Songs of Experience

2/10/367

One day, maybe, I will learn my lesson about venting my anger on these pages in such condemning terms. Then again, perhaps it is spending my rage here that, somehow, brings matters back to a more pleasant state! Either way, I am pleased that I have reconciled with Levona. It feels strange, being at such venomous odds with someone you went through utter misery and suffering for, and more appealing to be less divided on the matter.

I should be writing more, these days. Ever since that… argument I had, I am feeling oddly fragile, as if I have suddenly become aware of all the wounds I have been carrying for years, and awareness has brought back all the pain. This journal might help me deal with it, and yet, I hesitate. Perhaps because of the paranoia that someone might, someday, find this; perhaps because of the ugliness of what might be loosed if I dared to break the flimsy scabs that keep my issues from the world.

So. On another note, then. I spoke to the Justiciar today about some of the problems that have been plaguing her, during an inquiry about my will. It was, honestly, pleasant – I felt useful, and hopefully genuinely was of use to her in her trials. This is the part of politics I miss, the part where I advised people how best to achieve their goals and aims, goals and aims I agreed with or thought laudable.

I could be happy in such a role again, not a leader but a consultant – but who am I kidding? I barely have enough time for all the duties I already have, and even if I did, I’ll never be accepted at Court again. The pampered gentleborn look at me with such utter disdain. But that’s a tired old complaint, to the extent that even I’m bored of it.

If I am going to do more with my time, it should be personal, not professional. I should put maintaining my friendships first and foremost. I see much less of Tomas and Bryn than I used to, and I am finding Emma’s company more cordial the more I know of her – I grimace to think of how pithily I dismissed her before. All this time, all these examples of my snap judgments being wrong, and yet I persist in forming opinions before I fully know someone! I should be ashamed of myself. Women so kind do not come about often. Of course, perhaps I’m biased because every time she meets me she says something astonishingly flattering. I hope I am not blinded by all the praise, yet, it feels so very… sincere, as if it rises from some boundless well of true generosity.

I truly, truly hope I’m never proved wrong about her. I truly hope she’s not a witch, or heretic, or – something else, I hardly know what. Such a disappointment would cut me deeper than most.

Arien, but I ramble today. It’s pleasant, though, sitting in my study and just writing whatever occurs to me. Outside the cold gusts are rattling against the windows, but several feet of stone protects me more than adequately. At the moment I am alone, but likely not for long. The afternoon light is slanting lower, and soon, the door will open. Perhaps we’ll have dinner together, just the two of us; perhaps we’ll visit the new conservatory under the last of the sunset. For now, though, the scent of the lilies is excellent company.

Whatever will I do when this winter is over? I hesitate to even consider it.

Ah, enough. I need to work on my will; I have to look through my belongings to find a suitable keepsake for Rei. Lord willing, by the time I die he’ll have forgiven me enough to actually take it. But… better I play the villain in his protection than allow him to make this mistake, and better that he blame me. I do not want to see him turning sour against the whole world, against the whole idea. I am not that necessary to him, any longer.

Still, I hope…

1/4/367

Another year, the sixteenth turn of the Sun Cycle I have observed here in Lithmore. It is always a reflective time for me, the New Year, where I sit back and think of what I’ve weathered and how I might improve.

365 was the most painful year of my life, but 366 was not so bad. Busy, yes, but productively so. I do believe I’ve found my footing in the post-Regency stage of my life. At times I miss politics, but rather less than I thought I would. The need to compromise with selfishness, with ambition, with all forms of petty evil… I’m glad that’s largely gone from my life. I need not play nicely with people I despise.

And speaking of that, journal, I shall vent on your pages a time…

Levona misused his power in the pursuit of all sorts of personal vendettas, and now he has the gall to pretend he was a good leader removed by noble whim? Arien. I’m not even the one who started the campaign to have him removed; I merely backed it after much thought and hesitation.

Why did he even come to speak to me? I thought at first he meant to apologize and admit his misuse of his power, and I would have warmly accepted it. Instead, he came speaking vague words that suggested -he- was the one who couldn’t trust -me- and -I- had to make an accounting for myself? It reminds me of Julea, in a way, the way he seemed to think I had ‘turned on him’, just as she did when her heresy was revealed. This perception of betrayal… I don’t understand it. How could they see it that way? The world should not run on traded favors, on obligations and balance sheets; it should run on people who have good intentions doing whatever they can to aid others with good intentions. When someone masquerades as good and is revealed as evil, switching from supporting them to opposing them is not throwing away some balance book, it is doing what’s right. Really, the betrayal lies on the shoulders of the person who dared masquerade as someone worth supporting.

I thought he understood the importance of station and upholding the system of respect and precedence. I thought he had Lithmore’s safety and protection as his first and foremost priority. I was wrong. How many times have I been betrayed that way? To ally with someone, to make a tentative connection on the strength of their seeming goodness, only to find in time that they are power-hungry, or selfish, or heretical. Madilaire, Bryne, Julea… I cannot even begin to count them on the personal level, let alone the professional. Of course, Levona wasn’t -that- bad. I have no reason to think him a heretic, only a man unable to separate his personal feelings and goals from his professional power.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if my standards are too high. Should I have simply tolerated him using his power to try and persecute Tomas? He was not doing a terribly successful job at it. But evil is like a bruise. If you can see even a little of it, it is likely there is far more just beneath the surface, waiting to come out. How much did I find about Alphos when I probed deeper, after all? Much and much and more of foulness, the further I went.

