we men are wretched things
The words love and hate and fear whispered by his tongue do not seem so severe, so irrevocable. Yet, they are words that still turn his face away; he turns out toward the open sea, ankle-deep in the water. (I wish I could tell him that salt water heals; I wish I could say that it soothes aches and calms the mind).I was always too late to act.
I do not mean to smile; but it appears, naturally and without thought. Perhaps for the first time tonight. “In that, we complete each other. I have always acted too soon, for the exact opposite reason.” I had been born knowing love and hate and fear. I had told Bondike, once, love and hate belong to the same vein; they are two parts of a whole and, sometimes (especially now, on the fringe of a world, living a shadow of a life) I think it is fear that motivates both.
I want to ask, what changed. I want to ask how he learned to know them. The smile is brief and flitting; he grows bitter, briefly, as he confesses to his apathy, alongside the death of his parents. I nearly ask, is that how you felt? Or is it only how you were received? But I recognize that it doesn't matter, not really. It is difficult for me to imagine him so cool; and then, abruptly, it isn’t. I remember when we had first met and the front he had given; calm, controlled. I say nothing to his confession; but my expression makes it exceedingly clear I do not judge him. If anything, I understand—I sympathize.
In the military, they call it bearing. It is defined as “conducing oneself in a professional manner to bring credit upon oneself and their organization.” The recitation is on my lips as if I had studied the material yesterday, despite being a freshman lesson at the academy, belonging to children. It is the first thing they teach us, I think—to wipe expressions from our faces cleanly, neatly, so that we might one day march into war without a blight of fear, or anger, or concern. It demands confidence, command, and a high standard of appearance and behavior.
Yet, at the end of the day, it is not so different from apathy. As a first year cadet, I had kept my face perfectly straight as they beat the boy in formation next to me until they broke his leg.
When I betrayed Boudika to the commanding general, I had not allowed my expression to waiver. When I betrayed the only person who had ever loved me—the me that is me, not the me of pretenses, not the me they had always imagined—I never cried, or broke, or raged. It was simple. A matter of fact.
That doesn’t mean the anger wasn’t there, or the fear. That doesn’t mean that beneath the surface of indifference there was not a sea of contempt.
“What one views as apathy, another understands as composure,” I eventually offer, when I settle into the water beside him. It goes against every instinct of self preservation I have ever learned; yet, it is thrilling in its own way, especially where it fills the spaces between us. I close my eyes briefly and let it caress me; the thing that once held all my fears is now as innocent as light.
You mustn’t think me wise. It only means that I have spent far too long thinking over what to say to impress you. I might have laughed aloud—the smile is there, the building amusement—if not for the cough that wracks him suddenly. The smile fumbles; and returns, more sadly than it was intended. “I am not difficult to impress,” I lie, quietly, in a way that sounds like the truth.
We continue on, as if it had never occurred. As if I could not hear the blood rattle in his lungs; as if I did not see the fragility of his mortal body.
As if I did not know what it sounds like to be dying.
It is not too far from the house. I shall arrange a caravan, unless—
Still, we talk of the future. Perhaps that is the only way to make life bearable; to live with one foot in the present and another in the promise of a day that might never come. “Damascus doesn’t mind,” I promise, sparing a glance at my Bonded—his eyes are not open, but I know him too well to think that he is not listening intently to our conversation. “No, not at the moment.” Should I tell him that we share a mind, I wonder? Would it frighten him to know Damascus is my sins come to life, pieced together with the broken fragments of my soul? Or so, anyways, the legends suggest.
So that is why—It is the weapon’s room all over again.
This is a conversation I do not want to have. “Adonai—one of the reasons I enjoy your company is because you know nothing of war. There is nothing to apologize for.” I mean it. It is the first time I have been to the sea and I do not feel the need to abandon it; it is the first time I have been to the sea, in all my life, and tried to sea the beauty of it before I acknowledge the bestiality.
(Yet, am I not touched by the sentiment? By the grief he wears, for me? He blocks, for a moment, the bruised-blue sky. Brief, ephemeral, his silhouette is all I can see; and then my eyes focus on the details, on the elegant spire of his horn, the dream-blue of his eyes (a blue I have never seen anywhere else, at that). In this soft, faded world he looks less gold and more ivory—more pearlescent. I nearly tell him that the night I spent with him, the memories were forgotten—they faded to the soft rasping of his breath, and the fever warmth of his skin.
I do not.
It confesses too much, and nothing at all, to say, I slept more soundly next to you.
And, anyways, it is my turn to challenge his sensitivities. I am almost expecting the sudden intensity of his expression, of his words. He does not answer for longer than I expect, however; the sea is lulling, and quiet, and somewhere on the horizon the first stars are just beginning to appear, more like the ghosts of stars than an actuality, than a truth. His words sound a bit like that; like stars, fading into the horizon. restored to what I was, he says, and I do not quite understand.
