Comfortable.
There are many words which are commonly referred to as positive words that I disagree with. You can see my long rant on the word Hope for an example. Then there’s the fact that I find Moist to be mildly dirty (I blame How I Met Your Mother), and Pointless to be generally derogatory to ANYONE you may be having a discussion with.
COMFORTABLE. This word is the downfall of so many people, even so much as to be extended to peoples as well. Comfortable is a term which I believe has doomed great men to mediocrity, happiness to contentment, purposeful to a meaningless existence. It is comfort that decides that we are ok with the allotment we have been handed, comfort that drove us to believe that what we have is good enough, despite ideas that may drive us to be better than anything we had accomplished so far.
Comfort is what drives us to avoid achievement, to revel in in the idea of simply meeting the bar of expectation. And yet, it’s the very definition of the american dream. White picket fence, three bedroom house, and 2.4 children. The failure of sheepish conformity that defines America as the sad middle-ground of the first world and everything we come to define with what we expect from life.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to see what I can do to break out of my comfort zone. Admittedly, I SUCK at this endeavor. I still like my personal bubble (Uh, dude? You just brushed my arm. Buy me dessert or my wife will totally kick your ass.), and I still tend to watch my words around people I don’t know, especially in public. I can’t go a single day outside my apartment without taking a shower, and I still have to avoid every crack in the sidewalk less be attacked by a metric fuck-ton of guilt over the possibility of causing my mother harm.
On the flip side of that, I also try to travel to somewhere I haven’t been at least once a year, I moved across the county because I was simply done with where I was at the time, and I’ve gone out of my way to make new friends despite the fact that I hit 30 a year ago, a time when most people are instead settling in to habits and deciding what they want car they want to buy for their midlife crisis. Meanwhile, I’m planning the next big trip, debating the merits of our current town or moving away, and working my way up (admittedly slowly) towards swimming in the ocean after a 15 year phobia.
So fuck all of ya’ll.
Comfort is a false dream of settling, something that I decided against a long time ago before I ever met my wife. It came from a very solid foundation that unfortunately has been belittled by modern society but that I’ve come to a conclusion that is actually based in fact.
I’m awesome, and moreso than that, I’m as awesome as I’m willing to make myself. I deserve every single ounce of fucking effort I can put into every single thing I do, and saying that I’m not is only belittling myself and all those around me that care about me.
I (VERY FORTUNATELY) hit this realization a good while before I met my wife. I hit a nice stride where I started treating myself when I was single. I took myself out to dinner at fancy restaurants when I needed congratulations for a job well done; I went by myself to see a movie in a theater that I really wanted to see, regardless of company or someone vilifying my desire; I went on road-trips just to see people that I wished to see, regardless of whether I had company or any other preparations. I made a 10 year plan to move across the country slowly, stopping once a year in a pre-planned state with a good job market to work a menial job and meet people.
It was epic and awesome, and for the first time in a long time, I came to love myself without needing an outside image to confirm my own beliefs in myself.
So when I finally met my wife, I realized something that I don’t think many people did: She was actually someone who was perfect for me. She was not filling some hole I needed at the time, I was not settling for someone in order to avoid being alone, and I was not simply conforming to some societal standard of being a couple. I was completely whole and happy by myself. And she somehow made me happier. Not more complete, but more something that I could not have been should I have been without her.
This isn’t some belief in destiny, or fated to meet or anything like that. This was a simply one in a million chance that I was actually ready for, since I had taken the time to develop what that actually was.
Now I don’t think my way is the best way; a lot of people have met “the one” in their own special way. My point is there’s a necessity in breaking habits. No matter how you do anything, whether it’s meeting someone, taking a job, deciding what kind of food it is you really love, nothing will ever be your own personal truth until you break your idea of what’s comfortable or safe and actually make an informed decision based on experience, not inferences or references.
I’ve said this often, in hundreds of formats. Take a look at your worst case scenario. If the worst thing that can happen is that you have to pick up the pieces and start over, then take the risk. Starting over, in almost every situation, can lead to new perspectives that can give you a boost towards a happiness that is forever lost in the American dream of comfort.
Stop looking at the worst case scenario as a sure thing, and start looking at the good that can come from a 10% chance. This isn’t a speech to tell you to go gamble on the lottery. I’m telling you to gamble on yourself, to believe in yourself, and to believe in your own happiness, instead of the happiness you’re told is what you’re destined to get. Destiny or fate or karma, should you believe, is only a stepping stone. Who you are dependent not on what the universe gives you, but what you do with it.
