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| Worlds Collide; Baqi <3 | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 23 2014, 01:53 AM (710 Views) | |
| Baqi | Jan 24 2015, 02:31 PM Post #26 |
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He’d never told anyone before. He’d never spoken ‘bout it, never admitted it to anyone. The words came up like sick, made him shake all over, afraid and empty. Except for his shuddering, wet gasps, the house was silent as a tomb, and the djinn trembled, too weak to run — except for all the world he wanted to, wanted to escape the grave of his confession and break into the rain, slipping and scrambling up the hill, not burden the lady any more. Baqi bowed his head, unable to look Ylsa in the eye, unable to look at anything — he wanted to curl up, crumple in on himself, never have to speak a word again. Maybe silence was easier. Maybe talking made things real, broke ‘em through the surface to be lived through again. Now the lady knew what he was; now he knew what he was, only he hadn’t ever had the guts to say it out loud. He didn’t know what he expected, really — but the air felt like poison now, and he was shrinkin’ on himself, hoping the earth would swallow him forever; even the lady was silent, at a loss for words. It hurts more than anything. Baqi’s lip trembled, jumped — he bit down hard on it, tasted red, but he didn’t even feel the sting; it was nothing, nothing compared to what he was feeling, the white-hot agony that burned so much it went cold, searing like ice in his veins. He felt his heart would never beat again, slugging full of crystals, leaving him breathless with every squeeze. If this was life—if this was life, he didn’t want it. Baqi’s hands shook, weak, stinging lumps of flesh. Angry half-moons stuck out on his palm, cuts ’n nicks and bruises. He didn’t want to hurt this bad anymore. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t breathe, imagine another second; the djinn buried his face in his hands, eyes squeezing shut, palms pressing till red dots popped ’n danced in the blackness of his vision. Bloody faces loomed up when he closed his eyes, and Baqi snapped them open again in panic, rocking with a moan. He clenched his teeth so hard they felt like they were gonna break, shiver outta his mouth, leave him mumbling and gummy; the world pressed on him, wanted to snap ‘im, and he knew the truth of it. “I can’t,” the djinn choked. Aaminah, In’am, Isma’il, Nadiyya. “I—can’t ever forgive myself, lady.” His voice cracked, petered to nothing. “Not as l-long as I live. I can’t. I won’t. For them… I won’t. They… they shoulda been here, instead of me. They shoulda been—Grand Djinn, and healers, and Elders—” he could barely speak, shivering, cracking under the grief. In’am could speak to animals the best outta any of ‘em, and his sister’s voice carried for miles on the wind. Aaminah woulda been a powerful wizard, he knew—maybe even one of the Grand ones, protecting the whole tribe — Nadiyya could make the sands bloom just by lookin’ at it, handed him a handful of purple flowers, once, once… And what was he? Nothing. Shit, dirt. A thief, only good for nicking coins and throwing sand in the face of nomads, no talent, no magic, no nothing. His face crumpled, and he curled up, laying his head on his knees; the djinn hugged himself, a mop of hair hiding his eyes. “I— d-don’t know why Nailah let me live.” It chattered out of him, muffled by the fabric of his pants. Baqi clenched his teeth, cheek digging into his knee, sucking in gasps of air. “I don’t know—I don’t—I j-just can’t live like this anymore.” |
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| Ylsa | Jan 24 2015, 03:37 PM Post #27 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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Why indeed had the blessed Mother let him live? He might never know the answer, and for her part Ylsa certainly understood that much. Why had she herself been allowed to carry on when she had ended it for so many others, broken every tenet of Life and Death, haunted people to their graves? Yes, she understood the confusion, even the resentment that came with it -- but she also knew the answer. The answer was quite obvious, but it was, she found, hard to accept. Ylsa stood and weaved around the table to the tree in the corner. Rain water was gathering in the bucket that hung from a fern on its side. A cloth hung nearby, and she took it down, dipping it into the cool water and wringing it out before bringing it back to the sofa. She sat, and gave the damp cloth to Baqi for his poor swollen face. The Crying Cloth, she had taken to calling