NotACrane @ Salme

Thirty spokes converge on a single hub, but it is in the space where there is nothing that the usefulness of the cart lies.

Clay is molded to make a pot, but it is in the space where there is nothing that the usefulness of the clay pot lies.

Cut out the doors and windows to make a room, but it is in the spaces where there is nothing that the usefulness of the room lies.

Therefore: Benefit may be derived from something, but it is in nothing that we find usefulness.

Well, this is either a desperate cry for me to post less or a commentary on. Hm.

Empty space allows potential, right? A clay pot is a vessel. It allows you to carry whatever you like (provided it will fit in the pot). Windows and doors allow you to enter and exit a room, which is also a kind of vessel—or maybe not a vessel, but a container. In both the space allows for potential. To be filled and to be carried (pot) or to be sheltered (room).

I’m not sure how the space between the spokes of wheel. Mostly my understanding is it makes the wheel lighter and more agile. Which is itself a kind of usefulness I suppose.

It’s not so much that I don’t believe in parsimony, it’s mostly knowing where to cut.

What wheel could exist without the hub that allows the axle? And even the axle must have space in which to turn. A room with no windows is a cage; a room with no space is a grave.

And yet, is not an empty pot, itself, without purpose? A wheel with no spoke, or a room with no inhabitants? Such is life–we speak of “something” and “nothing” as separate, yet wisdom is knowing that they are two sides of the same cloth.

One is very pleased to meet you, Salme of the Mask. One has been pleased to watch you flourish. One has always appreciated those who have, in defying their purpose, found it.

I might push your point further, if we’re talking about cloth (and I think it’s implicit in what you said already)—“something” is itself defined by “nothing,” and also the reverse. Even ignoring the idea of sides; where the weft covers or doesn’t cover the warp is where the pattern gets made. Moreover, it’s what holds the cloth together, right?

Not sides, but an interlocking dependency, and between them the knowledge that it still could be otherwise.

Of course I always want to add a third. It’s my preference for threes over twos. A failure, again, of parsimony I suppose.

Ah another watcher. I’ve never heard some refer to me as “Salme of the Mask.” What made you pick that epithet? And what would you say the purpose I’m defying is? Or the purpose that I’ve found?

Parsimony is only a virtue when there is lack; the wealthy man who counts every grain of rice is correctly spoken as a villain. A third idea instead of two hardly seems extravagant! And who can say why the poet prefers one meter over another? The quality of verse–if one may say–is far more important than the number of syllables. The shorter forms are more difficult, that is true–and there is nothing worse than a droning poet of endless lines–but the epic and the haiku may both inspire.

Forgive me, I digress. The epithet seemed apt, is all. One hopes it does not offend. You bear the Mask, and it is its purpose you both honor and defy, do you not? You shaped yourself for its service, and now shape it to serve you. A difficult task, as one might know. But please, if the epithet offends, one will find another, or none, as is your pleasure.

It is a struggle of our language that lends itself better to iambs than dactyls, when it is to dactyls that I often want to turn (though in some ways, the humble unrhymed iambic pentameter is my inclination for telling the story of myself). Are you a poet or is this simply another interest of yours?

Oh I’m not offended at all, just curious as to the why and how a mysterious observer understood my purpose and my defiance of it. Every Sword-Saint shapes the Mask in some ways, though I think I’m in some ways acting in accordance with its original purpose. Defying it … that’s a big compliment to pay me. I’m not sure it’s merited.

One humbly admits some small skill at poetry, though one’s preference is for a syllabic form, not a metered one. More generally, one could be called something of a craftsman–a weaver of words, one could say, as you are a weaver of cloth. It is but a small gift, but even a small gift is more than many receive, so one is thankful.

Fear not flattery, truly. What greater defiance for one’s purpose could there be, than to aim to destroy the need for it? You seek to break the ever-turning wheel. Just as parsimony is no virtue in plenty, humility is not always a virtue for those great in ambition.