Cave Johnson said it best in these regards. Make the universe rue the day it gave you lemons.
Lux Caelum I
The view from the port window was amazing every time. From far enough way, the petty squabbles of the people below seemed so insignificant. The vast expanses of blue and white, green and brown, made it impossible to even imagine that a war might have been going on, soldiers killing soldiers or murder on the streets of some major city that was maybe a barely noticeable speck from this distance.
The elderly man smiled as he continued to stare out the glass. Even though he knew full well it wasn’t actually glass (one of the engineers on board explained it to him on multiple occasions but he could never recall the actual name), he still preferred to think of it as such. For some reason, the familiarity of the substance made him feel more at home than any sort of knowledge of the safety behind the science of what was actually there.
There was a knock at the door. The man smiled to himself. The knocking was another quaint insistence of his; the tone that the button outside created was so very impersonal. He preferred every guest to knock instead, as it often could tell him so much about what was on the other side. Before they ever came in, he could often tell who it was, what kind of mood they were, and sometimes was even able to figure out what they wanted.
Sure, the screen next to the bed that showed via strategically placed cameras what exactly was on the other side of the door, down to fluctuations in their body temperature and electronic equipment they have on their person, could have easily told him much of the same information. It didn’t feel right though. It was cheating, like a calculator on a math quiz or a map during a survival exercise. Depending on these machines instead of your instincts would only get you killed.
He laughed at his own train of thoughts. This coming from a guy who’s sitting in a space station, completely dependent upon the technology around him to keep him alive.
“Come in, Commander,” he said finally. The door opened a moment afterwards, and Commander Kelsee walked into the room. She stood just inside the doorway as it closed behind her, not saying a word until the admiral turned to face her.
He smiled. Her attention to the little details of protocol was why she was largely his main point of contact on the station. She kept track of everyone’s idiosyncrasies, managing to avoid offending anyone and learn almost everything about someone within moments of meeting them. She exuded perfect control, both over herself and others. Even him.
Most importantly, though, she was trustworthy. She believed in her ideals, and his for that matter, and that made her the most important part of the small team up here.
He turned around to face her. He found the habit of his former superiors to talk to their subordinates with their back turned to be exceedingly rude. It does not matter where you stand; you always stand there because of each person, alive or dead, that followed you there, and forgetting that was the fastest route to betrayal, or worse, complacency.
This time, however, he didn’t say anything immediately after turning around. Her knock was a little faster, a little higher than she gave when she was coming in for appointed rounds. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to know she had something to say. So he waited for her to speak first.
She hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t a good sign. “You have to teach me sometime how you can tell so much just from the sound of a knock.”
She was making small talk. Another bad sign. Still, he smiled his best disarming smile. “It’s easy enough to explain, but noticing the differences really just comes with time and attention. Regardless, I don’t think you came here to discuss knocking.”
Her expression didn’t change. It remained as unreadable as it did when she first arrived. He was reminded once again to never play poker with her.
“The engineers and physicists have gone over the numbers one more time. There’s no way around it; one way or another, we’re going to go out of orbit, regardless of how we use the maneuvering engines.”
He nodded, the grin leaving his face. “No way to get a ship out here to rescue sir?”
“No sir. Communication with anyone on the surface would reveal our position.”
“And the centrifugal plan?”
“Not in our current orbit, sir. We are too far away from moon’s orbit to use it, and our air wouldn’t last long enough to use any other celestial body.”
He leaned against the table in the center of the room. The image from the camera on the bottom of the station showed clearly on the surface the table the land directly below them: a large city, hundreds of buildings and criss-crossing streets filling the entire. The older admiral stared at the table for a long time. He knew why he was selected to lead this mission, and he knew what he would decide to do in the end, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“We’re all knew what we were getting into when we signed up for the mission, Sir.” The Commander spoke softly to him, as if to someone mourning. “You don’t hold responsibility for all of us; we all made the decision.”
“No offense, Commander, but you don’t have to press the damn button.”
“That’s true, Admiral. Although I will, if you won’t.”
The admiral stayed there for a moment, continuing to stare at the table. Minutes passed before he found himself able to respond, looking up at her. “You don’t have to worry about that, Commander. I know what’s at stake here.”
