#aelmidean

An Inconvenient Dinner: The Importance of Earnest Dining

——————

The Prophet, Sho, & his grandfather the Founder.

On the morning he was due to meet the artist, the Prophet awoke with anticipation. Truth be told he had hardly slept, feeling a sort of excitement he could not place. He rose early and bathed, then dressed in some of his finer ceremonial robes. It would be important to make a good impression after all. His attendants combed his hair and applied the facial makeup of his office. He examined himself critically in the multiple mirrors before finally raising a hand. It was just about time. The artist’s assistants had warned that the man was a bit fickle with his time, and not to expect him too early, but Sho had nothing but nervous energy as he awaited the arrival of the Painter.

It was to his great surprise, and not altogether displeasure, to be told that the artist had arrived to the precise minute they had agreed upon. He was led into Sho’s chambers by Rana and the silent monk Filu, and the Prophet was immediately struck by his appearance. He was incredibly tall, towering over both of Sho’s disciples, to say nothing of himself. Not as tall as his father, but easily one of the tallest on the compound. He was draped in layers of elegant cloth with a sash of fine silk wound about his thin waist. His dark hair was trimmed haphazardly and escaped down the back of his collar in a sort of long tail. Most stunning of all was the mask he wore of a finely carved face, lips parted just so as if to tell a secret. Sho could tell it was his father’s work and he smiled as sweetly as he could.

“Welcome, o master artist.”

Pierrot clapped his heels together and bowed with immense flourish, his oversized sleeves touching the wooden floor.

“It is my greatest of honors, learned one.”

Sho gestured for his attendants to leave.

“Please, I am but a figurehead,” he insisted. “You needn’t concern yourself overmuch.”

The tall artist rose at the Prophet’s insistence, all one fluid motion. Sho had expected to see greed and derision behind those masked eyes, the usual hallmarks of those who came to see him. Either the Painter was an extremely accomplished liar, or he was one of a rare number who actually saw the Prophet as a person. It made him feel a bit uncomfortable to imagine sitting under that gaze for hours at a time, days at a time. He shifted a bit and broke eye contact first, staring down at his hands and blushing in embarrassment. He was grateful for the layers of white makeup caked on his face.

“Ah, that’s right, did my disciples mention our offer..?”

“I do apologize, but I’ll have to decline,” the artist said kindly. His voice had a sonorous sorrow underpinning every word. “I have my own facilities, and those will be sufficient.”

“Pity,” said the Prophet, although he found himself a bit grateful. “Was the payment not sufficient?”

“It was more than kind, especially the pigment. It is simply more than I’m looking for at this time.”

With that topic out of the way, Sho made his way to the area that had been set up for the portrait. He was feeling oddly self conscious in the careful attention of the other man.

“I hope this will suffice,” he said lamely, lifting his copious sleeves at the area before a great circular window that let in an abundance of natural light. There was already an easel with canvas set upon it, as well as pigments and mediums and brushes, although Sho could see that the Painter had brought along some of his own supplies. Settling himself into the middle of the display, Sho allowed himself to be lightly prodded and posed just so. As the artist tilted his chin, he paused for just a moment.

“Is something the matter?” Sho asked.

“You’ve just got quite unique eyes.”

The compliment made Sho laugh.

“It’s nothing, just… they’re not anything special.”

He wasn’t sure why he was putting himself down, but it seemed to ease the tension he’d felt. There was something about being with Pierrot that felt safe, like he could relax and let go of all of his usual burdens, he could leave the plans to the artist. He did not have to worry himself for the time being, just let the professional do his work.

It was in this way that the first hour passed, with the Painter laying down guidelines and loose strokes with the graphite. He stopped in the middle of what he was doing and leaned back.

“We should take a break. Are you hungry?”

The mundane nature of the question startled Sho from his reverie.

“It’s only been an hour. Surely that’s not enough time for you to get a satisfactory drawing done?”

“Perhaps not yet, but it’s a long time to sit if you’re not used to it. Stretch out a bit, see how you feel.”

He was not wrong. Sho had not expected sitting still to be so tiring, but when he relaxed he found his muscles were fatigued from holding posture. He eased himself up from the chair and rolled his shoulders.

“Can I see it?”

Pierrot considered the young prophet for a moment before nodding slowly.