I was a weaver of words before I was ever a weaver of cloth, I think. I am not sure if it is a gift for me so much as a cultivated skill. Do you think of yours as a gift? And what kind of words? You seem more like a philosopher than a storyteller, though those two are, of course, often two paths to the same end.

You know, I had never considered myself someone of any ambition at all until recently. Or, rather, my ambitions seemed easily bounded by my circumstances. My humility is perhaps less of a virtue and more of a wound, all told. I carry it around and cannot make it heal, can’t even let it be the ugly scar it would be if it would only scab over.

But that’s perhaps a lot to say to a stranger when I don’t even know your name. Would you give me the honor of at least a nom de plume?

Ah, one begs your forgiveness, one has been dreadfully rude. Alas that I can give you no more than a pseudonym, though perhaps someday we may set aside titles and pretenses, and reveal our true faces to one another. For the time being, you may call me Shijin, and one is very pleased to make your acquaintance.

As for words, one has come to them through many channels! They are one’s filial legacy, one’s profession, and one’s love. They are such useful things, words–they may convey wisdom and history, compliment and insult, art and law. In the right hands, words may even be weapons. Alas, Heaven did not see fit to grant this one overmuch in the way of might, so the power of learning became this one’s solace. One seeks to understand, that one might act well and wisely towards one’s goals. A thing one thinks you share, yes?

And–if one may be so bold–one quite understands, as concerns humility. And scars. To grasp one’s own power can be a terrible, fearful thing–to others, as well as to one’s self. Especially if, perhaps, one is not the sort of person that power is “supposed” to be given over to. To grasp your power when all about would say it was better to cut off your own hands, to say “I shall shape the world” when one is not granted the privilege of shaping…such is a glorious thing, is it not? If one can bear its fire…

Shijin, then. And this wouldn’t be the first time I got got by someone being cagey about who they are. I survived that and it worked out. I’ll survive this. Though, of course, you seem to know exactly who I am. You’re the one keeping your distance. That is your right, but I wonder why. Is it because you’re afraid?

Words are, to me, weapons before they are nearly anything else. Or they can be. It’s why I endeavor to be careful with them. However, there is a certain … there is a poem that begins “I like a look of Agony / because I know it’s true—“ and those words often come to mind when I think of words-as-weapons. (I of course do not think people at their most injured present their true face but it is still a line that’s tangled in my brain.) I guess, what all this is meant to gesture at, is that you must be dangerous indeed, Shijin. (This is not to say words do not do all the other things you say and more—they are tools of creation and construction. They bring thoughts into being and those thoughts can become actions. They can reveal and obscure. Delight and destroy. Saturate you with worst emotion you’ve ever felt and wring you dry, making you lighter—we call this catharsis. Comfort, hope, despair, delight—words can create all of these. It isn’t that actions do not matter. They do. But words can augment or complement actions. Or work against them. Hand in hand. Warp and weft).

I want to understand, yes. I think it is partly to act well and wisely in pursuit of my goals but the understanding is the goal in and of itself. If you know me, and know about me, you know I was not born to any particular legacy. Left on my own I realized the enormity of what I don’t know, and that sense grows greater the more I learn. The world is so large and strange and beautiful. Are you somewhere you can go outside, Shijin? You should, if only for a moment, and breathe the air. Look up at the sky and watch the sun or stars or clouds or Centrelight and marvel at the fact that you are alive right now.

As for humility and grasping one’s power … yes, though. I have not yet been told I should cut off my hands. I expected to be told something like that, you know, but it has yet to happen.

There is a version of this story that punishes me for defiance, but this one seems to chortle in delight. And if I end up burning? I will not say I don’t fear fire, but I also love it and am it. If I burn then I burn. I am trying to gird myself against regret. It is a mode I’ve found myself in before and it is one that seems to hold only sorrow and no utility.

If I burn, let me burn.

Ah, friend, I fear thee not, nor any of thy companions. If one is at a remove, that is because such a distance is Heaven’s decree–this is not my story, nor do I have any wish to make it mine. I have had my tale, such as it was, and my triumph. The telling of it still echoes, and–by and large–one is content. One shall surely retreat back to one’s seat soon enough, to watch enraptured.

