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Entry tags:
untitled (impression of a hart)
Characters: Ardbert, Emet-Selch
Summary:
So Ardbert assumes. He walks through the Greatwood and it’s not damp at all; it’s neither cool nor fragrant; it does not taste like anything. His boots do not disturb the rotty carpet of the wood. When he hears the leaves, ever murmuring in congregation, they don’t cradle him to sleep. There is nothing of him to cradle.
But he thinks he’s recalling it correctly--or maybe he’s not and it just sounds right. He is, after all, more familiar with absence than he is with what he’s lost. He’s spent more time forgetting than anything else--more time lacking what he was than being what he was.
He does think it’s cool here. He thinks it’s likely damp and fragrant. He’d bet you it’s a fine feeling to rest in the shade, against soft moss and flowers.
He would not, of course, deny that it nearly bowls him over when, while he meanders apart from the Warrior of Darkness, he finds Emet-Selch doing just that.
“Would you look at that,” says Ardbert. He says it like he’s got a hunting party to listen to him, and he catches himself standing stock-still, too. As if he has stumbled upon a hart asleep in a thicket, and despite his instincts cannot help but exclaim in admiration of its form. He might lose the thing were it to wake and flee from him--he might be gored by the imperious crown of its antlers--and still he cannot help but exclaim and admire.
But Ardbert has no hunting party and the thing in the grass is no quarry. Hard to call it a man, either--more a force, more the color black--though the black force there at Ardbert’s feet is at least more of a man than Ardbert. That is to say: Emet-Selch leaves an impression in the grass. He crushes some of the flowers. Ardbert kneels beside Emet-Selch’s body, and when he does that, the pretty blue flowers are just fine.
“Can’t help but wonder,” he confesses down toward Emet-Selch’s sleeping face, “why an old man like you thought it sound to lie here in a heap.” That’s not honest. Emet-Selch is not a heap. Each of his limbs, and the way his head tilts to rest against his own shoulder--he appears at once as if he had simply collapsed where he stood, and as if he was arranged where he is in the mind’s eye of a master artist. Ardbert realizes, now, that he has seen Emet-Selch’s like before. And he realizes where he has seen it: in castles. Adorning great halls, as oil paintings. Ardbert can recall his first time in a castle and the little things that captivated him. He remembers wanting to know how a silk dress in a painting could look like real silk. Like the lady in the dress, she’d only paused. Like there was real blood from her real heart coloring her cheeks.
Emet-Selch, on the other hand, must be a man who’s looked at a lot of paintings. He must have seen a lot of art, must have a better understanding of it. Ardbert can’t think of any other means through which Emet could have learned to lie in repose like this, as if thoughtfully rendered. Emet-Selch does what art does: he lets Ardbert feel what it’s like. He reminds Ardbert, even, of how dew can condense upon one’s cheek, at the crest, near the eye. He reminds Ardbert of what it’s like to sleep--to be heavy. To finally let himself be heavy. Emet-Selch’s head sags where he sleeps. The skin along his jaw, about his mouth, sags, too. If any part of him is really a heap, it’s his face. “How come,” Ardbert asks softly, “you let yourself get like that, old man?” He’s not kneeling anymore. He has shifted so he sits like he’s reclining, too: one palm flat against the ground, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out like a holiday. This close, and above the hundred million leaves, Ardbert can hear how Emet-Selch breathes. He hears Emet-Selch rattle like older men rattle. He can hear the hitching inhale that comes with an unconscious wince. As a boy, Ardbert dreaded the infirmity of old age. It’s strange to observe it now that he will never have it. “Doesn’t it hurt?” Ardbert asks. He can feel his own brow creasing while he frowns, and there’s something in his fingertips, too. It doesn’t feel like it would feel if he were truly settled in the grass--but it does feel like something. Like the pull of the star that sends a compass needle spinning...
Ardbert does try touching Emet-Selch. He lifts his hand from the grass and reaches out. He hesitates: he’s terrified. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he feels like he can’t. He settles his hand over Emet-Selch’s shoulder. It passes through, of course.
“I don’t know why I was so afraid,” he says aloud, watching his own hand and how it doesn’t matter to the contour of Emet-Selch’s body. “I knew that would happen. It doesn’t change anything. I reckon I just…”
He doesn’t need to explain himself. To the enemy least of all--but it doesn’t matter, anyway, if he doesn’t finish a sentence or if he just says nonsense. There’s no one here to wonder what he’s saying. Ardbert sits back and shuts his eyes. He lets everything go dark, and just listens, for a while. He hears all the forest sounds the Greatwood makes, and all the sleeping sounds from Emet-Selch. He just listens. He just feels what little he can.
What is it?
It’s a while later when Ardbert speaks aloud again. He keeps his eyes closed. “Whatever it is, and whoever you need to hear it from, I don’t think I can guess,” he says. “But I do think you need to hear--I’m sorry for it. About all of it. Whatever it is that’s… that you have, in there.”
Nothing happens. Ardbert nods to himself--once, twice, stalling thrice--before he at last stands up. “Right, then,” he says. He brushes himself clean, although he doesn’t have to. Is it pathetic of him to pretend there might be leaves or flowers clinging to his trousers? “You take care, old fellow.” He turns to leave--pauses--wonders why he bothered with the wish and why he bore it in the first place.
He walks into a patch of flowers. He passes through, of course. It doesn’t change anything.
Summary:
He does think it’s cool here. He thinks it’s likely damp and fragrant. He’d bet you it’s a fine feeling to rest in the shade, against soft moss and flowers.