“It’s not much to look at yet, though.”

As Sho rounded the easel and looked at the canvas, his breath caught. He had seen himself in countless reflections before but somehow in the loose sketch that was taking shape he saw a more real version of himself than any mirror. There was a melancholy to his own features he had never picked up on, a sort of resignation to the set of his chin. He was left dumbstruck and reached up to nearly touch the canvas before he withdrew his hand. He stared at Pierrot.

“It’s amazing. How did you do this in just that time? It’s fantastic.”

His words tumbled out before he could stop himself, awed by the skill the artist held with his craft. There was a freedom to the pencil strokes that belied the talent of the hand that held it.

“You flatter me, but your words are far too kind for just this. I can assure you that the finished product will be of a much higher caliber,” the Painter said smoothly.

Sho tried to imagine how it would look, still somewhat in awe of the sketch as it was. He had always found the arts fascinating, although his grandfather had steadfastly discouraged them, his mother had adored mystery novels and avant-garde comics. Unfortunately, after her death the priests had thrown out the majority of her collection, and so Sho only had a few

books he had managed to hide. In his mind, art was linked with her, and he delighted in anything he could take in, limited though his selections may be.

That was one reason why he had been so delighted when the priests had suggested he get his portrait done. Apparently, Pierrot had been hired to paint the matching portraits of Sho and his mother Rie when he was still a young child. Sho had been anticipating what it would be like to meet a real artist, and so far he had not been disappointed. The man had obvious skill and an air about him completely unlike those who usually came to attempt to weasel something out of the young Prophet. Just because he was only yet 14 years of age did not make him a fool. He appreciated how Pierrot spoke to him earnestly, without greed in his eyes. It made an immense impression on Sho.

That night after the artist had departed the temple, Sho found himself unable to sleep. He could not stop thinking of the picture and how Pierrot had spoken to him as a person rather than a position to exploit. Against his better judgement he found himself looking forward to the next session. He had so much he wanted to ask the man about.

With mind ablaze in thought, he snuck out of bed and stole down to the sitting room. The canvas lay covered on its easel, but he was here for the pencils and paper that lay beside. With only the light of his lantern, he stayed up until the birds began to sing trying to capture some shred of the excitement that had overcome him seeing the artist at work.

His aides found him asleep face down on a sheet of childish scribbles. While he had been drawing he’d felt so confident, but upon waking Sho felt only disappointment at his ineptitude. He had never wanted so much to be able to do something, and while the possibilities had seemed endless last night now he wondered if it was foolish. It’s not as though he needed a skill, he had everything handed to him, but still he found himself wishing for something to call his own.

It was with those thoughts and many more fruitless attempts at drawing that Sho walked into his second drawing session. The artist was once again on time despite his reputation, and the Prophet was brimming with enthusiasm. There was so much he wanted to ask that he hardly knew where to start. It took all his self control not to pepper the man with questions the moment he entered the room.

Once his aides were dismissed and they were alone together, Sho could hold back no longer.

“How did you learn to draw like that?”

Pierrot thought before answering. The way he carefully considered Sho’s words and treated them as worthy of thought was something that Sho was quickly growing fond of.

“A great deal of observation and even more practice,” he said finally. “It takes a lot of work, even if it looks simple. I learned through my work as a doctor, many years ago now.”

“Hmm, is that so?” Sho leaned forward. “Did you draw dead bodies?”

He realized after saying it just how odd the question must be for a child his age to ask, and wondered if the painter would reel back in horror but instead he just carefully considered his answer.

“Often we would dissect and carefully examine the interior structures to have a better understanding of the next living patient. It may seem grim but it’s the foundation of many of the modern sciences.”

The way he said it made the Prophet curious.

“What sort of sciences did you do?”

“Oh, we had a misunderstanding about humors,” the Painter said, waving a hand dismissively. “Although I would argue leech therapy has plenty of legitimate and beneficial uses… its relation to the humor theories have tainted its good name unfortunately.”

“Leeches? Aren’t those like, slugs that suck your blood?”

“They’re annelids,” said Pierrot patiently. “A type of parasitic worm, but they’ve been proven to have anti inflammatory benefits, and honestly if people would just give them another chance perhaps they might prove to have more uses…”

Sho had never imagined someone could feel so passionately about the subject of some worms. It was fascinating to hear the man talk about his past, although it did make Sho have to question just how old he must be. It was the modern day, with electronics and quantum physics and satellites sent into orbit, yet here was a man discussing the ways in which allowing a worm to suck your blood might actually benefit you.