it: many people had sat here and wept, though not quite so hard. She had learned after a while to keep it nearby. "But you will live." Came her reply. It was a painful thing to hear: I can't take this anymore, but I will. She kept her tone gentle to soften the blow as much as she could. "You do not have a choice. She has let you live, so that you may live. By living, we learn, and what we learn we must apply so that others can learn, so they don't need to make the same mistakes we have to know better." She paused. How to go on..? "She does not blame a child for learning such harmful behaviour. But She does hold you accountable now that you're old and experienced enough to know the difference. What matters now is what you do with that experience. Even if it hurts you." |
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| Baqi | Jan 25 2015, 01:22 AM Post #28 |
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But you will live. Somewhere, a wet cloth scrunched in his hands, burbled water. Ylsa’s words bounced off his skull, only half-holding on, impossible to grasp. The future went away, swallowed by black mist, turned into the fog of lho and stink of booze, wove into a thousand alleyways. There was nothing he could imagine for himself. His life was like a closed book — stopped right in the middle, frozen forever on that single scene. You do not have a choice. The djinn’s face screwed up—he buried it into the cloth, breathin’ in the rain, the smell of wash, just trying to pace himself. He didn’t. Never did. Not even facing the Origa, straight shot down through the badlands — not then, not at the top of Eldahar’s buildings, not buried deep in lho. Something inside of him kept bringing him back, grabbin’ him off the edge—maybe it was the guilt, saying he couldn’t get off so easy; maybe it was fear ‘bout the other side, stepping over to face Khalid’s jaws. Every time he’d been close, every time it whispered in his head, he just couldn’t do it, didn’t have the courage. She has let you live, so that you may live… But he wasn’t. No one could call that a life; not slumming in the streets, livin’ by the skin of his teeth, grabbing jewels from the wives of rich men in turbans. Not breaking into dens to score some hash, not running outta the house to smoke one in an alley, not dodging guards ’n fists ’n sellin’ his soul for new gigs. He couldn’t think outside a couple hours, most a day — because there was nothin’ else out there for him, nothin’ in the horizon, not like this; not where he was going. Fast track down, down — to the same glazed eyes of the lotus-smokers in the alleys, missin’ teeth, grasping out for things that weren’t there. Maybe he’d end up dead one day in a gutter, stabbed ’n robbed, and the guy would find ‘im on an investigation. That’s where his life was going. The hard truth broke over him like a wave, caught up, finally — hurled him against reality, crashing, burning, pouring into his lungs; he felt like he was gonna vomit, racked by pulses of nausea, and kept the cloth to his mouth, chest jumping and jerking. Worthless, worthless piece of shit… How could he teach anybody? How could he help anybody, like this? Could barely help himself, barely go a day without fucking somethin’ up, breaking the law — how could he ever be of use to anybody, be picked by Nailah? The responsibility mounted, impossible, crushed him under the weight of it; Baqi twisted the cloth around in his hands, face still running with tears. “I—I don’t—” shuddered, hysterical, practically unintelligible. He wanted to change; he wanted to rip down every brick, bust down that rotting, crumbling Baqi, the kid slowly dying every day—wanted to tear it all down and start somethin’ new, escape from that prison. But he had nothing, hands tied, chisel broken, too weak to even look up and remember there’d been a sun out there. He owed ‘em that much, didn’t he? He owed ‘em, to live for ‘em, to live out what they woulda been — be their hands and their eyes, carry on their names. Baqi caught himself, swallowed. Paused to scrub at his eyes, the water blessed cool against his burning, blotchy skin. He sucked in a wet, rattling breath, lips chattering open. Fear tightened his throat. “I—I don’t know—what to do—how to—” Fix it? Fix any of it? “Where… to start. I’m just… so tired, lady, I can’t do it, I— I’m so—” Lost? Afraid? His voice went quiet, hushed, little more’n a tremble. Hot, bulbous tears blurred his eyes, dripped down his cheeks and caught in the stubble. The djinn hung his head, hiding in the folds of fabric. He stayed hunched and quiet for a long time, trembling in the ensuing silence. Edited by Baqi, Jan 25 2015, 01:25 AM.