Look at me, Vercingtorix. I cannot do—anything. I cannot run down this beach. I cannot wield high a sword. I cannot take into the sky. I cannot even look at my own reflection because it revolts me.
I do not recognize this Adonai; this wire-thin angst, trembling beneath the surface of princely composure. No, I do not recognize him—and simultaneously, I know him too well. His voice becomes a reflection of what I have told myself a hundred times over; not on a basis of my physicality, but on a basis of what I have seen my soul become. (And still, in my arrogance, I do not even try to imagine a life where I could not run, could not find flight in my speed or prowess in my strength. It is too foreign to me, too close to death, for me to even acknowledge). I am silent, not because I do not know what to say, but because—
Well.
Because of love, and hate, and fear.
I am afraid of what consequences my words might evoke.
And so rather than speak immediately, I turn to glance up at him where he stands. He is righteous in his displeasure, in his contempt; I, for once, am looking up at him and the cloak that billows away, into the sand. I take a moment to admire the fine planes of his face; to memorize the curve of his brows, the pinched expression in his eyes that says, there is no other way.
Overhead, a flock of birds flies past. They are darker silhouettes in a dark sky. The only light left is luminescent, the memory of light, upon the endless horizon. It bathes us in blue; it denies us our colors; until our tragedy is grayscale and indigo, is bled out of our golds and whites. We are stark and hard and where he is burning, I am cool; I am the balm; I am the quiet, whispering sea.
“‘Let me not then die ingloriously and without struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.’” My voice does not sound like my own, quoting poetry, quoting the tale of warriors and princes, of boys destined to die on sieged beaches. At last, I rise—I rise to glance down at his burning and feel, coiling and uncoiling within me, the tension of all that I have seen lost and lost again.
“Adonai—for whatever it is worth… none of us can be restored to what we were.” I understand he means physically, and I do not—but there is an urgency to my voice, a plea curling up the last syllable of his name. Please, listen. I am not a man to beg. “We are never what we once were, even in perfect health. So choose something else. Become something different; something more.”
There is no softness in my voice; no gossamer edge to my expression.
It is called bearing. Beneath it hides an abyss, a black hole, an ocean teaming with hungry beasts. It is called bearing, where my expression is confident, collected, where I inform him with practiced assurance: “I have found something—I have found something, I think, that might save you.”
Damascus cracks open a monstrous, opalescent eye. The world returns to colors so extraordinary, so horrific, they cannot be imagined.
"Do you trust me?"
That is what Bondike had asked, before he told me the truth.
It is what I ask now, before I commit the unforgivable.
I do not mean to smile; but it appears, naturally and without thought. Perhaps for the first time tonight. “In that, we complete each other. I have always acted too soon, for the exact opposite reason.” I had been born knowing love and hate and fear. I had told Bondike, once, love and hate belong to the same vein; they are two parts of a whole and, sometimes (especially now, on the fringe of a world, living a shadow of a life) I think it is fear that motivates both.
I want to ask, what changed. I want to ask how he learned to know them. The smile is brief and flitting; he grows bitter, briefly, as he confesses to his apathy, alongside the death of his parents. I nearly ask, is that how you felt? Or is it only how you were received? But I recognize that it doesn't matter, not really. It is difficult for me to imagine him so cool; and then, abruptly, it isn’t. I remember when we had first met and the front he had given; calm, controlled. I say nothing to his confession; but my expression makes it exceedingly clear I do not judge him. If anything, I understand—I sympathize.
In the military, they call it bearing. It is defined as “conducing oneself in a professional manner to bring credit upon oneself and their organization.” The recitation is on my lips as if I had studied the material yesterday, despite being a freshman lesson at the academy, belonging to children. It is the first thing they teach us, I think—to wipe expressions from our faces cleanly, neatly, so that we might one day march into war without a blight of fear, or anger, or concern. It demands confidence, command, and a high standard of appearance and behavior.
Yet, at the end of the day, it is not so different from apathy. As a first year cadet, I had kept my face perfectly straight as they beat the boy in formation next to me until they broke his leg.
When I betrayed Boudika to the commanding general, I had not allowed my expression to waiver. When I betrayed the only person who had ever loved me—the me that is me, not the me of pretenses, not the me they had always imagined—I never cried, or broke, or raged. It was simple. A matter of fact.
That doesn’t mean the anger wasn’t there, or the fear. That doesn’t mean that beneath the surface of indifference there was not a sea of contempt.
“What one views as apathy, another understands as composure,” I eventually offer, when I settle into the water beside him. It goes against every instinct of self preservation I have ever learned; yet, it is thrilling in its own way, especially where it fills the spaces between us. I close my eyes briefly and let it caress me; the thing that once held all my fears is now as innocent as light.
