Musing of Identity

[Allennia]

Musing of Identity (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6rJn_TEu5Y&feature=related)


Closed to Ataraxis.


All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the canon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


(As You Like It, 2. 7. 139-167)

[Ataraxis]

She awoke to silence.

The serenity of that morning was as welcomed as it was unfamiliar. There were no busy footsteps on the other side of the door, no lethargic creaks from the inn’s clientele as they crossed the corridor – not even wooden whines as they plodded down the aged maple staircase, lured by the smells of a lively kitchen. She wondered if the hours were still early, if the patrons were still sound asleep and snoring through vivid dreams, but the mute light of a grey morning told her this was not so. She should have heard bustling through the thin floorboards, the creaking of chairs and the sounds of drowsy banter, but nothing came. With a lethargic moan, she pushed herself from the bed, feeling the nipping bite of a cold day as the quilt slipped from her shoulders.

She unlocked the door, and it opened with a cautious push. Even now, she could hear nothing, and she felt alarm clear the mists of sleepiness from her mind. Wearing only a sleeping shirt and pants of white linen, she crossed the corridor on bare feet, feeling a chill through her spine as they touched the frigid floor. Tiptoeing halfway down the stairway without so much as a creak or wail, Lillian stumbled upon a most sobering scene.

Not a soul could be found in the dining room. No one tended to the counter, no clanking hubbub came from behind the kitchen doors. The booths and gueridons were still perfectly set, from the freshly ironed tablecloths to the shakers and leather-bound menus. No disturbance there, not even a crease to show signs of recent use. A great sense of unease came to her, and she hared down the stairs with great distress in her shaken blue eyes. She rushed for the door, heard the tingling bells as she pulled it open.

A great calm settled over her. Not one of relief, but of helplessness. The streets of Underwood were empty, bereft of life. She always heard the sounds of children waking up before their parents, coming out to play and watch the working townspeople open shop. No gluttonous rascals gravitated around the bakery, eager to take in the fumets of the day’s first batch of bread. No elders had come to sit on the terrace of the café, to enjoy the view of the lofty forest peaks of Concordia and to talk about nostalgic trivialities they would forget discussing by the next day.

There was not a single soul left in the village. When Lillian finally grasped the scale of what this meant, the calm gave way to something else entirely. She thought it was loneliness at first, then fear. Yet, that was not so. Delving deeper into herself, she realized with only a small sense of dread that it was comfort in solitude. There was no one with whom she could speak. No one to approach her.

No one to bother her.

Lillian shook her head, snapping back to reality. She shooed away that strange sensation of indifference, and chalked it up to the novelty of feeling like the only living girl in Underwood. This was no time to dawdle in dark reveries, she knew, and she needed to understand what was afoot: where the villagers had gone, what may have taken them, why she had been forgotten. Yet, there was something else she needed to know, and she rushed back into the inn to get her answer. Rushing up the stairway, she entered her room, slinging her knapsack on her back and her weapons belt around her waist, and left just as quickly. The girl made her way to each door of the corridor, knocking violently at the wood before opening them, one by one.

Unlocked, empty. Unlocked, empty again. Locked…

Lillian resumed banging on the door with a vengeance. Her heart rose in her chest, almost suffocating as she hung onto the hope that someone else was on the other side of the door.

That someone else was still there, alive and awake.

[Allennia]

Abhorrash was indeed awake, and very unhappy to be so. He had been dreaming of fireflies and dragons in an ancient glade before the rattatatat of a hurried knocking dragged him kicking and screaming into the early morning sun. Whoever it was, they were breaking several modes of decorum. In the courtly manner or the service industry you knocked slowly and quietly at first, called a name, and then entered if you were bringing the reserved meal or bed towels. In his deluded state the noble forgot that he was in Underwood, and that the closest thing to a reserved meal would be if you put shards of glass on one of the beer stained benches in the tavern, and got downstairs early enough to be sat on it before anyone else did.

He slipped sideways to a seated position and unravelled himself from the bed sheets, scooping up the various bangles and necklaces from the side cabinet. He began putting them on as his morning ritual. He had slept in his robes, sans armour and paraphernalia, and resembled a librarian who had fallen asleep at the desk counting book spines deep into the witching hour. “Wait one foul moment, I come!” He stretched his arms above his head and slowly stood to click his bones back into place, dragging his consciousness screaming behind him as he rose.

The prangs* of cold from the floorboards gave his walk an amusing amble as he approached the door, and he began to pull the bolt aside and tackle the intricate lock above it. “This,” he began, stopping to yawn and to glance momentarily out of the window at the birds in the trees on the far side of the deathly silent courtyard,” had better be worth the provocation of a man’s rest,” he pulled the door back and stepped to its right as it swung to the left with a rush of air.

“Seven Sons of…” He mumbled, looking Lillian over with a curious eyebrow and a need to sedate his senses. “What might a man ask in this situation, are you doing dressed like that in the daylight, and what is the need for this incessant racket?” He slipped his hood back and ruffled his straw-like hair; its messy and bushy nature giving his youthful face a coy sense of cuteness, one that did not match his stone-faced glare.

The Son of Lord Isould wished at the back of his mind for just one moment’s peace in the world.


*Prangs - colloquialism for 'sharp, lancing pain,' akin to an icicle being stabbed into the bottom of your feet. Similar, but entirely more blunt and sudden than pang.

[Ataraxis]

Lillian thanked the gods when the door pulled away to reveal the only other living soul in Underwood. Being woken against his will in these early hours of the morn had dealt his civility a harsh blow, but that was a manner of crankiness she could understand, if not even relate to; however, there was no time for that. The robed man seemed to have donned a variety of bangles and knickknacks on his way to the door, and she presumed he had carelessly gone about his waking routine while oblivious to the village’s situation. There was a multitude of things she could tell him, of arguments and pleas that would convince him and make him aware of their dire predicament, but the route she chose was one of alarm and brevity.

“The villagers are all gone. Underwood became a ghost town over night, I have no idea why. If you don’t believe me, look out the window.” Naturally, the man took this as a prank, but the sternness of her expression clearly showed she was in no mood for either a jest or a debate. He complied, albeit begrudgingly, expecting nothing more than an exaggerated sparseness of children and workers bustling about the streets. The silence that followed, however, was the sobering effect Lillian had hoped for. “I just realized it myself… there’s no one downstairs, either. There are only a few doors here I haven’t banged on, but I think we’re the only ones left.”

The girl looked down, a sudden wave of distress unbalancing her. It took her a few moments to recover her composure, and she had gripped her arm to stay its trembling. She was afraid, but not for herself: the girl feared that death had come again, that it had followed her from the beginning, hiding in her shadows. With the exception of this man, she was the only one left standing… everyone else was gone, and she held the terrible notion that the fault lay within her.

“I… I want to look for…” Her mind had conjured up the word ‘survivors’, but its implication terrified her to no end. More than anything else, acknowledging the possibilities of that word was as acknowledging that there was no hope, and she would not have that. “For others like us… escapees, if there are any. Maybe then we’ll understand why we were… left behind.”