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| Ylsa | Jan 25 2015, 12:23 PM Post #29 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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He didn't need to finish. They sat there quietly for a long time, Baqi lost in his hopeless world, Ylsa waiting patiently to take him out of it, as far as she could, slowly. Slowly, enough that he might not notice. Come into my world... Her inner voice whispered to him, smiling, wanting to take both his hands and whisk him away where life and death as they were didn't matter so much. It's beautiful here. She didn't say this, and she didn't take his hands. Instead, after a couple of respectful minutes had passed, she gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Start small. Help me make dinner?" Gently, she urged him into the kitchen with another bucket of water and vegetables to wash and peel. Where he made mistakes she corrected him kindly and patiently, and after she prepared the bird and set it up in the oven she stood beside him with a cutting board and knife. She chopped, and while they worked she told him stories: about the people in town, the things they did day in and out; about some past clientele, careful not to divulge too much information or specifics, and the things they had a difficult time with; about her last life as Owen O'Zilia, smoke artist and notorious libertine before his days in the Mystic Occult. Baqi didn't need to respond, and she didn't force conversation. He had thought and talked enough, and if he didn't feel like it anymore Ylsa didn't mind. If he didn't respond to her tales, it was fine. She mostly chatted so that he could hear another's voice, low and friendly, so he would know he wasn't alone. She didn't even particularly care if he was actually listening. At last the herbs and vegetables and potatoes were prepared, and she was checking the pheasant again when there was a knock at the door. She wiped her hands carefully on her apron and hopped lightly onto the landing and towards the front door, opening it. A conversation ensued in quiet tones, and bits and pieces could be picked up. "...babbling in his sleep, sweating, so... won't eat, won't even look at his father..." Ylsa replied in a careful murmur. "No, no, he wouldn't take it..gets so angry when I try to read the..." A sob. Ylsa replied again quietly, bidding the guest at the door to come inside and wait just a moment. As she crossed the room, a young woman entered, looking terribly tired, haggard, eyes and nose red from crying. She tried hard not to look at Baqi or weep and further, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The hand holding it was shaking. Ylsa disappeared into the trap door in the corner of the room, and returned a few moments later with a tiny, dark bottle with a dropper. She took the woman's hand and pressed the phial into her palm, murmuring instructions. "Two drops on the tongue, every four hours. If anything else happens, let me know straight away, and I'll come see to him." The woman nodded, stammering a feeble thanks, and left. The door closed, and Ylsa smiled a little as she returned to the counter to take the vegetables to the oven. "Mrs Tibbet: her son has been ill for about a month now. Poor dear is only twelve. But I wonder..." For a few moments she paused, then shook her head a little and picked up the tray. "Well, these should be ready in an hour. Then we can go eat downstairs..." Her eyes twinkled with fun and maybe a little mischief, as she whispered meaningfully: "That's where all the good stuff is." |
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| Baqi | Feb 7 2015, 02:53 PM Post #30 |
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Start small. Ylsa’s touch stirred him, sent ripples like a pebble thrown into pond, broke the surface of his mind. Somewhere he remembered there was a little smoky hut and raindrops shiverin’ down tree branches and a warm little fox pressing against him. He felt like he was waking outta a dream, opening his eyes to a strange new place. For a second he forgot how he’d gotten there—forgot how any of it happened, like he was only watching and not living any of it. Somewhere he nodded, maybe. Somewhere, a kid who called himself Baqi got up, trodding to the kitchen on shaking legs. He moved like a sleepwalker, brain muddy and slow, eyes and nose raw with cryin’—he didn’t know if he had any more left, wrung out like a dishrag; he barely saw the vegetables he was holdin’, peeler wobbling in his