“Did you cut up a lot of people, then?”

“No, no, I was more, ah, in the business of medicines and elixirs,” the Painter said humbly. “I did eventually move on to surgery, but that was later.”

“Hmm, I see,” Sho said thoughtfully. He examined his hands. “So you cut up living people then?”

“Indeed, when necessary. But that’s a subject for another day. We’re starting to waste time.”

“Could you teach me how?”

That seemed to take the Painter by surprise.

“To draw, that is. Not for free, of course,” added the Prophet a bit self consciously.

“That’s not it, rather… I suppose I could try showing you the basics, but—“

“Really? Would you do that?” Sho interrupted in his excitement. He knew it was unbecoming of his position but it had been so long since he had been able to just be a kid. His grandfather had had the priests long since beaten out the childishness in him over the past six years.

The Painter sighed and touched one long finger to his chin.

”My schedule does not currently permit taking on a new student. But,” said the Painter before Sho could protest, “I do have an assistant who could use the practice with teaching. And if we have time after our painting sessions, I might be able to offer some insight and pointers.”

In that moment the Prophet could have hugged the man. He didn’t know until then just how much this meant to him, and the thought of learning how to draw even a fraction as well as the artist would please him.

For the rest of the day Sho was buzzing with excitement. It was difficult for him to sit still as his mind went over the prospect of his lessons. They had agreed to start next week, though Pierrot gave Sho some simple prompts as exercise in the interim. When he was getting ready to pack up for the day, Sho hung around him asking him all manner of inane questions. The older man humored him and did not seem to begrudge the barrage. Sho knew he was chattering, but his joy at having someone to talk to overshadowed any self conscious thoughts.

When had he last been able to enjoy himself like this? Not since before his mother had died, surely. It had been so long since he’d been treated with such kindness that was not bought or threatened. He knew there was some acquaintance between his father and the Painter, but what that was he could not say, only that the artist owned at least one mask created by the masksmith. There was no mistaking his signature. It filled Sho with some anxiety, but there was no use pondering over the unknown. For now he would continue their sessions and their lessons, content to have at least this activity to himself. All his life was at the directive of others, whether the members of the Lotus Eaters or his grandfather.

He met the Painter’s assistant that next week. They would not be meeting for their usual portrait work as Pierrot’s schedule had become quite busy, but he sent along a local woman who he had trained in the arts. She arrived half an hour late, out of breath and frazzled. It was such a difference from the image of the Painter that had it not been for her half mask and ostentatious clothing Sho might have thought her someone lost in the mountains.

“Hoy, young lad, and apologies for the delay!” greeted the women with an exaggerated flourish. “Wouldn’t you know, the rainy season has made a mess of all the local roads! I hadn’t even noticed it had come! Ah? You’re a mite smaller than I expected.”

Sho stared open mouthed at the bizarre stranger. She was so unlike the master painter in most ways that he was left gobsmacked. She shook out one long pleat of dark brown hair and strode up to him. While not tall by any means, she easily towered over Sho’s head. With a ribald laugh she reached out and ruffled his hair without the least hesitation. He heard twin gasps of surprise and saw his aides rushing forward to stop the artist.

“Miss, I do think that’s quite enough,” Rana insisted, but Sho raised a hand to stop her.

“Enough. The two of you are dismissed.”

“But, learned one—“

“Dismissed, I said.”

Rana hesitated but both she and Filu bowed deeply before departing, shutting the sliding door behind them. Sho waited until he heard their footsteps vanish around the corner before he turned back toward the newcomer and swatted her hand from his head.

“I’m not a baby, you don’t need to treat me like one,” he said sulkily. It only made the woman grin wider.

“Heh, I see. Okay then, let’s cut to the chase. Show me what you’ve got.”

Now it was the Prophet’s turn to hesitate. He had been ready to have his work torn apart but not by a total stranger. It made him wonder if maybe he was overreaching, that it was too late for him to take up this new hobby.

Before he could stop her, the woman had taken long strides over to his mess of papers and started rifling through them.

“Hm hm, I see. Interesting. Such strong lines. Haha, what’s this, a pig?”