“It will save hundreds of thousands of lives, and bring--”
“Peace to people who have never known it, yes, I know.” He sighed. “But someone has to show respect for those that are sacrificing their lives to make peace happen. Both us up here, and those down there.” He gestured back to the table at the image on the table.
The commander didn’t respond, outside of a small nod. After another moment of silence, the admiral waved her away, and she left the room.
He sat down at the table, and stared out the window for a little while longer. Peace. It was easy to imagine up here, despite how impossible it was to achieve when he was below just months before. The irony of whole situation settled on him like a cloak of iron, snuggly holding him to the seat of execution.
He looked at the table once more. Then he closed his eyes, and stared at the keypad in front of him. He entered the code he had committed to memory long before he ever left earth’s atmosphere. There was only a short pause before the view from the camera turned white. The delay from the white-washed image and the view of the crater where the city once was took much longer.
He looked out the glass window once more from his chair, as it began to retreat much faster than he had expected it to. He knew they would be traveling fast as the weapon pushed back on the station, but distance was an illusion in space. A part of him was still hopeful up until a moment ago that help might catch up with them, but that seemed unlikely at this rate.
He stood up, heading out of the room. Morale was always at its worse when death is a certainty, and he had a job to do.
The elderly man smiled as he continued to stare out the glass. Even though he knew full well it wasn’t actually glass (one of the engineers on board explained it to him on multiple occasions but he could never recall the actual name), he still preferred to think of it as such. For some reason, the familiarity of the substance made him feel more at home than any sort of knowledge of the safety behind the science of what was actually there.
There was a knock at the door. The man smiled to himself. The knocking was another quaint insistence of his; the tone that the button outside created was so very impersonal. He preferred every guest to knock instead, as it often could tell him so much about what was on the other side. Before they ever came in, he could often tell who it was, what kind of mood they were, and sometimes was even able to figure out what they wanted.
Sure, the screen next to the bed that showed via strategically placed cameras what exactly was on the other side of the door, down to fluctuations in their body temperature and electronic equipment they have on their person, could have easily told him much of the same information. It didn’t feel right though. It was cheating, like a calculator on a math quiz or a map during a survival exercise. Depending on these machines instead of your instincts would only get you killed.
He laughed at his own train of thoughts. This coming from a guy who’s sitting in a space station, completely dependent upon the technology around him to keep him alive.
“Come in, Commander,” he said finally. The door opened a moment afterwards, and Commander Kelsee walked into the room. She stood just inside the doorway as it closed behind her, not saying a word until the admiral turned to face her.
He smiled. Her attention to the little details of protocol was why she was largely his main point of contact on the station. She kept track of everyone’s idiosyncrasies, managing to avoid offending anyone and learn almost everything about someone within moments of meeting them. She exuded perfect control, both over herself and others. Even him.
Most importantly, though, she was trustworthy. She believed in her ideals, and his for that matter, and that made her the most important part of the small team up here.
He turned around to face her. He found the habit of his former superiors to talk to their subordinates with their back turned to be exceedingly rude. It does not matter where you stand; you always stand there because of each person, alive or dead, that followed you there, and forgetting that was the fastest route to betrayal, or worse, complacency.
This time, however, he didn’t say anything immediately after turning around. Her knock was a little faster, a little higher than she gave when she was coming in for appointed rounds. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to know she had something to say. So he waited for her to speak first.
She hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t a good sign. “You have to teach me sometime how you can tell so much just from the sound of a knock.”
She was making small talk. Another bad sign. Still, he smiled his best disarming smile. “It’s easy enough to explain, but noticing the differences really just comes with time and attention. Regardless, I don’t think you came here to discuss knocking.”
Her expression didn’t change. It remained as unreadable as it did when she first arrived. He was reminded once again to never play poker with her.
“The engineers and physicists have gone over the numbers one more time. There’s no way around it; one way or another, we’re going to go out of orbit, regardless of how we use the maneuvering engines.”
He nodded, the grin leaving his face. “No way to get a ship out here to rescue sir?”
“No sir. Communication with anyone on the surface would reveal our position.”
“And the centrifugal plan?”
“Not in our current orbit, sir. We are too far away from moon’s orbit to use it, and our air wouldn’t last long enough to use any other celestial body.”