Yet once, I am told, fire spoke and beckoned my heart’s companion; so too do I find myself drawn to bright stars ‘neath bright constellations. If one hides one’s name and face, perhaps…one wishes to be known, in some small part, for one’s ideas and one’s words, and no other thing. You know all too well how legend obscures. Aye, already you do this one great honor–for once upon a time, I was dangerous indeed. I had in my sights the reshaping of an empire, and in ambition burned bright as a flame. Alas for endings both premature and apt! Those words are lost now, but their memory still shines.

As for legacy, one understands that too. One was born to a great line and no name both, as strange as that may seem. One had failed at becoming, in truth. One was nothing, a tattered scrap cut off and cast aside. Yet, is Heaven’s net not infinite? Out of nothing, something can yet be made, as one made oneself–as you made yourself. We are much alike in this, I think.

One abhors unsolicited advice, yet…one feels compelled–as one who once loved Fire–to share with thee what small wisdom I can. Listen then, and hear this: let your regret burn to ashes in the fires of your heart. Set your feet upon your path and walk it to its end, whatever may come, ne’er looking back or flinching. Fear not death, nor endings, for even one’s death may be the coin by which the future may be purchased. If you must die, let your death be the strangulation of your enemies. And, if thee be wise, play thy tiles so that, even should you lose the battle, your strategy shall march on to victory.

Ah, but I indulge myself. For you have already done as much, and shall continue to do so. You have already avoided the tragic fate of he whose stars watch you–you have cast off your mask, and made it serve you.

Well is that not a kind of fear? That stepping too far forward into the light will complicate the story, will render the plot unintelligible, will make the narrative messy, sprawling, ungainly? This story is large; it contains multitudes. There is room for you to come in from the Winter and weather in the rafters as long as you might wish. We six are strong enough to hold the audience’s gaze where it ought to be, and I am an able weaver. There is room, should you wish it. And if you don’t, well. I like to talk.

I would know your story if you ever so desire to tell it. I collect them. I remember them. Even stories from other worlds. Especially stories obscured by legend. Who was your heart’s companion? You can tell me in whatever coded way you wish. I love stories about connection, and I get so very few of them.

I was made and I made myself. Even the butcher who taught me to slaughter made me. Even the innkeep who taught me to fold the corners of a sheet with perfect crispness made me. There are many ugly things that happened to me when I was young, and those made me, but there were many small kindnesses too. Never enough for me, but I woul never say they didn’t matter either. I remember them more day by day. But yes. I also made myself. My friend—my heart-brother, my … I do not have words for what he is to me—told me I had seized a destiny not given to me. I think sometimes he sees me far more clearly than I see myself. You remind me of him, in a way, Shijin. And yes, I would say we are alike in this way.

You can indulge yourself. This is a space for self-indulgence. Why do you think I allow myself to talk so much, to feel so freely, to love so wholly? I spoke of sadness, but let me tell you of joy—I have lived alongside death my entire life, by intuition if not by well-grounded knowledge (oh but intuition yields certainty in ways more dread and terrible than knowledge does at times) and I do not fear it. And I will use my life as currency to buy the future I want if I must but I want you to know this—I am not going to die in this story (except perhaps temporarily). Pure Hearts are hard to kill, and I have too much life left to live.

And if I don’t like the course of things? I will find a way to unpluck the thread of fate and weave it how I like. I have allies and friends and lovers to help me do the impossible, and I will.

And now I have you too.

Hm. Well. Perhaps. Perhaps there is a fear. One is not much prone to acting on one’s fear–one thinks, perhaps, that it is more…propriety. Not that one was ever a slave to such things–hardly so–but one ever strove to be polite. That one’s courtesy, well, shall we say, misdirected, one’s enemies…a stone placed may advance two attacks, can it not?

One hopes for wisdom, truly, and there is wisdom in letting those who come after step up and have their day. I fought against those who would deny that advance in my day, and now, by my own principles, I feel I must step…if not away entirely, then back from the center of the stage. The one whom I empower deserves that courtesy, I think.