hands. Was glad for it, though—gave him somethin’ to do, something to focus on and keep busy with. His hands were still shakin’ bad, and he nearly gouged a bit out of his finger when the peeler slipped, but the djinn worked, takin’ deep breaths. The lady worked beside him, her voice murmuring like a fountain, a soothing rhythm that eased him outta his head. A couple times he zoned out, mind slipping back down that pit—only to be brought back again by Ylsa’s careful touch, fingers guiding his. Somehow he’d ended up with a pile of peeled potatoes and didn’t know how — the lady had been talking about her past life as a man called Owen O’Zilia. Lookin’ at her, with her floating white hair ’n serene expression—couldn’t imagine, not in a thousand years, her bein’ some busted up guy. The mental image was ridiculous; tryin’ to see it woulda gotten a laugh outta him if he didn’t feel so numb. But the story also reminded him that was old, much older ’n him—had seen all kinds of shit, been through hell and back; she had been hell, had been the sorta creatures nans warned their kids about, villages hid from. And… and she was here. Choppin’ some green thing with tufts on top. He didn’t know the names of half the things on the table bein’ knifed to bits — had never seen this much green in his life, really. The djinn stared at a bit of carrot, bitin’ his lip. Questions clustered in his head, gathered like a crowd in his mouth. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, clearin’ the counter of potato skins. “How… many lives d’you remember, lady?” His voice sounded hoarse, still tight ’n quiet, like he was afraid of speaking too loud. “What’s it… like to… start over like that?” She said she remembered other things—but was she born with ‘em all, or did she learn it as she went? What would it be like to leave everythin’ behind, be someone else? Once they ran outta vegetables, his hands itched for somethin to do — scrunched up in his shirt, twisting the fabric back ’n forth. Couple minutes passed in silence before there was a knock at the door; flushing, Baqi dropped his stare to the floor, tryin’ to keep outta the way. Her customers didn’t need to see him lookin’ busted up and crying. When the door creaked open, he turned ’n stared at the pots of herbs and things on the counter. Frowning, the djinn started arranging ‘em, straightening out the jars — he tried not to eavesdrop, but bits of the conversation bubbled up on sobs. Babbling in his sleep, sweating… won’t eat… Chewing his lip, Baqi flicked a stubborn piece of potato peel off the table — his shoulders scrunched up when the lady gave a sob, tryin’ to sink down as small as he could. Unable to help himself, he looked up and saw a glimpse of red eyes, a shaking handkerchief, face wrenched up in grief; ashamed, Baqi dropped his eyes back to the counter, swabbing with a cloth. Wasn’t his business. He shouldn’t…The djinn stayed still until the door closed, breaking the tension — then his shoulders slumped and he finally dared to turn around, fidgeting at the explanation. “A whole m-month?” That was a long time. And for someone so young — every time a human got sick like that, it never turned good. He’d heard of wasting sicknesses picked up in the No’bu and plagues brought from ships; rules were that if you got sick in the streets, you weren’t gonna make it. He’d seen guys big as a horse taken down from a cut that went bad. Concerned, the djinn’s eyebrows screwed up, and his mouth hung open a little. “I-is he…” Gonna be alright? That was a stupid thing to ask, stupid — the mother’s face said it all. Hesitating, the djinn’s throat bobbed; his fingers tangled with each other, looped ’n twisted. When the healer trailed off in thought, somethin’ twisted his gut, made him feel instinctually worried. “W-wonder what, lady?” A squeak. Poor kid… A bolt of guilt surged through him, made him bite his lip. He wondered if he’d be oversteppin’ himself — he’d only ever healed up cuts ’n scrapes, never anything like a deep sickness. “I… is there— anythin’ I can do? I dunno much ‘bout… sickness, but—“ his voice faltered, rolled downhill. “I’ve… helped with scrapes ’n… stab wounds. I-I know a guy, he gets into fights a lot and—well I usually fix him up, after—” Stupid. Healing up Sabe wasn’t like a cough or the other bugs human got. He didn’t know anything ‘bout em. He felt sorry for talkin’ at all, dropping his stare down to the floor. Good stuff. He lifted his head, eyes wide ’n questioning, wondering what she meant by that. Lho? Some part of his brain, the part he hated, perked hopefully that they might be smokes — craved one bad just ‘bout now. The djinn tried to shove that dark voice aside, biting his bottom lip and shuffling his feet. |