“It’s a cat!” Sho exclaimed, temperature rising. He tried in vain to grab the papers away, but the woman easily twisted out of reach.

“A cat! You’ve got an interesting eye, little man.”

He could feel the blush from his ears to his cheeks, and cursed himself for not allowing the usual ceremonial makeup. He knew his embarrassment was obvious on his pale features. He tried again in vain to take the papers away and misjudged his step, tumbling down face flat on the ground. The woman stopped and set the pages down before kneeling down beside him.

“Hey now, careful—“

“Why didn’t you just give them back to me!” he wailed. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his breath was coming hard. Shit. He had over exerted himself. The fever was coming on.

“It’s okay, don’t be upset. Hey, I’m sorry okay?” The woman reached down toward him. “You just reminded me of my little brother, I got carried away. Cmon, up and at ‘em, thattaboy.”

He took one of her strong, dark brown hands in his own and with her help got to his feet. His vision was swimming from light headedness and he stumbled to sit in a nearby chair.

“You okay kid?”

“I’m fine,” he said, a bit out of breath. “It happens sometimes.”

“Should I get someone, maybe come back another—“

“No!”

Even Sho was surprised by his exclamation. He hid his face in his hands and tried to calm his breathing. This was all so much more than he had anticipated, but he knew one thing for certain. He wanted to at least try to follow through.

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “Let’s begin.”

The artist hesitated before nodding.

“You can call me Alma,” she told him. “And do I call you Learned One or..?”

He could practically hear the air quotes. After only a moment to consider he blurted out a response.

“Just Sho is fine.”

Alma’s bright green eyes flickered with amusement, and Sho wondered what it was now that had drawn her attention. However she just gathered her supplies together and stood to attention.

“All right then, let’s begin.”

Between the sessions with Alma and the occasional input from Pierrot, Sho was finding himself enthralled with the world of art. He drew inspiration from the aberrations that lingered around the compound grounds, creating images that disturbed many of the congregants but both of the artists encouraged him. They never acted uneasy about his subject matter, and only bluntly offered critique.

He had said nothing of this to his grandfather, although he strongly suspected the man knew. He had been busy with the unrest in Mineshi, and his own transference into a new body, that of Sho’s aunt, the sister of the young CFO of Daikokuten. No matter his appearance though, the Founder commanded respect.

It was during one of his grandfather’s visits to the Lotus Eaters compound that Sho turned up late, covered in charcoal. The Founder looked him up and down with those burning golden eyes, a scowl that mismatched the soft face it was attached to. Sho did not know just how many times now his grandfather had transferred bodies, but in his fourteen years alive he had witnessed it only once. He was still uncertain how to act around his grandfather’s new form. It felt so off, like he was there but not.

“Sit,” the Founder directed. Sho sat.

“I understand you’ve taken up a rather frivolous hobby,” his grandfather continued. “Tell me, are you focused on your studies?”

Sho squirmed in his seat, sweat beading on the back of his neck. He always felt this immense, physical pressure around his grandfather. It made it hard to breathe and his mind was buzzing as though with electricity. He swallowed drily.

“I’ve mastered recitation of the Eightfold Path,” he said slowly. “My maths need work, but I’m doing my best.”

“Your best? This is your best?”

The Founder slapped down a stack of papers from various courses. Some had doodles in the margins that had marked down an otherwise flawless paper, others were riddled with mistakes and comments about the Prophet’s lack of focus in classes. He had been falling behind as his interest flagged.

“Grandfather, I’m sorry, I just,” Sho scrambled for an explanation. “It’s been hard to focus, my fevers have been coming back.”

The Founder brought one elegantly ringed hand to his chin, staring deeply into Sho’s eyes. He sighed as though in disappointment and waved his hand dismissively, shaking his head, the long black pleat of his hair swaying.

“This is not acceptable. I’m instructing the head priests to confine you to the inner sanctum.”

Sho’s blood drained from his face.

“Please Grandfather, I promise I’ll do better. I don’t need to go—“

“Are you questioning me?”

The Founder’s voice was sharp as a knife, and Sho shrank back in his seat. He stared down at his hands, noticing now that he had gripped his palms so hard he’d drawn blood.

“No, Grandfather,” Sho whispered. “It is as you say. I need to focus on my studies.”