But you have given this one a gift, and great honor, and one has a full heart, my friend. All things have their ebb and flow, however, and one feels that soon my other self shall step forward again, back into the stage. It has been a joy, however, to have this little interlude–and fear not. One was never truly silent in one’s day, and one shall not remain so now. There is a flow of energy which is theirs, and I shall not take unduly from it. Sorrow not, please–I do this of my own free will; I could never do otherwise.

But since you have asked, let me tell you what story I have, of he who was my heart and my inspiration.

Once upon a time, there was a broken boy, shattered under the weight of war and expectation. His tongue was burned black with the acid of dead names, and he prayed for nothing but a short life lived far away from battlefields–a prayer not likely to be answered, for he and his kin were bred for war.

Yet even a broken shard of glass may have use, and edges to cut one’s enemies. And so he was sent by his betters, far away from home, to serve as insult and instrument. For the Emperor had set his lords a task they much disliked, and they would hinder it as they were able.

The first day that their work began, in a great city of pleasure and trade, there was a banquet, which the boy attended as was his duty. And there he met an Heir of Fire, who had been drawn to him by a spirit of flame inside a brazier. “Come and meet this mortal,” the spirit said, “For fire burns within him, a meet companion for your Flame.”

And so the Heir came, and found the boy, and asked him an impertinent question, which the boy returned in kind–for he was already beginning to taste the unexpected freedom of being far from home, and from supervision, with an unwise amount of power dropped into his hands. For his elders, wise as they might think themselves, were fools: they had assumed that those they outcast and disdained, given opportunity, would want nothing more than to ingratiate themselves to those who had disdained them.

They did not think, until far too late, that they had given good swords to those who might rebel against them, and sent them far away from prying eyes of elders.

And this Heir of Fire spoke to the boy of a vision he had had, of empire re-molded like wax beneath a sculptor’s hand, and a flame of truth and inspiration. It kindled within the boy’s breast like a breathed-on ember, and he was enlightened, and saw his power true at last–and he loved the one who kindled him, and they burned brightly together, until their tale ended before its time.

But the fire you bear, good friend, is its echo, in truth. That story, short as it was, rang so loudly that it shook the cosmos, and three of thy constellations–your own included–were born from its peal. And, perhaps, the boy wanders still, his story not quite finished, hoping that somewhere amongst the stars, however briefly, he shall see his love again.

There is much more to the tale than that, of course. And much less. Though it might surprise you to hear, your own tale has already far surpassed it. For so it goes–the seed planted in one season becomes the oak in another, and the flame kindled in one age may be a bonfire in the next.

It is enough, then, to know I’ve given you some joy, and that you walk alongside us even now.

As for your story—Shijin, truly, you outdo me with your words and you inspire me and you challenge me and you bring me to my knees. But that’s what you do, isn’t it, in all aspects of who you are? The whetstone more than anything. At least to me.

That is the kind of love that echoes across universes, yes, and the kind of resolve that reshapes the very world. And whatever part of your fire lives on in mine, I will honor it. I could do nothing less.

And you have planted a seed in me, or watered one already growing. So thank you for that. I won’t say what it is, because I’m not sure it will bear fruit. It has yet to even sprout. But it grows.

I’m glad you gave them hell. I hope you made them bleed, if not literally. I am glad I got to live for the first time in a world where I could be unguarded and loud, but while suffering is no virtue, pressure can turn coal to diamonds.

You will see your love again. I don’t know how or where or when, but you will.

Though, if you’d entertain an idle question, you said three constellations were birthed from your story. The Duelist’s Mask. What were the other two?

One cannot say if one is a whetstone–or truly, what one is, in this place, in this tale. One is simply what one has always strived to be, once I became aware, through my beloved, that one had the ability to be so: myself, fully, truly, holding nothing back. One suspects–though one never got the chance to know, in truth–that I would have given the powers-that-were hell, indeed. After all, it was my goal, albeit one never baldly spoken, to wrest the world from their hands and reshape it to my liking.

