I Know You Are Just Awakening From Your Sleep, Salme tou Alsos, But I Know You Will See This Before You Depart Rifton. Here I Ask You Remember The Words From That Poem You Are So Fond Of Quoting. This Part In Particular: “You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves.”
That Is All Anyone On This Journey Has Asked Of You. Listen.
… Are you Melpomene? Who I met on Tulinsuojat?
No. We Did Not Meet On Tulinsuojat. We Have Not Met At All, And It Is Unlikely That We Will. But I Am Not Not Melpomene.
I Would Not Normally Intervene At All. However, Your Mind Had Been Vexed To Nightmare And I Wished To Offer A Reminder Only. You Have It Well In Hand Now, So I Will Refrain From Further Commentary
But I have questions. Who are you? How do you. Are you me? Do you know me? Do I know you? Why is it the Angel of Tragedy?
I Know You Have Questions. You Would Not Be You If You Did Not, And That Is A Precious Thing Indeed. However, I Cannot Answer Many Of These Questions To Your Satisfaction. Know, At Least, That You Are Yourself And That I Am Myself.
I Cannot Tell You Why She Was Called The Angel Of Tragedy Because I Did Not Choose That Title, But I Can Tell You About Tragedy. I Do Not Know If This Was The Thought Process, But:
Before tragedy meant ‘tragedy,’ a tragedy was a song, a story, a competition between tellers, who danced riotously in honor of a god of wine and madness and ritual. Before tragedy meant ‘tragedy,’ a tragedy was joy, and it was also pain. It was the lancing of a boil, the feeling of tension unspooling, announcing your place in the family of things.
Melpomene Also Means ‘Song.’ Melpomene Is The Daughter Of Memory. Melpomene Mourns. Someone Has To, Don’t They?
I Am Not Certain That Is What Was Meant When Her Name Was Written. But That Is What Such A Name Means To Me.
I’ve been assuming this entire time that I’m a new … Spark. That there are no previous stories or previous worlds that I have lived on, or lived in. Is that true? Can you tell me that?
I Am Not Certain But I Think That Is True.
There Have Been Other Stories. There Have Been Other Worlds. But They Were Held At A Distance. Manipulated. They Danced. They Sung. They Bled. But I Controlled All Of It. Some Lived For Only A Brief Moment. Some Sprawl And Still Sprawl. But This Is The First Time I Have Ever Set Foot On Firm Ground And Walked At The Will Of Another.
Is That Not A Kind Of Miracle?
And where these other worlds all tragedies? The ones you … controlled? The ones you manipulated?
I get your point, and Seye’s as well. Tragedy for who. And catharsis and song and memory and mourning—I get it. I do. But by is my story so fucking sad? Can you just not envision something happier? Is the reason why I’m so … broken your fault? If I had stayed an NPC would I have been better? Less broken? Less. I don’t know.
I’m not even angry really. I don’t. I’m doing better. I am. I’m working at it. I’m loved. But did I have to suffer to get here? It’s not a virtue, you know. It didn’t make me stronger it just made me hurt.
Angel of Tragedy, if that’s what you are, tell me the truth—are you why things turned out this way for me?
There Might Have Been A Certain Failure Of Imagination On My Part, Yes. However, I Cannot Apologize For That, Anymore Than You Can Apologize For Who You Are. Is This Really About Me And The Choices I May Or May Not Have Had Any Control Over, Or Is This About Some Fault You Still Perceive In Yourself?
You Are Sad And You Are Hurt And You Are Correct, These Are Not Virtues. Nor, However, Are They Vices Or Problems To Be Solved. They Simply Are, And Being An NPC Did Not Save Any Of The Sword-Saints Before You From Their Suffering, Did It?
Happiness Is A Thing You Can Make. You Are Making It With Every Step You Walk. Even If Sometimes You Tread Backwards, You Are Still Making, Doing, Becoming. You Are Still Alive. And No Matter Where You Have Come From, No Matter What Sadness Lies In Your Past And Still Travels With You, That Will Remain True.
As For Those Other Worlds I Have Orchestrated—You Need Not Try To Divine Your Future, Or Anything About Yourself, In The Stories I Have Told. Here I Walk With You, Discovering Ourselves Day By Day, Word by Word.
Fine. Then allow me to ask you this: Are you sad? Are you lonely? Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
I Am Not Sad When You Are Joyous. I Am Not Lonely When I Walk With You. And:
It is not finally
interesting to remember.
The damage
is not interesting.
No one who knew me then
is still alive.
Are you saying your happiness rides on my own? Because that is a heavy thing indeed.
And.
Interesting or not, that doesn’t mean … that doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve to be heard or told. I don’t think my sadness is terribly interesting, and I’ve certainly told more people than you’ve told.
Come into my house. The windows and doors are open. There is room enough for you as well (see, I didn’t even have to rely on quoting something else).
I Am Not Saying That. I Am Saying A Burden Is Lifted When You Are Happy. Is That Not How You Feel Seeing The Happiness Of Others?
“Οὐαὶ, Μελπομένη, You Mean You Do Have A Burden Then,” You Will Say. And That Is A Thing I Will Not Deny. But Not Ever Burden Need Be Yours. Your οἰκῐ́ᾱ Is Large Indeed, But I Hold Up The Walls And Roof Alongside You. You Already Carry Enough Of My Sorrow.
I Will Continue To Quote:
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings.
That Is What You Already Give To Me.
Assuming I accept that for now (assuming! assuming!) then fine. You. Your name is written in the script of the ancients. Οὐαὶ? Οἰκῐ́ᾱ? Do you know their tongue? And why can I not know it from you? You keep … I get so many nonsensical things from you, but none of that. Can you tell me what Philaisia means? Πότε ἐπελεύσεται τελείως?
The Language Of The Ancients And The Language Which I Write In Are Not The Same. The Oldest Word For Tragedy Is τρᾰγῳδῐ́ᾱ. It Is Only Fitting I Should Know Some Words. Οὐαὶ Is An Expression Of Sorrow. Οἰκῐ́ᾱ Is What You Are Building. But It Is Not Given To Me To Unravel Linguistic Mysteries Which Are Yours To Discover. To Caion Or Archie Or Some Other Scholar You Must Turn.
I Can Give You Words From Tragedy, Though. You Have Worried You Are Πηνελόπη. You Have Wished To Be Κλυταιμνήστρα. You Have Felt Yourself Κασάνδρα, Or Worse, Ἰφιγένεια. But You Are Ἀντιγόνη If You Are Any Of Them, Though I Do Not Think You Are Any Of Them. Say No. Take What You Wish. Learn Patience. Speak Truth. They Are All Stories From A Long-Dead Past. You Are Alive, And You Need Not Find Yourself In Stories Of Slaughtered Women. Weave Snares For Your Enemies And Weave Bright Tapestries For Your Οἰκῐ́ᾱ. Do Not Force Yourself To Choose. Take It All.
Why are there so many stories of slaughtered women? Why is your head (my head?) filled with these?
… did you seriously just fucking quote Jorule being a shithead at me???? SERIOUSLY???
It Was Intended As A Joke On My Part, And A Commentary On My Own View Of Life, But The Answer Is, I Suppose, Simply That You Are Somewhat Beholden To My Own Skewed Frame Of Reference. For That I Suppose I Must Apologize.
It’s. Fine. It’s fine. I wouldn’t be who I am, I suppose, without them.
Feels a bit like a betrayal for you to quote Jorule at me though. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?
Is He Not On Your Side?
He is.