There was a long moment of silence before the Founder spoke again.

“Good lad. Well then, until next time. A week should be sufficient to learn from your mistakes.”

“And the art lessons..?”

The Founder locked his golden eyes on Sho.

“Will continue. For now. But if this happens again, they’re over.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

The isolation chamber in the inner sanctum was so familiar to him by now that Sho could navigate it with eyes closed. Not that it was difficult in such a small space. It was buffered against sound and sealed away with no windows. There were claw marks in the wood from those who had spent too long in here. Some of them were his own.

The first aberrations started to drift through his vision there in the dark. Here, completely deprived of human contact, light, or sound, it was difficult to tell the hallucinations from the genuine oddities. Spectral fish floated through the walls, pulsing with a dim light, while many armed monstrosities scuttled soundlessly across the floor mats. It was like some deep sea trench such as he’d read about in his biology papers.

It was just a week, he told himself. He could manage a week. He was stronger now. It would be okay. He just needed to stay busy, not let his mind wander, that way everything would be—

“Sho.”

He dug his fingers deeper into his scalp, curling up into a tiny ball as he whimpered.

“Sho, honey.”

His mother always seemed to find him here, but she looked nothing like in life. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to gaze upon the decaying form of her face. Even as he ignored her, he felt her step closer.

“Mama’s missed you.”

“…away….”

“Oh honey, just look at me.”

“Please…”

His nails broke the skin of his head, tearing at his hair. It would all be over soon. That’s what he kept telling himself as his mother sung to him in a warbling, off tone.

During his next session with the Painter, Sho was much quieter than previously. He kept fidgeting, having to be reposed all over again. Finally, frustrated from Sho’s lack of focus, Pierrot set his brush down.

“Perhaps it would be better to end here for today.”

“I’m sorry,” Sho said, ashamed. “I’ve been busy with my studies.”

His voice was a sullen monotone, eyes half lidded. He felt like his body weighed eight times more than it did. The Painter considered him silently.

“Maybe you should try painting how you’re feeling right now,” he said slowly. “Sometimes it’s easier to explain it through art.”

Sho looked up at the artist, studying his mask. He wanted to ask him about his association with the Mask Seller, but it was still too personal. Instead he hedged the topic as vaguely as he could.

“My father, he’s always gone,” he said, not looking at Pierrot. “I think maybe I’ve seen him two, three times in the last year. My grandfather’s all I have.”

The words were starting to tumble out of him as he played with the hem of his robes.

“He doesn’t like it when I…play around. He says that’s all art is. Playing around.”

Sho knew he was over sharing, but he had no one else he could talk to, and the Painter was the one person he trusted to be honest with him.

“But well, it’s all I really have. That I’ve chosen to do.” His voice wavered. He felt embarrassed by his own candidness.

“I don’t want to disappoint him. He’s all I have.”

Pierrot stood for a moment, his feet in the corner of Sho’s field of view. Then he began walking toward him. He placed one long fingered hand on the Prophet’s shoulder.

“It’s important to have something we can call our own,” he said gently. “I think that so long as you’re serious about it, your grandfather will see how much it means to you.”

He hesitated a moment before adding,

“I am truly sorry about your father.”

He tactfully avoided asking Sho about his mother, for which the Prophet was grateful. He would tell him the rest, one day, but he needed time. It had all eaten away at him for so long. He was getting tired.

They ended their session early, Sho apologizing profusely and promising a tip for the inconvenience.

After his first confession, Sho began to tell the Painter more and more about his life. It was in halting bits and pieces but he started with small memories of his mother. The lovely times. Or he would discuss his frustration at his father for his absence, for not wanting him, and his desperation for his grandfather’s approval. He had never discussed these things, not even with Imani, and he felt nervous every time. But Pierrot took it in stride, never chiding him. In fact, he shared some of his own life. At those rare moments Sho listened, completely enraptured with the stories of his time as a doctor. He had tried so hard to live up to a harsh master’s expectations, and Sho felt he could understand how he felt. So often, he felt completely detached from those around him, like an alien species. But with the Painter it was all so easy, and he cherished their every moment together.

“Why did you stay with him, if he was so harsh?” Sho found himself asking one day. It was more pointed than his usual questions. The Painter paused mid-brushstroke, and at first Sho worried that he had asked too much. But then the man sighed and resumed painting.