And one is gratified to hear that ones words have had some small effect. If that seed grows to some purpose, or not, one cares little–the words have been spoken, the hands have touched, and that is enough. Sometimes, I think that is all we truly have.

Hmm. As for the constellations, well. One does not wish to play coy, but one does enjoy some mystery. Let me then use the most annoying tactic I have in my arsenal and turn the question back on you: which two do you think they are?

Being yourself fully, truly, holding nothing back … that is it, isn’t it? It seems to me, though perhaps this is my own issues speaking, that reshaping the world to my liking might be easier than the first. Still, it is a journey, and we’re not even halfway through our story yet. I’ll see where that takes me.

Hm. Well. The Duelist’s Mask, as you said. All this talk of fire makes me think of the Unburnt Book. And then perhaps the Dreaming Serpent?

Indeed, good kensei. Even if you should fail to meet your goal–at least you did not settle for what your “betters” deigned to give you. Bare thy teeth at them instead, and make them wrest from you the power you have taken.

And very good! One of two. The Unburnt Book, yes. The Dreaming Serpent, no. I shall give you a hint–one very close to you is watched by the third.

Kensei?

The Golden Lion or the Beating Heart then (unless you are being clever and it’s the Empty Space; you have referenced absences rather a lot). I think. The Golden Lion? Underestimated, refusing to be told what to do, defiant. I could see the Beating Heart but your story seems to be one of occlusion and reverses in a way that says “Golden Lion” to me.

Though, it does make me wonder, Shijin. Why the name “NotACrane”?

Ah, yes–“kensei” is a word from my mother tongue that, in many ways, is cognate to your “Sword-Saint”. “Ken” for “sword,” “sei” for…well, “saint” is, perhaps, an inadequate translation, but as close as your tongue gets to the concept. “Sword-Master” might be appropriate as well, but it carries less of the…hm. The sense of one dedicated to an arduous path, one that takes them beyond the mortal norm. A teacher, a master, for instance, is a “sensei” in my tongue–with the same secondary root.

And yes, you have it! The Beating Heart is, as you might guess, not antithetical to myself–one has a deep understanding of a rather…unwise…degree of endurance and determination. But the Golden Lion is mine own echo, you see that true. As I said before–one is most glad that you have avoided your own echo-source’s more tragic fate.

As for the name, well. One must admit, it is something of a bad joke. In my own days, I was often mistaken for a Crane in temperament. Something which, more than once…I choked my enemies with.

Your language … is “Chashitsu de Dare mo Isoganai?” from your language as well? I have always … wondered. That song, the Sword-Saint’s song, has always been … strange to me. Not bad, but not me. Thank you for explaining the meaning of “kensei” though. I think that … I had always wondered at the title.

If the Golden Lion is your own echo, is the Unburnt Book your beloved’s? And what is the story, then, behind the Duelist’s Mask?

I suppose there is indeed always an advantage to being underestimated. I assume a “Crane” was not simply referring to the bird?

Ah! Hmm, let me see–yes, yes it is. Fascinating! One wonders why mine own tongue is represented here. I had not expected to hear it again–though it is perhaps, ah, a more ornate song than might have been possible in my own land. Lovely lyrics, as well, though…one can see why you might have found that song an, ah, uncomfortable fit.

As for the Crane…yes, and no. In my land, rule was shared between seven great clans, with the Emperor above them all. Each clan claimed ancestry from one of the kami (a “god” or “spirit,” one might say in this language) who, legend tells, founded the great Empire in which we lived. Each kami had as their form and symbol an animal–like the Crane–and each claimed a particular specialty of skill, and each claimed to uphold above all others a particular facet of honor.

The Crane, then, were known for their love of beauty and of perfection; none were more educated in the subtleties of culture and manners than the Crane. They prided themselves on being at the pinnacle of all art, be it poetry, ikebana, calligraphy–or the art of the duel. Diplomatic to a fault, there were none better than the Crane at the art of saying without saying–a master of the Crane arts might easily hide a half dozen of the subtlest insults in the act of saying “good morning.”