He leaned against the table in the center of the room. The image from the camera on the bottom of the station showed clearly on the surface the table the land directly below them: a large city, hundreds of buildings and criss-crossing streets filling the entire. The older admiral stared at the table for a long time. He knew why he was selected to lead this mission, and he knew what he would decide to do in the end, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“We’re all knew what we were getting into when we signed up for the mission, Sir.” The Commander spoke softly to him, as if to someone mourning. “You don’t hold responsibility for all of us; we all made the decision.”
“No offense, Commander, but you don’t have to press the damn button.”
“That’s true, Admiral. Although I will, if you won’t.”
The admiral stayed there for a moment, continuing to stare at the table. Minutes passed before he found himself able to respond, looking up at her. “You don’t have to worry about that, Commander. I know what’s at stake here.”
“It will save hundreds of thousands of lives, and bring--”
“Peace to people who have never known it, yes, I know.” He sighed. “But someone has to show respect for those that are sacrificing their lives to make peace happen. Both us up here, and those down there.” He gestured back to the table at the image on the table.
The commander didn’t respond, outside of a small nod. After another moment of silence, the admiral waved her away, and she left the room.
He sat down at the table, and stared out the window for a little while longer. Peace. It was easy to imagine up here, despite how impossible it was to achieve when he was below just months before. The irony of whole situation settled on him like a cloak of iron, snuggly holding him to the seat of execution.
He looked at the table once more. Then he closed his eyes, and stared at the keypad in front of him. He entered the code he had committed to memory long before he ever left earth’s atmosphere. There was only a short pause before the view from the camera turned white. The delay from the white-washed image and the view of the crater where the city once was took much longer.
He looked out the glass window once more from his chair, as it began to retreat much faster than he had expected it to. He knew they would be traveling fast as the weapon pushed back on the station, but distance was an illusion in space. A part of him was still hopeful up until a moment ago that help might catch up with them, but that seemed unlikely at this rate.
He stood up, heading out of the room. Morale was always at its worse when death is a certainty, and he had a job to do.
The Heart of the Princess
She watched intently as the knight approached the castle. He appeared wary, but confident. She scowled. They came regularly, each one as smug as the one before. She grew tired of the charade, but a promise was made. Her closest friend--her only friend, really--asked her long ago to secure her away, to ensure none would control her life, that not even her family could decide watch direction she would take.
She loved her princess so. There was little she wouldn’t do should the princess ask. So when the princess asked to be taken away, to a place far away where none would look, she happily obliged. The castle they found was far from anything, long abandoned by anyone would care, a relic from a long forgotten war.
Still, they came to their doorstep. Many a knight found themselves daunted by the steep climb, unable to cross the moat, stopped by the unscalable walls. Still, they came.
Her princess asked for protection from the knights that sought her. She sought an army, but none would help a woman on her own, hiding from the kings and knights that sought her princess.
Instead, she sought a witch, a practitioner of power who would understand her plight. The witch offered her the strength to turn away any knight. She gladly accepted.
Man after man died by her decision, as she protected her princess from any who would seize her. Still, they came. There was no faltering; no matter how many she killed, no matter how much terror she caused in the hearts from all those who were once near, still they came. They each wore the same look. They knew to fear, but they still did not fear as they should.
Like many before him, he climbed the cliffs and forded the moat. He forced his way through the gate, and avoided the traps in the hall. She knew not how each learned how all the knights had learned such about her castle, but they did and she had not the hands to change them any longer.
As many before, he entered the chamber where gatherings were once held, staring at dais which still held an old throne, no longer in use. Unlike many of the most recent knights had, he waited at the entrance to the chamber, behind the vast doors. He knew the princess was in the tower as all who came before him did. She knew they intended to force her princess away, to bring the princess to a life unwanted. Yet this one knew what awaited him in the chamber, and waited.
She leapt down, spreading her vast wings to slow her descent, landing heavily below, crunching the familiar stone beneath her claws.
He smiled from his helm, his visor still open, showing his boyish face.
“Dragon,” he spoke, as if in greeting. He drew a long, thin sword from his hip, a large shield from his back.
“Good knight,” she replied. She snorted as the end, wisp of smoke coming from her snout that had become too familiar in the last year.
“I had heard you could speak,” he said, surprising her once again. “Must we fight? Surely you must grow tired of this.”
“I have my duty.”
“As do I. I must allow the princess to leave this place.”
She laughed. A lick of flame stretched towards the knight, but did not reach him. “You know not what the princess wants. Do not assume, good knight.”