“You see, I was in love with him.” He laughed. “Despite his wife. Although perhaps the most pathetic part is that I had no idea for the longest time.”

Sho’s eyes widened and he broke his pose for a moment, earning him a warning glare from the artist. He resumed his position but couldn’t stop the questions that bubbled to mind.

“He was married? And you…”

“I was young,” said Pierrot sorrowfully. “And very, very foolish.”

They were quiet for a while as Sho processed the information. He wondered what it meant to fall in love with someone already married. It just seemed so messy.

“You shouldn’t go after married men,” Sho finally said, sounding a bit absurd with how final he was about it. As if he knew anything about the world. But his grandfather had always been strict about hierarchy, and the respect of status, and somehow Sho didn’t think falling in love with a married man respected those boundaries.

“Surely you were punished for it,” he said smugly.

To his dismay, the Painter only laughed sadly.

“All too well, my boy,” he said. “Don’t we always pay the highest price for those we love?”

Unfortunately Sho knew all too well how that could be. He felt awkward for letting the topic get to this point, and scrambled for something to say.

There was one topic which he had avoided religiously, and that was his mother’s death. Now, without knowing exactly why he did, he spoke.

“I don’t think love should have to be painful,” he hedged. “My mother always said I needed a forgiving heart. But there’s a limit, isn’t there? When she died, even then, my father didn’t come see me. It wasn’t for months.”

He felt tears well in his eyes at the memory he had long since thought he’d grown numb to.

“If that’s supposed to be his form of love, I don’t want any part of it. Maybe some things are better left that way. Maybe it’s better to hate sometimes than to love.”

Pierrot considered this thoughtfully.

“You might have that right. It’s certainly easier to hate.”

“But Mother, she didn’t hate him.” He furrowed his brow a moment. “I don’t understand it.”

“Your mother sounds like a kind woman.”

“Then why did she choose my father? When he hardly ever came by. He barely came when he learned she was dying. But she still told me I shouldn’t hate him. Why?”

The artist didn’t say anything right away as he mulled over this, and Sho thought at first he wouldn’t get an answer.

“There are things we don’t always know about the ones closest to us,” Pierrot said finally. “Things we’d rather not see. Things others see. Perhaps your mother knew a side to your father you did not.”

“But she should have despised him,” Sho said with fervor. “He left us! He’s hardly even bothered showing up since she died. I…”

Sho bit his lower lip and looked away, breaking his pose but unable to look at the Painter as he continued.

“I only ever wanted him one time. He wasn’t there. Grandfather’s the only one who was ever around, but he wasn’t there either. But shouldn’t my father have been?”

He heard the Painter set his brush down and pad over to him on light feet. A hand gently touched his shoulder. Sho jumped, surprised, but the touch was not an unwelcome one. Before he knew it his face was screwed up in tears, the face paint running down in rivulets. His shoulders heaved as he thought back to that day.

All day, he had sat beside his mother’s corpse, convinced that the Mask Seller would surely come by. Some days prior he had asked Sho to come with him, but the boy had refused, telling his father off. He hoped then as the shadows grew throughout the day that his father would see through his ruse and take him away from this place.

It had never happened, and when they had taken Rie’s body for cremation Sho had wailed and clung to her, believing that his father would be there if they would just wait. He knew now how foolish he had been.

Pierrot held him gently as he cried. None of the shrine congregants would have dared to come near him, and he had learned from a young age that tears only got him looks of horror and prostrations. He had long ago locked away his heart.

So why was it all so painful now?

“I try so hard,” Sho said, quiet as though in confession. “But Grandfather is always so angry with me. He doesn’t approve of my lessons, or… of you being here.”

That seemed to take the artist by surprise.

“Then why commission me?”

“It was the congregants’ idea.. Grandfather agreed, but now…. He says art is frivolous. But it’s the only thing that makes me happy. It’s the only thing I have.”

Pierrot considered his words carefully.

“I think that if it’s important to you, then it’s worth fighting for. Nobody has the right to tell you what to do. No matter how dearly you love them.”