They were, also, the traditional rivals of my own clan, which disdained the more delicate arts in favor of the drums and shouts of War. They could not match us on the battlefield–but we could not match them in the courtly arts. What we won by conquest, they would retake in the halls of politics, and vice versa. My temperament being what it is–I am, by my own admission, more fond of writing a poem over a cup of tea than boasts of martial valor–I was oft called a Crane in other garb in my youth…and never as a compliment.

I must say that I took no small pleasure in reminding those who thought me effete and weak that, as a wise man once said, “diplomacy is the continuation of war by other means.”

Hm. The Duelist’s Mask…How much shall I tell you of him? Let me tell this story, instead. Once upon a time, there was a man who wore a mask. He was a brittle blade, forged for a singular and bloody purpose, though his mind was as sharp–if not sharper–than the sword he carried. One day, a fool asked him, “Sir, will you not take off your mask and let me see your face?” And so he did, and the fool was confused, because they did not have eyes to see, and saw only a plain and unremarkable face. But those who had eyes to see were much dismayed, for they saw that he had worn the mask so long that the mask and his face were one.

One thinks you will have eyes to see, yes?

It is a lovely song, a good song. I can embody it very well, even, but it’s a song about the one who wears the Mask, not about whoever’s face is beneath it. I think you will understand precisely what I mean. It makes some sense, then, that my title has an equivalent in your language, that the Sword-Saint’s song is also in your language, and that the Duelist’s Mask is an echo from your world.

Sometimes I think of the disconnect between who I made myself into and who I am actually discovering myself to be. The gulf, at times, feels insurmountable. Your story (I apologize for my replies falling out of order) about the Duelist’s Mask called that conflict to mind. My purpose was, of course, different—to endure and to accept and to perform hope in spite of a horrible truth—but I could easily see my story ending the same way. It is a horror story you told me, Shijin. I endeavor to always have eyes to see such truths in the faces of others and myself. I try to remember that seeing is also a skill that must be cultivated, though, even if I am generally fairly good at seeing people for who they are.

As for the story of the Cranes and your own clan. When you wrote:

I hope you made them bleed, metaphorically or otherwise. Others who try to make you small, to force you into a box in which you can never fit—those are perhaps the kind of people I despise most. I don’t know what all you can see, if you can know what I say to my heart-brother, or to any of the others, but. I feel lucky to be alive in this world, where I have found very few such people, at least since we began this quest.

I wish your world had been kinder to you, but I am glad you found your beloved regardless. And I am glad you have let yourself be known. Wolf may be conflicted, but I do not think you would ever harm his autonomy, and I have enjoyed our conversations.

Good. One suspected that you would have eyes to see. Fear not, good kensei. You have already avoided his tragedy. What tragedies you may or may not have in front of you shall be all your own.

One did not make them bleed as much as one would wish, before winter’s chill. But one had set one’s feet upon the path, and–live or die–one is assured that nothing would have been the same after my touch.

And aye, as one has assured him, one has no desire to overwrite his tale with mine own. But one does not begrudge him his worry–I would not have great love for the situation, were our roles reversed. One would wish more choice in one’s partner, and more disclosure of their…existence. Perhaps a less crowded sharing of rooms. But yes! I, too, am glad of these conversations. Stimulating conversation is a rare delicacy.

And I suppose you might consider that winter has taken them, but not you. You endure, in the fabric of the very world I live in. Their names are consigned to oblivion unless you deign to remember them, which you shouldn’t.

Trust me, Shijin. Even though I don’t share the same reservations my heart-brother does, I would never begrudge him such feelings. Wolf is so wholly himself, and asks so very little of the world except to be wholly himself, that I see why it would sit badly with him. I am not sure how much good it does, but I will always, always, always stand beside him, even as he works to resolve his feelings on this matter. I … have my loves, but Wolf is something special to me that I lack words for. Heart-brother is my best approximation. It seems I’ve known him in more than one life. Even if we do butt heads sometimes.

Though did I see a bit of your afterimage peek through when Wolf killed the shark that bit me?