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| Ylsa | Feb 9 2015, 10:06 PM Post #31 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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He was still forlorn, but he had levelled out and that was what mattered. The last thing he needed now was more conversation about himself, more reflection on his grief and guilt, yet she couldn't help but hope that her own stories, different though they may have been, would offer him some measure of comfort. Besides which, she felt as though she could trust him that extra mile -- he was open and free of judgement, still full of that curiosity that had damned him and condemned his friends so long ago, now tempered with trepidation. "I remember them all." She replied, smiling, perhaps a little dreamily, perhaps a little sadly. Starting over when you could remember who and what you were wasn't really starting over -- and if you couldn't remember, you were subject to a whole new host of mistakes, and a whole new host of victories, and it didn't really count. The point in his questions was clear though. "Well... I don't always remember anything to begin with, so I never even realized I was starting over. There have been instances where I've done truly terrible things, and remembering them the next time around is always very painful. It's hard to remind myself sometimes that I didn't know any better: I feel I really should have." She sighed lightly, nodding as if in affirmation. "It's when I regret the most that I feel I need to start over, but I am not at liberty to forget or forsake the things I've done. If I could, it wouldn't count. I guess starting over is a bit like climbing a mountain you've already fallen off of: I've slowly learned a safe route, and I tell others on my way which parts to try and cling to. But, it's a terrible long climb sometimes." She had swept her way to a cupboard in the far corner of the bottom landing when he began voicing his concerns about Mrs. Tibbet's son. He wavered, stammering, so unsure of himself... It was terribly sad, she reflected, how past mistakes and personal flaws could ruin someone so much. And yet she couldn't help but feel warmly towards him. Sitting there fidgeting, eyes downcast, yet so eager to want to help. He was so sweet. Oh dear, here we go. Came Ylsa's internal monologue, and she smiled inwardly. Easy does it, you've only known him a few hours. "Hm..." There was a squeaking sound as she pulled the cork on a slightly dusty bottle of wine, followed by the scurrying of leaves and branches. The cats descended the tree on the other side of the room, one after the other, and they rampaged around in a merry chase while Bones stayed by Baqi's feet, occasionally fixing him with an adoring gaze. Ylsa pulled some glasses off a shelf and wiped them clean. "I think we'll see: Mr. Tibbet is superstitious and wary of strangers, and I wouldn't like to risk causing any trouble between the two of them. Not while they already have their son to worry about." She blew a bit of ash off the rim of one glass and began filling them. "In the morning, we'll call on them and see." The cork was set loosely back into the bottle. She handed Baqi a glass and sampled her own. Her face screwed up a little. "I remember this one... it was a very bad summer, the grapes had a little less sugar in them. "I wonder... Baqi, you're a being of the spirit: you must know, then, about those with less than honourable intent? The wicked, the vengeful, the... evil?" She paused, staring into her glass before having another good swallow. Yuckers. "You're right to wonder that he's been ill for so long, and so do I. I just... Hope I'm mistaken." |
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| Baqi | Mar 15 2015, 11:09 PM Post #32 |