Where to begin this story?  Sis would have no problem instantly elucidating a perfect opening stage, but well, one could argue that it's exactly that mastery that has led us here.  I'm not sure I'd wholly agree--somehow that seems all too blameless.  Not that she hasn't her share of blame, but.  Well.  It's "too easy". Though the problem of blame really does fall to the reader.  I'm just presenting the facts, as they happened, with as little personal embellishment as is possible in a story involving oneself.  You'll have to trust me, though I've not the qualifications Sis does.

Just trust me.

Isn't that supposed to be an unspoken vow between reader and narrator?  The inherent trust, no need to affirm--this situation, however, requires confirmation.  Firm words. At the very least, it requires no more vague wordplay or soliloquy that could compound the issue at hand.

The issue.

Our bodies, of course.  Or, to be more precise, our existence.  But to understand all of that.

To understand the situation behind this farce.

I suppose I'd have to go back to the day she met him.

The summer of 1689 was particularly remarkable for its ferocity.  Much like the animal of their nation's flag, that summer was a powerful, heavy thing--a tiger's summer.  The torpid heat had come lumbering out of the east, over the plateaus and deserts of Medina, Dohar, and beyond, an aged heat that seemed to distort the very fabric of space itself.  It manifested itself as an especially cruel presence upon reaching the straits, taking on a thick and sticky humidity as it settled over the Yasae archipelago. There was no escape even in the peaks of Hollo's mountains.  It was there, in the northernmost of the island, where on a clear day one could see clear across to Medina, that the heat succeeded in thoroughly disrupting the habits of a particular shut-in.  Indeed, it prompted this shut-in to become more of a shut-out, the heat so oppressive that it effectively did what this recluse's own kin could not; it drove Bianca Ioneszca out of the small room she had, six months prior, shut herself away in.  Though that was not to say that she was particularly antisocial--she enjoyed company just fine, but her constitution was one that could only concentrate on one task at a time, otherwise she would end up exhausted and drained.  It was, therefore, not out of disdain for her fellow man, but out of necessity that she had locked herself away in that small, stuffy closet-turned-study in the two room house she shared with her sister Viorica.  For Bianca had before her a monumental task, one which she had taken to with such soldier-like austerity that Viorica now had been pleading, even bribing, her to leave the house and get some fresh air.  Just a bit.  But Bianca had steadfastly refused, time and again, her younger sister's attempts at camaraderie.  Besides, Viorica surely couldn't complain--it was this same skill that Bianca so adamantly put herself to that had allowed them these six months of relative luxury.

To put it simply, Bianca's hobby grown out of a busy mind hungry for any release, or might it be compared to a monster that needed distraction, in any case, she had somehow managed to get a piece of her writing to press.  It had been under a pseudonym, of course, and had been more of a wager from a former colleague at the monastery-turned-full-time print and press factory she had worked at, yet somehow it seemed to have gained quite the following among the educated types among the upper echelons of the company and their ilk.  For a young girl whose duties consisted, somehow, solely of cleaning and tidying up--with all of that inkwork you'd have thought they might have at least allowed her some basic scripture duties!--this exposure was unheard of.  Although it had lost traction outside of the confines of the business and surrounding town, it had provided her with a neat and unexpected lump of funds gathered from patrons who, upon hearing that the author was a young man in work rather than school, had taken it upon themselves to get together the means for this talent to attend university to polish their skills.  However, once word got around that the writer was, in actuality, a young woman, therefore banning her from any academic setting, they had suddenly withdrawn their offers of support.  What had been left was a sum they supposed she deserved--a young woman living on her own, after all, how pitiable, never mind that she lived with her sister, even more depressing--and once passed on to her they had thus retreated, as though fearing to contract ill.  It was a great opportunity for Bianca though, despite the rather harsh and frivolous rumors that had arisen once her gender discovered.  She decided to take the time to leave work and find for her and Viorica a home of their own--they had until now lived from room to room, a series of cheap and poor rentals.  This was decidedly safer for two young women on their own, and it would provide her an opportunity to indulge herself.  For the success that she had tasted, although brief, had lit in her a fierce desire to gamble all on the chance that maybe, just maybe, she could do this as a proper living.

That maybe she could be a writer after all.

Although now, six months down the line and their reserve funds dwindling, with the ending of the piece still a convoluted mystery even to her, the author, it seemed that maybe hers had been a fleeting and foolish dream after all.