He frowned, looking concerned. Then the look turned sad, and he closed his visor, raised his shield and stepped forward.
She lowered her head to be even with the doorway and let loose with a heavy breath. Flames enveloped the knight; afraid he might have ducked behind the doorway, she kept her head low, engulfing the hallway beyond in heat and light.
When she had no more breath to let out, she was very surprised to see the night directly in front of her mouth, shield held steadily in front of him.
She tried to pull her face back, but was too slow. The sword flashed out, tearing a part of her jaw asunder. She yowled in pain, rearing back. None before had managed to strike her so; they either died from claw or flame, or their swords bounced harmlessly off her thick scales. None had dared to attack the inside of her mouth.
Fear and dread filled her mind; this was not the same as the others.
She turned her head, to look down at where the knight was, but he was no longer there. She tried to close her loosely hanging jaw, but could not; it seemed the knight had done something that caused it to not function normally. She lifted a clawed hand to force it shut.
A white hot fire erupted from inside her head. Too late, she realized he was inside her mouth, waiting for the opportunity to reach her soft palate.
She howled, and fell to her side. The hot pain continued as the sword her tore apart from the inside. The fight had left her; she was in too much pain, and now she realized that she was dying.
The knight came forth from within, lifting her jaw from the ground with his shield, and walked around to her eye. He opened his visor once more.
“It is not I that misunderstood. I fear you may--”
Her body convulsed. She felt a new pain, one that she had felt only once before, when the witch gave her new form. She was returning to that form she once had, a year before she had spent so much time as a monster, a life she could barely remember.
“A woman,” he spoke, shocked as she appeared before her as she once were, naked and dying, her head almost destroyed and bleeding out from a gaping wound in her neck. “A curse, a trick most foul.”
She found herself looking at the boy, unable to turn away. He looked at her in pity. “I am sorry. If I had known, perhaps--”
Suddenly, the princess entered her view, leaping at the knight who dropped sword and shield to ensure that the princess did not fall. To her surprise, the princess laughed in the knights arm, happy to be received so gallantly.
“I knew, for many years,” the princess said, “that the only knight I would love, would be the one who would save me from a dragon.”
She lay dying, her life blood draining, her head feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Yet she knew no pain greater than the knowledge of this moment. This was her princess, the one she was born to, had served lovingly all her life. She had sacrificed all, her home, her family, her very body and soul for the protection and favor she had been asked.
Now her final sacrifice had been made. Her heart broke.
She tried to yell, to scream, to tell of the betrayal, to warn the knight of the evil that she now knew to lurk in the princess’s heart. Her mouth would not obey her. Her throat would not pass the air to form the words.
Her sight faded. She heard them, as if from a distance, moving about. The last sounds she heard, words echoing within the last remnants of her consciousness, whispered softly in her ear. The last words her princess would speak to her:
“That’s enough, Sophie. You may rest now.”
Sophie. That was her name, wasn’t it? It had been so long.
She loved her princess so. There was little she wouldn’t do should the princess ask. So when the princess asked to be taken away, to a place far away where none would look, she happily obliged. The castle they found was far from anything, long abandoned by anyone would care, a relic from a long forgotten war.
Still, they came to their doorstep. Many a knight found themselves daunted by the steep climb, unable to cross the moat, stopped by the unscalable walls. Still, they came.
Her princess asked for protection from the knights that sought her. She sought an army, but none would help a woman on her own, hiding from the kings and knights that sought her princess.
Instead, she sought a witch, a practitioner of power who would understand her plight. The witch offered her the strength to turn away any knight. She gladly accepted.
Man after man died by her decision, as she protected her princess from any who would seize her. Still, they came. There was no faltering; no matter how many she killed, no matter how much terror she caused in the hearts from all those who were once near, still they came. They each wore the same look. They knew to fear, but they still did not fear as they should.
Like many before him, he climbed the cliffs and forded the moat. He forced his way through the gate, and avoided the traps in the hall. She knew not how each learned how all the knights had learned such about her castle, but they did and she had not the hands to change them any longer.
As many before, he entered the chamber where gatherings were once held, staring at dais which still held an old throne, no longer in use. Unlike many of the most recent knights had, he waited at the entrance to the chamber, behind the vast doors. He knew the princess was in the tower as all who came before him did. She knew they intended to force her princess away, to bring the princess to a life unwanted. Yet this one knew what awaited him in the chamber, and waited.