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I remember them all. His fingers tangled up, turned to knots. For a second he sneaked a look at the lady — bit his lip hard, eyes slinking down to the floor. She did it. She could get through it. Despite everything. Despite… so what the hell was wrong with him? Life after life of mistakes, and she was still there, smilin’, making incense. How? Despite staring a hole into the floor, he was listening. Hanging onto every word, nodding when they struck true. The djinn melted to his knees, one hand trailing over Bone’s fur, looking hard at anything that couldn’t look back. He was sick of crying, didn’t want ‘em to see any more tears, but they were comin’ up again, blurring the kitchen. ’Course he couldn’t forget anything. That and dying were the easy way out. He’d be forsaking his friends, spitting on their graves, saying they didn’t matter. Petting the little fox kept ‘im here, still, fingers trembling as they combed Bones’ wet fur. “Never thought ‘bout it that way.” He kept his voice quiet to try to hide its hoarseness. Been enough crying today—he felt like a helpless kid, a screaming infant outta control. If he’d fallen off the mountain, he was dead at the bottom, cracked his skull along the way. Couldn’t remember which way was which, what was what. It’s a terrible long climb sometimes. “Sure is, huh?” His throat closed up, and he hung his head, hair hiding his quivering lip — the djinn forced himself to look at Bones, tickling the fox under the chin. He dug his fingernails into his knee, shuddered in a deep breath — enough to swallow, reel himself back in. Baqi itched at his red eyes, wiped till they felt dry again, and gathered enough pieces of himself to stand back up, legs shaking. Somethin’ else was bothering him, hanging heavy — making him feel like a filthy coward, rotting deep in his soul and making him sick. He’d had… thoughts before, thoughts about how easy it’d be to take one bad step or tip too much lho into a bowl — thoughts about delivering himself to Khalid personally, all tied up in a rope ribbon. And when he’d gotten close, he panicked, banked like a spooked rabbit, running, running — run from the mouth of the Origa, and the edge of a mosque, from an alley of guards. So many times, he coulda done it. So many, and he never knew why he didn’t. “…Lady?” His face burned like someone’d lit a furnace behind his cheeks — went quiet, afraid to spill the words, afraid to ask. “This… this might be… kinda personal, but…” The djinn opened his mouth but no words came out — they died, choked up, thrown back down. Baqi swallowed, grabbing the counter for support; the whole room felt like it was gonna spin, up and buck, leave him sliding across the floor. “How—I mean—what gets you through the bad days, lady? How do you… how do you live with it?” When it hurt so bad? When there was nothing at all you could do — ‘cept smoke till you couldn’t even remember your own damn name? A cork popped; his head snapped up instinctively at the loud noise, eyes darting at the cats fussing around a tree. Exhaling shakily, the djinn ruffled some hair outta his eyes, smoothing back the greasy mess. “O-oh.” Baqi’s stare dribbled down to his feet. Wary of strangers, huh. He almost winced—could guess what it meant, felt his heart pump hard, angry. Was pretty hard bein’ in the south, stared at all the time — people picked him out like a sore thumb, couldn’t understand him, staring at him with those creepy cat’s eyes and dead white faces. Looked like a buncha corpses dressed up all fancy, walking around, every gesture saying they didn’t want him there. And for what? What’d he done to any of them, any at all? “I see how it is.” Came out more sullen than he’d intended, mumbled out as he shoved hair from his face. Baqi blinked slow, looked up when he saw a flash outta the corner of his eye. The lady had handed him a glass of wine with a calm smile, lookin’ like nothing in the world could ever phase her — as he took it, their fingers brushed, and the djinn stuttered a thanks, eyes darting to the dark liquid. His fingers wrapped round the bulb for comfort, and he swallowed, blinking into the wine. The face starin’ out of it looked like it’d been stung by a buncha bees, swollen with crying. Shame shot through 'im, bolted his guts. Shit. That me? Wincing, Baqi threw back a gulp — and instantly regretted it, making a noise that sounded like a dog mid-vomit. The djinn covered his mouth as he spluttered, eyes watering. “Sh—sorry—ry—” A cough interrupted ‘im, and he got a grip, brow rumpling up. “Shit. Wrong—“ cough, “—way d-down. I…” he hadn’t wanted to say it — the thought stirred like bad air, waited around the corner. But looks like they’d figured the same, gone the way that raised his hair and made ‘im shiver. “Y-yeah.” Baqi nodded, hair flopping. “I… I sure do, lady. The prayer thing sounded fishy to me, y’know? I didn’t mean to… spy but…” Scratching his head, the boy looked into his wine, brow crinkled. “There’s all kinds of things humans can’t see that hurt ‘em — I remember once… was