past. Adjusting his stance that he might face her more fully, the architect’s voice is together firm and gentle. “We unite, together on equal footing if we are to survive the changes that come. We are small and vulnerable and the world intends always to crush our hope and our effort. This division,” he loosens a hand from behind him to offer an open-handed gesture, encompassing the crushing tides shared equally between she and Glenn, “cannot continue if we intend to recover Myrken Wood and make her one day stronger.
"In saying this, I do not make light of what you have told me, nor am I advising you to forgive Glenn or to forget what he has done; this would be unwise counsel. No, there are consequences in the world — consequences follow actions and we all must bear up under them. What you feel, what you have experienced, what you have sacrificed, what you have done, these do not simply fade away with a word or wave of the hand — they must be repaired piece by piece, day by day, whether you are given answers that satisfy you or not. And there is possibility you do not receive answers that extinguish these fires. There are times when resolution comes not from another but from within one's own self. I ask only that you prepare and reserve yourself for the day when Glenn gives explanation and rationale and then decide, once you have these, how you will proceed in your future interaction with him. For now, we must wait a little while yet to ask him what must be asked."
Both hands are loosened from behind him now, that he might reach for her hand, missing its digit. Eyes lower to study this hand held upon his own; his thumb passes lightly across its back above the knuckles. “You are among the most loyal, most dedicated and giving souls I have known, and these are virtues in you, virtues I admire. But these virtues are finite, limited in their measure within each of us. Gloria, you can no longer afford to sacrifice yourself so wholly for the sake of others. Do you understand?” And his expression has changed to one of imploring and his darkened eyes shoulder the weight of the soul behind them. “You can be loyal and serve and give of yourself, but you must be discerning — you must carefully choose what you give and to whom, that you do not heap burden on your shoulders or hollow yourself on the inside. Choose the sensible path through the midst of this. Do not make my mistakes; do not find yourself, at my age, with nothing to show for your sacrifice but wounds and scars of body and mind, and a daughter who may never forgive you for being absent even when you are near her. This does not need to be the description of your life.”
The breath he takes after is silent and fragile as glass in his mouth. The breadth of his hands easily encloses hers, covering it as if in protection of her remaining fingers. “This potential mark of death you fear,” he pauses, cultivating a moment’s particular silence, “have attempts been made on your life, attempts you suspect are connected? or is your fear for now a fear of possibility?”