He would not, of course, deny that it nearly bowls him over when, while he meanders apart from the Warrior of Darkness, he finds Emet-Selch doing just that.
untitled (impression of a hart)
So Ardbert assumes. He walks through the Greatwood and it’s not damp at all; it’s neither cool nor fragrant; it does not taste like anything. His boots do not disturb the rotty carpet of the wood. When he hears the leaves, ever murmuring in congregation, they don’t cradle him to sleep. There is nothing of him to cradle.
But he thinks he’s recalling it correctly--or maybe he’s not and it just sounds right. He is, after all, more familiar with absence than he is with what he’s lost. He’s spent more time forgetting than anything else--more time lacking what he was than being what he was.
He does think it’s cool here. He thinks it’s likely damp and fragrant. He’d bet you it’s a fine feeling to rest in the shade, against soft moss and flowers.
He would not, of course, deny that it nearly bowls him over when, while he meanders apart from the Warrior of Darkness, he finds Emet-Selch doing just that.
“Would you look at that,” says Ardbert. He says it like he’s got a hunting party to listen to him, and he catches himself standing stock-still, too. As if he has stumbled upon a hart asleep in a thicket, and despite his instincts cannot help but exclaim in admiration of its form. He might lose the thing were it to wake and flee from him--he might be gored by the imperious crown of its antlers--and still he cannot help but exclaim and admire.
But Ardbert has no hunting party and the thing in the grass is no quarry. Hard to call it a man, either--more a force, more the color black--though the black force there at Ardbert’s feet is at least more of a man than Ardbert. That is to say: Emet-Selch leaves an impression in the grass. He crushes some of the flowers. Ardbert kneels beside Emet-Selch’s body, and when he does that, the pretty blue flowers are just fine.
“Can’t help but wonder,” he confesses down toward Emet-Selch’s sleeping face, “why an old man like you thought it sound to lie here in a heap.” That’s not honest. Emet-Selch is not a heap. Each of his limbs, and the way his head tilts to rest against his own shoulder--he appears at once as if he had simply collapsed where he stood, and as if he was arranged where he is in the mind’s eye of a master artist. Ardbert realizes, now, that he has seen Emet-Selch’s like before. And he realizes where he has seen it: in castles. Adorning great halls, as oil paintings. Ardbert can recall his first time in a castle and the little things that captivated him. He remembers wanting to know how a silk dress in a painting could look like real silk. Like the lady in the dress, she’d only paused. Like there was real blood from her real heart coloring her cheeks.
Emet-Selch, on the other hand, must be a man who’s looked at a lot of paintings. He must have seen a lot of art, must have a better understanding of it. Ardbert can’t think of any other means through which Emet could have learned to lie in repose like this, as if thoughtfully rendered. Emet-Selch does what art does: he lets Ardbert feel what it’s like. He reminds Ardbert, even, of how dew can condense upon one’s cheek, at the crest, near the eye. He reminds Ardbert of what it’s like to sleep--to be heavy. To finally let himself be heavy. Emet-Selch’s head sags where he sleeps. The skin along his jaw, about his mouth, sags, too. If any part of him is really a heap, it’s his face. “How come,” Ardbert asks softly, “you let yourself get like that, old man?” He’s not kneeling anymore. He has shifted so he sits like he’s reclining, too: one palm flat against the ground, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out like a holiday. This close, and above the hundred million leaves, Ardbert can hear how Emet-Selch breathes. He hears Emet-Selch rattle like older men rattle. He can hear the hitching inhale that comes with an unconscious wince. As a boy, Ardbert dreaded the infirmity of old age. It’s strange to observe it now that he will never have it. “Doesn’t it hurt?” Ardbert asks. He can feel his own brow creasing while he frowns, and there’s something in his fingertips, too. It doesn’t feel like it would feel if he were truly settled in the grass--but it does feel like something. Like the pull of the star that sends a compass needle spinning...
Ardbert does try touching Emet-Selch. He lifts his hand from the grass and reaches out. He hesitates: he’s terrified. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he feels like he can’t. He settles his hand over Emet-Selch’s shoulder. It passes through, of course.
“I don’t know why I was so afraid,” he says aloud, watching his own hand and how it doesn’t matter to the contour of Emet-Selch’s body. “I knew that would happen. It doesn’t change anything. I reckon I just…”
He doesn’t need to explain himself. To the enemy least of all--but it doesn’t matter, anyway, if he doesn’t finish a sentence or if he just says nonsense. There’s no one here to wonder what he’s saying. Ardbert sits back and shuts his eyes. He lets everything go dark, and just listens, for a while. He hears all the forest sounds the Greatwood makes, and all the sleeping sounds from Emet-Selch. He just listens. He just feels what little he can.
What is it?
It’s a while later when Ardbert speaks aloud again. He keeps his eyes closed. “Whatever it is, and whoever you need to hear it from, I don’t think I can guess,” he says. “But I do think you need to hear--I’m sorry for it. About all of it. Whatever it is that’s… that you have, in there.”
Nothing happens. Ardbert nods to himself--once, twice, stalling thrice--before he at last stands up. “Right, then,” he says. He brushes himself clean, although he doesn’t have to. Is it pathetic of him to pretend there might be leaves or flowers clinging to his trousers? “You take care, old fellow.” He turns to leave--pauses--wonders why he bothered with the wish and why he bore it in the first place.
He walks into a patch of flowers. He passes through, of course. It doesn’t change anything.