in the middle of town, just minding my business, and — there was this big ruckus, right? Some guy was screaming, foaming at the mouth, pulled a knife. Guards thought he was on some shit—grabbed him, started dragging him off, but…” Baqi’s mouth went dry and he shook his head. “I mean—I saw his face. We locked eyes and—it wasn’t any drugs, lady. It was somethin’ else, somethin’ bad—I could feel it.” He shivered, tryin’ to shake it off — shake off the memory of mad eyes, the aura he’d seen rippling ‘round the guy’s back, the cold, deep chill. “I’d… never seen a human actually—what’s that word? Taken? Um… ah… No, no— possessed?” The djinn fumbled with it, wincing. “We don’t—got a word for it, like you do. I know sometimes human priests talk ‘bout long sicknesses… speakin’ old languages, reacting bad to Scripture…” A shiver crawled through him, and he took another sip of the wine, choking down the bitterness. “I mean… I hope that ain’t it.” Wished he could take it back, rap his knuckles on wood, something — for a little kid to go through that wasn’t right at all, shouldn’t happen. He rubbed his bicep as if to warm himself, chewin’ on his lip. “I guess… we just have to wait, huh.” The djinn stared down at his palm, lost in thought. Edited by Baqi, Mar 15 2015, 11:12 PM.
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| Ylsa | Apr 27 2015, 11:39 AM Post #33 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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So many things bothering him: they lurked just beneath the surface like crocodiles, invisible to all but those who watched carefully. Ylsa tried not to stare, but also tried not to look like she was trying not to stare. Bones made an easy game of it. He simply sat there with his new friend and accepted the petting and the tears that wetted his fur, neither patient nor impatient: just glad that Baqi was there. Animals never had to try too hard, nor did they do so if it wasn't necessary. Now, he asked about the bad days, and she knew what he meant. Others had asked albeit with very different words. How did one keep going on even when it all seemed futile, when you were so tired you just couldn't do it anymore? Ylsa leaned on a shelf thoughtfully, drawing her finger around the rim of her glass. She hadn't told anyone this story -- so few would understand or believe it. She had tried to dispense the fundamentals before but without the context it lacked any meaning. Besides, Baqi had sat here uncomfortable for hours now, and as such she felt he deserved to hear the tale in its entirety. He certainly didn't deserve less than total disclosure. "A very long time ago, I was very sick with life. I was still very new, but not so new that the novelty of living still held me fast to its cycles. I started hating it, and I was tired of it, and it all felt so pointless: why go on when going on changed so little that had already been? Why try to change a future that would never really come? Why bother with the present when there was nothing to celebrate? I didn't want to do it anymore, so I went out into the desert with no food or water, got myself hopelessly lost, and waited for the gods to take me or cast me back down. "In the end neither happened. I was close to dying when I realized that the thoughts and memories and ideas which plagued me and caused me so much grief were my own. I was literally making myself miserable. I volunteered for my own unhappiness: there was no external factor that contributed, but only my own perception of what things were." She paused to have a swallow of wine. "When I pulled myself together I found that I was mere feet from a fountain that hadn't been tended to in a thousand years, but that still contained fresh clean water. I took it as a sign that I was never meant to die by my own volition -- perhaps it wasnt, or perhaps the gods were just further mocking me... But I believe that it was a sign. I don't think the gods are so fallible that they would mock the miserable the way we mock ourselves." She let the silence that followed her admission hang for a few moments, then continued: "It isn't the same as the emotions that ail you now, but... On the bad days when I reflect on things I've done or thought, I try to remember that fountain. I can't change what's already happened, nor even change what future may await me -- I can only choose how to meet it. I can choose the path of destruction, or I can try to make myself proud. To be my own hero." |
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