» Thu Dec 15, 2011 2:30 am The day of the week didn’t matter. The time of year didn’t matter, except to say that it wasn’t uncomfortable. No, it was quite the opposite. The skies were pleasantly clear, and the clouds would conveniently betray the sun’s fires when the light speared Arvel Dralas’ eyes as he sat amidst the grass that swayed just so against the breeze whispering its way inland from the waters off Azura’s Coast. Besides the fact that Arvel was close enough to coast to feel the breeze; not even the where of the fact mattered. Everything of immediate importance sat within a few feet of the young Dunmer as he lay on his back in a particularly soft patch of grass, staring at the clouds wincing slightly when the sun peaked back through its white billowing cloak at the gray skinned boy laying on ground of gray soil amidst a great Grey Maybe.
To Arvel’s left was a bright red amaranth. Arvel considered picking it up and staring at it again, as he had been doing since he purchased it from an old man traveling through Suran, but for now he was simply content to watch the clouds and fill his eyes only of blue and white. Not to mention he had finally worked his arms into the perfect position behind his head so that he would be disturbed by neither his boney wrists, nor an intrepid pebble which had been worked up out of the soil to finally breath freedom. Those pebbles had been meticulously shifted about when clearing room for the books that lay to his right. None of the volumes were especially rare or otherwise valuable, although his mother had told him on occasions that the one bound in lime green cloth was a family heirloom. It probably should have been resting at the ancestral tomb, but nothing was there anymore; all stolen by a thief in the last week, so it was good that Arvel had thought to keep it. The title had long worn away, and in Arvel’s younger years, his father had sat with him by the hearth on many an occasion, reading it allowed, then afterwards asking the boy for a new title which of course, always changed. One week it had been, “What’s Your Place?” another week it had been titled, “Netchiman Dren and His Broken Axel.” Today, the book was to be called, “I am.”
Six other books of less wear were stacked up while another sat open nearby, its pages speaking to the rest of the world in its wispy, breeze-tongued language of light cracks and ruffles. A sudden gust picked up, and the pages whizzed and vibrated, some bending and contorting, mimicking the sound of paper tearing. Pricked by fear, Arvel rolled over and scrambled to guard the book, checking intently for damage, and finding none he smiled, patted the book as one would a good dog, and then sat it with its paper and ink brothers in the small stack.
“As good a time as any to get started again, I guess.”
Arvel said to Azura’s Coast as he once again picked up the lime green book, flipping through the yellowed pages, eyes searching for that one in particular. Distracted, by an earlier passage, he couldn’t help getting trapped before finding his query. Same as every time. He read the lines over and over until he sensed that he was missing the meaning and only seeing ink, so he went back and read them again only this time trying to explain the meaning to himself so that after all these childhood years, he may finally get it. The words hurt, the ideas failed to create images, and he could feel his brain squeeze in discomfort. In an abrupt motion, he tore his eyes away from the words and picked the amaranth up, looking at it, examining each miniscule branch; every angle; the shade of each petal. It was relieving, and in that relief the ash cloud that had been raised by reading the book began to settle, and with that calm came a little more understanding, like more little plants growing out of the ash to grab for the sun. Always for the sun and always so red.
Arvel read the previous passage again, and a smile shot across his face. He grabbed a book from the pile, not caring that the little tower he had made had just fallen over, causing the paper bricks to open and speak with the wind once more. He moved his index finger across the words until he found one he recognized, and in turn his eyes dashed back to meet the nameless lime book again. Before long he was rifling the pages of all the books, finding words here and there, repeating them to himself and matching them to the lime book which despite his energy, never shifted position on his lap. Every bit brought him closer like an infant grasping at newfound reality. Giving himself another second to exhale, relax, and further contemplate, he noticed that the books were a rather mess, and hastily restacked them into another little tower, offering a childlike apology to his old friends for such disrespectful treatment.
The sky had become completely blue now, and for a second Arvel wondered where the clouds had gone in such a short amount of time, but as the thought entered his mind the sun was in his eyes again, causing them to tear up. Groaning in annoyance Arvel wiped his eyes, but upon opening them, the light refracted in such a way that small circles formed in his viewpoint, two of them to be specific. As he squinted, the two circles came together, subsequently splitting back apart when his eyes fully opened. And that was it. Two circles, spheres; bubbles as the old book said. Together then apart. He squinted a few more times. Back and forth; one and two, but you really had to squint to make them become one.
“That simple.”
Arvel said, sighing. He closed the books, but didn’t disturb the stack. In fact he put the green one on top of the tower and stood still looking toward the unobstructed sun in the western sky. It was setting now. There was a feeling inside Arvel; something so fragile, that if he was to even acknowledge his feeling it, it would vanish never to return again. A vibration, like he could fly if he wanted to. He could hear his father back at the hearth again, playing that old game. What’s the name of the book?
“Just a Dream!”
That’s a good name, Arvel. Who wrote it?
“The Funny Snake!”
Yes, Arvel. Do you remember who gave the book to you?
“The Nice Thief!”
That’s right, Arvel. And who do you play in it?
“I”
Then nothing. Or was there ever supposed to be anything. The sun hadn’t moved, and tears were welling in Arvel’s eyes as he stared westward. Only this time the tears weren’t all from looking at the sun. Surely something should have happened. But it didn’t. Nothing ever happens.
“Stupid book.”
Arvel grunted.
“Stupid book written by a stupid poet with stupid ideas that don’t make any stupid sense! He just writes it all to confuse people so he can feel good about his stupid self!”
Dejected, Arvel picked up the stack of books, and even though he was quite angry, was careful to put the green book in its proper place in the tower which was now in his arms as he trudged away from the flattened grass, turning around only to put the books back on his shelf in defeat and sit down at his bed to pout. The hours sure did flicker away though, and he was quite tired, so instead of any further actions, he crawled in bed, wrapping the heavy covers around himself like the great flowing robe of an emperor. It was a nice feeling, but in his haste he had forgotten to turn the lights off, and to that he cursed and grumbled about until he finally was able to remove himself from the chrysalis-like embrace of the sheets and flip the light switch off. The room turned black with the suddenness of a great decrescendo, leaving only a rectangular window of blue light in the corner of the room. Arvel noticed this at once and went to see to finalizing the darkness, so that he may finally sleep.
Within the window of light, a poet sat at the pinnacle of a high city. He looked back through the window and gave a nearly imperceptible grin. The line that bisected him in form and mind; mask and myth shifted one sixteenth of a centimeter to the right, or was it one eight to the left. Perhaps it depends which way you were looking at him.
Elsewhere, an old man in tarnished legion armor stood amidst a great and seemingly infinite expanse of brownish-red ash. He walked along with his old sword in his right hand, absentmindedly letting the tip drag in the ash, swaying to and fro; back and forth, spelling out words in curious glyphs behind him only for the wind to blow them all away. In his left hand he held an amaranth. Or was the flower in his right hand and the sword in his left. Again, it depends on what direction you were looking at him from. As the window of light began to fade and the corner of the poet’s mouth rose slightly in such a faint grin which nonetheless rippled far and wide, a motion that was impossible for the old man not to miss, he gave a long, annoyed sigh of exasperation, or was it a long, happy sigh of relief. It could have been both, for the old man was known to have more than one head at a time.
As the boy finally curled and weaved his way from the dark room to a bright dream, he swore he could hear the two old, old people bickering, citing one thing or another, quoting men long dead instead of being so happy to be among those still living. Each knew the other was wrong, each knew the other was right. It was all so confusing, but at least they were polite about it all.
