Songs of Experience

12/14/363

Life can often be so beautiful that it hurts. I forget that subtler and sweeter pain too often, when I am focused on the more brutish and demanding sort.

When I am exhausted, when I fear I’ve lost my way, the Lord always contrives to send me a reminder. Not actively perhaps; no, I’m not so arrogant as to think I’m the next Dav, as Soler suggested. But in following His will, in trying to live how He would have me live… when I walk the right path, I naturally seem to encounter shining moments that revive me when I falter.

I have had blood come out of all sorts of undignified and unpleasant places today, my leg throbs with a dull, steady pain I could set my heartbeat to, and I am weary beyond imagining. But… I am at peace.

How much did it cost her to make? That only makes it more precious to me, not because the cost matters in and of itself but because of the regard it bespeaks. I have always wondered if anyone truly sympathized – not just tolerated me, but sympathized, understood why I live as I live. I cannot recall the last time I felt so… validated, so accepted.

And I keep thinking back to that Charali in the graveyard. (Less powerful, perhaps, but safer to consider than thinking of her gift too long.) I doubted everything, in that moment. No, not doubted; I know the truth. But how I hated it all, the endless need to feed witches to the pyre, butting heads repeatedly with everyone and never, ever being done with blood and suffering and death. And I just so happened to encounter, then, someone who could sympathize and yet remind me of all the greater suffering in the world.

The Lord leaves us to make our own path, in the light of his example or the dark of heresy. But I think he helps us in myriad small ways so long as we follow his lead.

(Ah, journal, how -did- I go so long without you?)

I am beginning to remember, these days, why I always name my horses Luck.

I may be old before my time, grumpy and crippled and ill, but one thing has not changed: I ride chaos and chance as well as any other man alive. Insanity is erupting all around me, yet I feel more exhilarated than troubled. There is mystery afoot, and by the Lord, I am awakened at some deep level by the scent of it in the air.

All of its threads trace back to her. What does this girl have to do with so many problems? When the criminal who’s paid with his own manhood for supposedly assaulting her himself begs me not to question her if it would cause her distress…

What in her would lead men to such madness as the contradictory tales I hear imply? I have met her myself and I cannot answer. She is pretty enough, one supposes, although slender blondes are a silver a dozen in Lithmore. She has a pleasant enough mien in the way most gentlewomen just past their En Passant do: naive, biddable, shy. All in all, she seems remarkable for little beyond adhering so precisely to the stereotypical ideal of Lithmorran womanhood, as if one had assembled a paper doll from fragments of a hundred books on comportment and manners.

My, I am negative on the women of my adopted homeland. But I cannot live without being challenged, backtalked, shouted at. I do love that about Marisa. Should I speak sharply to her, she doesn’t cringe; she takes me to task in return. I would never desire an obedient flower… or, rather, though I might desire one, I could never live with one. My temper would crush the blossom, or it would lose its charm rather quickly.

She seems to be one such blossom, but perhaps it is an illusion. This matter with the Justiciar, with Breckenridge, and now the castrated man? It all stinks to the Abyss below, and she nestles at the heart of it. Perhaps she has simply been a victim of both those who would hurt her and those who would help her. Or perhaps she knows the value of a blushing cheek in convincing others to do her bidding.

Well. I know a thing or two about convincing others, myself. Let’s see where chaos and chance carry me.

10-9-363

Years ago, when I was young and handsome, Marisa and I used to joke I had a golden tongue; mere silver couldn’t possibly account for my powers of charm and persuasion. These days I think my tongue a baser metal. Perhaps steel, sharpened by loneliness and tempered in pain. Certainly it seems to cut deeply enough, and has lost all memory of days when it flattered and cheered instead.

Rain, Casimir; those I want for friends think I hate them, because I cannot seem to withhold my venom. I seem to make Cellan cry half the time I see her. I even snapped at Tomas, whose mild and understanding disposition rarely gives me the slightest offense (imagined or otherwise) to quibble with. And that innocent Courtland girl, all good intentions, roundly mocked by my cynicism.  Not to mention the political missteps I have made by being too harsh, too cutting, when diplomacy would have served me far better. I have attempted to repair matters with His Holiness, but I expect his pride will never truly forgive my harshness even if he now trusts my sense enough to seek my counsel. Two years ago I would have never-

Many times in the last dozen years I have feared myself in danger of losing my mind, but now more than ever it feels an imminent possibility. I am so lonely and so frustrated; I awake with my jaw aching from the grinding of my teeth at night. Joy is gone, simply gone, but for the children and for the few bright moments with my friends not tarnished by my own choleric or melancholy behavior.  I told myself I had accepted matters, but I am beginning to fear I cannot go on like this.

Lord, I am so ungrateful. I am blessed with so many things, just as Casimir said. Why can I not be simply content? The pains I contend with are less than many others; I yet live, there are many activities not lost to me. But rage at myself as I might, I face the truth – no amount of ‘should’ can change what is.

Still… how long have I excused myself by saying that I could not change? Perhaps that is merely a comfortable defense to shelter behind. Perhaps I have reached a time when I must change or die.