She leapt down, spreading her vast wings to slow her descent, landing heavily below, crunching the familiar stone beneath her claws.
He smiled from his helm, his visor still open, showing his boyish face.
“Dragon,” he spoke, as if in greeting. He drew a long, thin sword from his hip, a large shield from his back.
“Good knight,” she replied. She snorted as the end, wisp of smoke coming from her snout that had become too familiar in the last year.
“I had heard you could speak,” he said, surprising her once again. “Must we fight? Surely you must grow tired of this.”
“I have my duty.”
“As do I. I must allow the princess to leave this place.”
She laughed. A lick of flame stretched towards the knight, but did not reach him. “You know not what the princess wants. Do not assume, good knight.”
He frowned, looking concerned. Then the look turned sad, and he closed his visor, raised his shield and stepped forward.
She lowered her head to be even with the doorway and let loose with a heavy breath. Flames enveloped the knight; afraid he might have ducked behind the doorway, she kept her head low, engulfing the hallway beyond in heat and light.
When she had no more breath to let out, she was very surprised to see the night directly in front of her mouth, shield held steadily in front of him.
She tried to pull her face back, but was too slow. The sword flashed out, tearing a part of her jaw asunder. She yowled in pain, rearing back. None before had managed to strike her so; they either died from claw or flame, or their swords bounced harmlessly off her thick scales. None had dared to attack the inside of her mouth.
Fear and dread filled her mind; this was not the same as the others.
She turned her head, to look down at where the knight was, but he was no longer there. She tried to close her loosely hanging jaw, but could not; it seemed the knight had done something that caused it to not function normally. She lifted a clawed hand to force it shut.
A white hot fire erupted from inside her head. Too late, she realized he was inside her mouth, waiting for the opportunity to reach her soft palate.
She howled, and fell to her side. The hot pain continued as the sword her tore apart from the inside. The fight had left her; she was in too much pain, and now she realized that she was dying.
The knight came forth from within, lifting her jaw from the ground with his shield, and walked around to her eye. He opened his visor once more.
“It is not I that misunderstood. I fear you may--”
Her body convulsed. She felt a new pain, one that she had felt only once before, when the witch gave her new form. She was returning to that form she once had, a year before she had spent so much time as a monster, a life she could barely remember.
“A woman,” he spoke, shocked as she appeared before her as she once were, naked and dying, her head almost destroyed and bleeding out from a gaping wound in her neck. “A curse, a trick most foul.”
She found herself looking at the boy, unable to turn away. He looked at her in pity. “I am sorry. If I had known, perhaps--”
Suddenly, the princess entered her view, leaping at the knight who dropped sword and shield to ensure that the princess did not fall. To her surprise, the princess laughed in the knights arm, happy to be received so gallantly.
“I knew, for many years,” the princess said, “that the only knight I would love, would be the one who would save me from a dragon.”
She lay dying, her life blood draining, her head feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Yet she knew no pain greater than the knowledge of this moment. This was her princess, the one she was born to, had served lovingly all her life. She had sacrificed all, her home, her family, her very body and soul for the protection and favor she had been asked.
Now her final sacrifice had been made. Her heart broke.
She tried to yell, to scream, to tell of the betrayal, to warn the knight of the evil that she now knew to lurk in the princess’s heart. Her mouth would not obey her. Her throat would not pass the air to form the words.
Her sight faded. She heard them, as if from a distance, moving about. The last sounds she heard, words echoing within the last remnants of her consciousness, whispered softly in her ear. The last words her princess would speak to her:
“That’s enough, Sophie. You may rest now.”
Sophie. That was her name, wasn’t it? It had been so long.
Dancer of the Red Stage
The drums pounded, the flutes played their lilting melodies, the horns their counter bravado. It is unknown how long they had played; time had little meaning anymore. All the matter was the music was playing. All that mattered was that the dance had begun. Like every performance before, once the music began, there was little else she could think upon outside of her performance.
She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.
It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.
She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.
In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.
This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.
The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.
Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.
“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”
She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”
He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”
Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”
He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”
She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”
He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”
She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.
The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.
The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.
The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.
There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.
“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”
She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.
She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.
It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.
She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.
In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.
This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.
The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.
Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.
“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”
She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”
He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”
Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”
He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”
She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”
He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”
She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.
The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.
The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.
The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.
There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.
“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”
She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.
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