And I know the nature of a man based on how he reacts to my past. Yes, I sinned. But those sins were confessed and expiated twice over before they were ever revealed to the world, and they had naught to do with my rise through society. No good man, no good Davite, has reason to taunt me with them. That he did, despite his own unsavory deeds… says a great deal about the pettiness of his soul.

There is a certain loneliness that comes from a history of disappointment. I allow people into my trust, but always carefully, always conditionally. Waiting to see if they really are what they seem. I cannot give my faith wholly to anyone. Even Tomas has let me down, though he faced his sins unflinchingly, admitted them, and sought to make amends. That’s all I would ask of anyone; perfection is impossible. So why is it so hard? Why do people justify and defend themselves instead of simply admitting they were acting wrongly? If he had just admitted it I would have thought the bloody world of him!

…Why do I keep thinking of Julea? It’s been so very long since she died, and she never would have admitted anything. I had to confront her with her own heresy, first. Arien, she was so ambitious. She wanted the world. I ignored every warning sign of it, ignored her desire to wear red and silks, to go to Court, the way she rejected the outfit I had made for her so she could bare more flesh. I was so young, and so stupid, and yet I don’t know if I’m truly smarter now – or simply more bitter. After all, I’ve doubted Emma ab Courtland again and again, when in reality there has been no evidence to suggest she was remotely culpable in her misfortunes. Is it better to mistrust even the good than it is to trust even the bad? When you are a Knight, perhaps.

Ah, well.

For all this ranting, I do remain largely happy and hopeful for the new year before me. The Almshouse expansion and infirmary is a great triumph, and I look forward to seeing how many people it can help. The lengths to which I’ve had to go to ensure the supplies are safe leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but better this than theft and rioting, and so far the supply distribution has been utterly peaceful. I have good hopes the season will be no more painful than any other, and possibly even less given the efficiency of the rationing system. I’ve my ruffle charity money to invest once the winter’s over, in some project; that’ll be a pleasant bonus. The Physicians are well-funded from the charity auction, and well-staffed. The Knights’ ranks are slowly swelling; I must ensure more lessons for the pages and squires, and to finish my book.

What is better than a life lived with purpose and intent?

11/23/366

Finally, I can take a moment to sit down and write something. Time has been in ever so short supply lately, it seems, and I doubt it’s going to change any time soon. But the last of my plans are in place for the winter. I can’t save the whole city – and the rest of it is Tomas’s job, anyway – but I’ve done what I can for the people I feel the most responsible for.

The ink is blurring in front of my eyes. I have to start sleeping more, I know I do. My health has been surprisingly good this year, ever since the nightmares stopped, but… winter is coming, and every winter is a trial and a danger to be survived. Especially this winter.

Though who am I kidding? I’m not going to suffer from a famine. Someone in my position is never going to know what it means to be hungry again, unless I somehow decide to starve on a lark. (Which I will not, obviously, but.) My charity is the same well-meaning but infinitely divorced sort of kindness all the other nobles are offering.

To some extent, anyway.

I hadn’t realized the truth of my existence until I penned that letter to Marisa, that what I am doing is settling into both of my contradictory identities and making sense of them. Rejecting neither, embracing both, and trying to see what is left when the dust settles. That is what I’ve been doing – that is what I’ve been becoming – and it fills me with a certain kind of peace.

It’s not something I can expect others to understand; there is literally no one else in the world who has lived a life like this. To the nobles I will always be an upjumped commoner, while to the commoners I will always be a spoon-fed noble. But… that’s all right, actually. The downside of never quite fitting, of never being entirely accepted, is absolutely minor compared to all the benefits and privileges of my position.

I am… happy. Oh, I remain an irascible bastard besieged by a ludicrous number of demands on my time, of course, and accursed by the same black humors as ever. Not to mention my sensitivity to all the many ills and wounds of the past. No doubt when the anniversary of Casimir’s death rolls around again, I’m going to have to be carried out of the graveyard drunk, though I am no longer so famous for that to be worthy of grand scandal. I have my foes and my frustrations, just as I always have and always will.

But I am happy. My life is meaningful. Knighthood fits me like a glove despite all of the reasons it should not. I am in the best shape of my life, and a better fighter than I ever was in my callow youth. Tinkering in my greenhouse in the warmth feels good on my aching bones, and I save lives with my needle and thread. I am lonely at times, but not nearly so often as I was, and my life lacks that aching feeling of emptiness that used to bedevil me.

Though… I’m beginning to feel a little uneasy about my drinking habits.

Ah, well. I should probably solve that by having a drink until the unease goes away. Pour some of the good whisky, recline in the hot bath, picture that smug arse of a Count’s face when he heard “Less lace, more grace” for the first time.

Life is good.