He is fortunate to have you, you know. To have a companion one can trust is as valuable as a strip of purest jade. No single set of shoulders may bear the weight of the world–but two might. And–though this is perhaps one’s own perspective only–that you are not always in total agreement is a good, not an ill. Your strength is not in being two of the same person, but in the ways in which you are different. He does not need you where he is strong–he needs you where he is weak.

Ah, that…that, I think, was not so much me as…a dream of mine, that never was. My beloved was Chosen of Fire, and I…was never given the opportunity to fight by his side, and lend our power to one another. His clan was Phoenix, you see–the masters of kami and element. In that moment where our wills were one…well. I may have indulged myself.

You know, not too long ago I would have said he’s not weak anywhere, but part of loving someone is I think trying to see them clearly. I hope that I can always be someone he can lean on. Light knows I’d be lost without him.

Oh. I’m sorry you never had that chance. I’m glad you had the moment now. And it was really fucking cool.

Lion, phoenix, dragon, crane … what were the other clans? And what was your beloved like? I can … vaguely make out the shape of a phoenix in my head if I focus (a bird of fire, continually reborn?) but it’s muddy and does not come naturally.

Lion, Phoenix, Dragon, Crane, Unicorn, Crab, and Scorpion. Each with their own specialties and strengths. And yet, by design, each weak in their own way–incomplete. The idea, at least, was that each would collect to themselves those who most valued their virtues, and, working together, build an Empire that would last eternally. Likewise, none should have the strength to rule alone–and so it is…when the Emperor is strong. When the Emperor is weak…well. Then one becomes seven, each snapping at each other for scraps. So it was in my age, and so I hoped to avoid.

As for my beloved…mm. Words fail–an embarrassment for one such as I. But, as my companion might say, there are things that words are no good for. Suffice it to say that he was fire in soul as well as in craft; he transformed all he touched. When I met him, I was a dead thing, cracked and blackened. His flame reawoke my heart, and where he touched, my broken places were filled with gold. Together we dreamed of reshaping the Empire. I hope that somewhere, lost in the shroud of winter, we did.

What was the Scorpion clan like? Anything like the Scorpion Queen?

I’m not sure what I think about having clans with different strengths—something so stringently organized, with people trying to live up to stated ideals. I think I tend to favor blurrier lines, where people can be taken as just themselves. Of course, I come from a place where societal organization didn’t need to be stringent. I just know even people assuming they knew anything about me from where I was from galled me; if they had had a clan to base assumptions off of, that would have probably galled me into hopeless irritability.

Was there anything you loved about your world? The possibility to remake it, yes, and your phoenix, certainly, but. I know … despite how baldly I got hurt on Almachadta, it does bother me when people see it as someplace without a rich culture of its own, even if that culture is strange and sometimes seemingly backwards. I can see where your world was cruel, but I don’t want to assume that’s the only thing about it. It was still your home.

As for your beloved, I—think words did not fail you even a little, Shijin. I cannot imagine a more beautiful way to describe someone as what you just said.

I also. Feel like I was a dead thing. It hasn’t been any one person for me—each hand that touches me, yours included, feeds the flame of my heart. Imagining one person who could do all of that—he must have been magnificent indeed. And I am not sure if your Empire was reshaped, but I cannot imagine how it could have ever not been.

Would you tell me the new shape you dreamed of together?

Also I … don’t know what you said to Jorule, to make him pull back and give an apology of sorts to Wolf. I don’t know how to bridge the gap between them, and perhaps it isn’t a gap that can be bridged, but. Thank you.

I. Hope I don’t seem inconstant but I love them both and. Wolf I worry about less, I think; he’s very good at finding his way and I hope he will lean on me if he ever does need assistance. Jorule … I know he cares about the story and cares about me in his way. I wish he’d let me care about him too. Maybe he can find something in you, as a fellow angel more observing than participating, that he can’t find in me. I hope so.

