"So it ended," Pandarsenic says. They sit there for a moment, the weight of the tale blanketing all of them. Aureliusz Vektor realizes that he has been weeping silently for some time, and wipes his eyes with the back of his snowburnt hand. His tears glisten in the lamplight, and he feels a child again under the penetrating gaze of Le Chevalier du Glas. He remembers crying when he found Anna dead, great gasping sobs that ached in the winter air and chilled his guts. He cried to feel so empty. He cried to feel so relieved, and for being late, and for being on time. He cried for his freedom and he cried for his chains, wanting nothing more than to put them on again.
Then darkness folded on his heart, and fear. He buried her quietly. He said she was visiting relatives, hiding his tears behind wooden words. He locked the doors of his heart. He ran.
"Why are you crying?" asks Dakarian, not unkindly. "Our story has a happy ending, if you know how to look."
He wonders briefly if it is time to speak, or if he would do better to walk out of the room, bundle himself in Anna's quilt, and walk away forever. Teetering on that precipice, he remembers how it felt to run. He remembers the chill that seeped into his bones and the nights when tears froze his eyelashes shut, the only crystal baubles he ever owned. He remembers the distrusting looks men gave him, angry to be reminded of the possibility of poverty. He remembers his painful ribs protruding from his narrow flesh, and sleepless nights as he taught himself to read and write. He remembers the days when he trudged to church every day, and yet did not feel absolved; he remembers mourning and, at last, waking one day without Anna immediately on his mind. He breathed in the warm spring air, and sighed, and smiled, and finally cried again of sheer joy.
He remembers all this, and weighs it.
"I do not know why I cry," he says at last, and it is true. "There is a lot of things to cry about. I could cry because the end was bad. I could cry because your story was not worth its weight in ale, and you did drink more than that already. I could cry because tomorrow, you will be gone and I will be telling fairy tales to unhappy men again.
"Or maybe," he continues, "I am sad for you that you did this thing."
"Or maybe," says Pandarsenic, "you are sad for yourself and your memories of guilt. You know what you did, Aureliusz Vektor, as well as I do. You cannot run from it. You cannot hide. You cannot escape judgment for your sins and follies any more than another man. Face yourself, Aureliusz Vektor, and know what you are!"
"Is this what you came for?" he says, suddenly weary. He wipes his eyes. "To bring me shame? I know what I did. I know what man I am. Now I know what man you are, as well, and I am sad for you."
"No," says Pandarsenic, "you are just sad for yourself."
"Maybe," says Aureliusz Vektor. "Maybe I see and hear you, and I am sad for me and what I did. Maybe I am a selfish man, like other men, and I am not sad for you.
"But young, sad man, there is no way to know the difference. Maybe it does not matter so much who I am and the thing I did. Maybe it matters to hear what I say and feel what you feel, not to know the truth in anything."
"You are weak, Aureliusz Vektor. You cannot face reality, can you? You cannot face yourself. You cannot face your deeds. You cannot even look humanity as a whole in the eye, to see their rotting morality and broken hearts. You cannot see the cruelty beyond yourself, or the despair that turns young men into bent old trees, or the horrors wreaked on one man by another. You are blind and deaf, but only by your own will; you would willingly shove hot needles in your eyes in order not to see!"
"And you?" Vektor says, turning to Sir Dakarian of Pane. "What do you say?"
He closes his tired eyes a moment and says simply this:
"I am here to observe."
"And you?" Vektor says, turning to Pandarsenic, le Chevalier du Glas. "Why did you come? I know you are not here to drink ale and tell sad tales. So why?"
Pandarsenic's anger is palpable, but he grimaces and says:
"I am here to lead.
"And you, Aureliusz Vektor? What are you doing in this mess? Are you here to repent? Are you here to drown yourself? Do you fancy yourself a do-gooder or a great man?"
Aureliusz Vektor looks on their gaunt and haggard faces, Dakarian's tinged by sleep. He can hear birds outside, their reckless twitter and cheep as they swoop on the seed he has left for them. He smells the flames that have burned too long in his fireplace and senses his own exhaustion, yet knows that he will need to buy bread at the market and ale from the brewery all the same. His pack will bite into his broad shoulders as he walks through the streets, and some will know him and smile. His boots will leave tracks through the snow, big gray crevices through which the children will run to make their way easier--and then the snow will fall, white and cold and pure, and erase his footprints so other men may carve their own paths.
He looks at them, and says:
"I am here to live."
"It's clear we won't get through to him," Dakarian says quietly. "Come along, Pandarsenic. It will be dawn, soon."
"I wish I could open his eyes," says Pandarsenic.
"I know," says Dakarian, and they stand up from their stools, coughing and shuffling, readjusting their clothing and checking their sword belts. They shake the needles from their legs and smooth back their tousled hair--and then they walk away, boots falling heavily on Vektor's wooden floor. As Pandarsenic opens the door, Dakarian looks back over his shoulder, eyes glinting in the firelight. As a rush of freezing air flows into the tavern, the English knight winks so quickly that Vektor is not certain it has occurred--and then they leave, with nothing but the empty ale tankards and the barkeep's reddened eyes to mark their passage.
He sighs, and smiles, and wipes the counter down as the day dawns cold.
My profound thanks to my readers, for sticking with me so long.
Author
Topic: Ex Cathedra [BMIX]: Sunrise (Read 97992 times)