You mustn’t think me wise. It only means that I have spent far too long thinking over what to say to impress you. I might have laughed aloud—the smile is there, the building amusement—if not for the cough that wracks him suddenly. The smile fumbles; and returns, more sadly than it was intended. “I am not difficult to impress,” I lie, quietly, in a way that sounds like the truth.
We continue on, as if it had never occurred. As if I could not hear the blood rattle in his lungs; as if I did not see the fragility of his mortal body.
As if I did not know what it sounds like to be dying.
It is not too far from the house. I shall arrange a caravan, unless—
Still, we talk of the future. Perhaps that is the only way to make life bearable; to live with one foot in the present and another in the promise of a day that might never come. “Damascus doesn’t mind,” I promise, sparing a glance at my Bonded—his eyes are not open, but I know him too well to think that he is not listening intently to our conversation. “No, not at the moment.” Should I tell him that we share a mind, I wonder? Would it frighten him to know Damascus is my sins come to life, pieced together with the broken fragments of my soul? Or so, anyways, the legends suggest.
So that is why—It is the weapon’s room all over again.
This is a conversation I do not want to have. “Adonai—one of the reasons I enjoy your company is because you know nothing of war. There is nothing to apologize for.” I mean it. It is the first time I have been to the sea and I do not feel the need to abandon it; it is the first time I have been to the sea, in all my life, and tried to sea the beauty of it before I acknowledge the bestiality.
(Yet, am I not touched by the sentiment? By the grief he wears, for me? He blocks, for a moment, the bruised-blue sky. Brief, ephemeral, his silhouette is all I can see; and then my eyes focus on the details, on the elegant spire of his horn, the dream-blue of his eyes (a blue I have never seen anywhere else, at that). In this soft, faded world he looks less gold and more ivory—more pearlescent. I nearly tell him that the night I spent with him, the memories were forgotten—they faded to the soft rasping of his breath, and the fever warmth of his skin.
I do not.
It confesses too much, and nothing at all, to say, I slept more soundly next to you.
And, anyways, it is my turn to challenge his sensitivities. I am almost expecting the sudden intensity of his expression, of his words. He does not answer for longer than I expect, however; the sea is lulling, and quiet, and somewhere on the horizon the first stars are just beginning to appear, more like the ghosts of stars than an actuality, than a truth. His words sound a bit like that; like stars, fading into the horizon. restored to what I was, he says, and I do not quite understand.
Look at me, Vercingtorix. I cannot do—anything. I cannot run down this beach. I cannot wield high a sword. I cannot take into the sky. I cannot even look at my own reflection because it revolts me.
I do not recognize this Adonai; this wire-thin angst, trembling beneath the surface of princely composure. No, I do not recognize him—and simultaneously, I know him too well. His voice becomes a reflection of what I have told myself a hundred times over; not on a basis of my physicality, but on a basis of what I have seen my soul become. (And still, in my arrogance, I do not even try to imagine a life where I could not run, could not find flight in my speed or prowess in my strength. It is too foreign to me, too close to death, for me to even acknowledge). I am silent, not because I do not know what to say, but because—
Well.
Because of love, and hate, and fear.
I am afraid of what consequences my words might evoke.
And so rather than speak immediately, I turn to glance up at him where he stands. He is righteous in his displeasure, in his contempt; I, for once, am looking up at him and the cloak that billows away, into the sand. I take a moment to admire the fine planes of his face; to memorize the curve of his brows, the pinched expression in his eyes that says, there is no other way.
Overhead, a flock of birds flies past. They are darker silhouettes in a dark sky. The only light left is luminescent, the memory of light, upon the endless horizon. It bathes us in blue; it denies us our colors; until our tragedy is grayscale and indigo, is bled out of our golds and whites. We are stark and hard and where he is burning, I am cool; I am the balm; I am the quiet, whispering sea.
“‘Let me not then die ingloriously and without struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.’” My voice does not sound like my own, quoting poetry, quoting the tale of warriors and princes, of boys destined to die on sieged beaches. At last, I rise—I rise to glance down at his burning and feel, coiling and uncoiling within me, the tension of all that I have seen lost and lost again.
“Adonai—for whatever it is worth… none of us can be restored to what we were.” I understand he means physically, and I do not—but there is an urgency to my voice, a plea curling up the last syllable of his name. Please, listen. I am not a man to beg. “We are never what we once were, even in perfect health. So choose something else. Become something different; something more.”
There is no softness in my voice; no gossamer edge to my expression.
It is called bearing. Beneath it hides an abyss, a black hole, an ocean teaming with hungry beasts. It is called bearing, where my expression is confident, collected, where I inform him with practiced assurance: “I have found something—I have found something, I think, that might save you.”
Damascus cracks open a monstrous, opalescent eye. The world returns to colors so extraordinary, so horrific, they cannot be imagined.
"Do you trust me?"
That is what Bondike had asked, before he told me the truth.
It is what I ask now, before I commit the unforgivable.