Thus it was that, as the heat bore down on her from all sides and the humidity turned her cozy-hole into a hazy-hell, Bianca Ioneszca descended from her seclusion to the town of Marta.  As it so happened, that day was the farmer's market, and the town square had become a bustle of activity, even in this heat. Having hoped for a quiet corner to sit and observe people as she jotted down notes, Bianca was thoroughly disappointed in the liveliness of the market.  However it was the first in a long time she had allowed herself time to idle, and she was determined to get some sort of escape from the heat, even if only distraction.  It was to be expected that someone so ill-suited to the atmosphere might stand out, though to most she would rather seem a hazy existence, too dim and wavering to much mind, yet to another who patrolled the grounds in the search of something, some escape from the mundane, she stood out like a beacon.

It just so happened.

It just so happened that that person was Eduard Yagyateri.

Like two moths to a flame, like one drowning person to another, clinging for life yet bringing them both down.  On a distant summer day, in this distinct summer heat.

That was how the two stars to our tragedy met.

Yagyateri came from a long line of wool farmers, a meddling middling muddling son in a large family of dyers, shavers, washers, pickers, carders, a name dyed in its own craft; Yagyu- sheep, ter, textile, i. I.  Personal reflexive.  His father had something of a wool monopoly over Hollo, and Yagyateri Fabrics were a high-fashion item.  Many of his sisters had made picturesque matches with other high-minded families, of all sorts of high-life high-lights.  Many of his brothers had got pretty picturesque wives, and the pretty picturesque family was frequently host to frivolous follies where all and company danced and preened. It was, for all intents and purposes, of which they had many, a family on the rise to something approaching stardom  Or, something less anachronistic at least.  Quite the talk of the town, quite an assured life of prim and posh.  Something others yearn for, Eduard Yagyateri possessed.

And it was slowly driving him mad.

Every day a pretty maid greeting him in the morning, afternoon tea, Does Master Take Cream and Sugar? Yes, Yes, and to sport.  A light workout, cricket on the garden, and back to towel down as the heat reaches its apex.  Then a light nap, or quiet reading, followed by aperetifs and quaint chatter.  As all parties wend their way to the courtyard it all winds down to a feast under the brilliant summer stars.

Just like clockwork.  Just round and round and round.  It was enough to make a man sell his soul for a single diversion.  But three-and-twenty years of gadabout roundabout and Eduard was fit to burst.  He had gone off to Wellbridge--Hellbridge! he'd spit--to pursue a study in poetry, and after four years of fawning foreplay disguised as art and no real passions beside, Eduard was back at home.   He was stewing, stirring, quivering with anticipation and restlessness, and his father had allowed him a summer to think over his plans for the future, fully expecting him to fall in with the rest of the family.  To Hell with that! would be Eduard's reaction, and he had set upon himself to find something, anything, that would provide him even the slightest amusement, interest, or diversion, something to save him from this endless hell known as easy living.

That afternoon he had fled the family's estate to wander around the market.  His sister Angeline had made some comment about his uselessness, and all in a huff Eduard had stormed out.  He had burst forth like a thundercloud and descended upon the market in a frenetic state.  Going from booth to booth, he was greeted by most everyone.  Ah, yes, the young master Yagyateri. He felt sick with himself, sick with the world.

While he was absorbed in this sordid state of self-pity, he continued to mill about.  It was as the sun was peaking that his attention was drawn to a small, dark-haired woman.  She was short and stout, quite homely really, and her oversized glasses made her look like a frantic bug.  It seemed she had lost something, as she was kneeling down--without a care in the world, there, in the dirt!--and reaching under a table.  Eduard couldn't help but chuckle to himself, just a bit, at how silly this dumpy woman appeared, and when she was kicked by a stray boot in her search he let out a laugh.  That was his undoing.  Having straightened herself up, the woman turned her head at his sharp note of amusement.  He paled.  How uncouth.  Although she was a far cry from beauty, she was still a woman, and it was crass of him to laugh at her circumstances.  He cleared his throat, and was about to speak when she turned abruptly and dashed away.  Feeling incredibly off-pace, he stood there stunned.  When he turned to sulk away, his foot came down upon a sheet of paper.  He bent down to scoop it up and, curious, turned it over.  Finally settling himself down in as much an out of the way place as he could find, he took some time to read over the contents of the page.

It was

Fantastic.

Riveting, really.