Ahh, the Scorpion. “Hantei’s Villains,” the masters of subterfuge, and the clan I would take a torch to, were it in my power. No, the Scorpion Queen is nothing like them. Their role, such as it was, was–in many ways–to be the Emperor’s surety that no clan would ever gain enough power to threaten the whole. If an enemy was needed to unite the rest, they were to offer themselves up; if a clan was growing too powerful, they were to sabotage them from the shadows.

The reality ended up being something quite different. Never have I met a clan so committed to aiming their bow at their own foot, and wasting talented kin on callous, short-sighted, overly-complex schemes. “Loyalty” is supposed to be their virtue. Supposed to be. (The source of your constellation’s “echo” was a Scorpion, until they sold him to the Lion in marriage.)

It is fascinating that you mention the weaknesses of our system–for it is those weaknesses, in many ways, we sought to mend. The clans had become rigid, self-interested–too keen to discard those who did not fit a narrow definition of correct behavior. All of us, in my tale, were those rejects. We–my beloved, myself, a few close-kept allies–sought to create a pathway, an “Imperial examination” for those who had talent but an ill fit in the norms of power. To collect them close to the heart of the Empire, and make use of them to reshape the whole. And I, for myself, sought to force my so-called “betters” to acknowledge that he who they had discarded and rejected burned brighter than those they lauded and indulged.

It is important to note that we were not screaming rebels, seeking to burn all down to ash and rebuild from the ruins. We saw–rightly, I think–the suffering that would entail, and the risks such a course would run. Fire, let loose, is not easily extinguished. We sought to reshape, to reforge, to reunite. To take the lost and discarded and show the truth of their worth. This is not to say that we were not prepared for battle–the high and great relinquish power mostly by having their fingers cut off of it. But our ideal, I think, was to have the clans awake one day and realize that they had already lost, unwitting.

Ah. Jorule. What a fascinating creature. Do not thank me too profusely–I think my influence shall be quite limited, with that one. What a particularly prickly urchin, is that one. I do not flatter myself to think I know the soul of that one–but I think that I have met his type. Be careful laying offerings of your heart at that one’s feet, good kensei, thinking that they shall entice him into opening his. To be seen, to be loved–it is a vulnerability, the crack in the oyster’s shell. For whatever reason–good or ill, I know not–I do not think he will deign to lower himself to be so seen. He shall permit himself to be touched on his terms, and none other.

Such a one will hold himself aloof–and alone–rather than admit another his equal.

Yeah, Jae and subterfuge really aren’t. Things that go together.

That seems inevitable, doesn’t it? Being purpose-built to serve as a villain, to play that specific role, and then becoming tangled in yourself and unable to to act with any foresight or empathy? And “loyalty” can be a virtue, but it can also blind you quite easily—I say this as someone who tends towards the type of devotion that can be dangerous. I am curious about my constellation’s “echo”—if he was sold to the Lion in marriage, did you know him well?

I think I am just predisposed to be critical of rigid social categories, perhaps because I am not someone who has ever fit very well anyplace at all. And people who are rejected for their “failure” to fit a narrow ideal—it has always seemed to me that we make categories to describe our world. As soon as these categories become prescriptive rather than descriptive, then they’ve become prisons, right? Your goal sounds like the only sane goal to have in such a world. And if you also wanted acknowledgement, if you also wanted those who had discarded you to finally see the true worth of what they had discarded—I mean, I said I’d hoped you’d make them bleed. That’s just perhaps a kinder way of doing so, isn’t it?

I don’t have anything particularly clever or insightful to say in response to this, but I wanted to point it out as a particularly lovely turn of phrase as well as a keen observation. Sometimes I find that I want to reach for violence first, even if in this world I cannot. In some ways, I’m grateful that this has shaped me thus. I know what wiping the world clean to be made anew looks like—very intimately. There is joy in the building, but it doesn’t outweigh the cost of the flame. Granted, Almachadta is very different from your world, and maybe I would mourn it less if it had become so mired in factional disputes but. I do not think I would.

As for Jorule. First, I’d like to thank you for this:

I’ve spoken with Jorule about this before, and he’s often heard I want him to be sad; I don’t, and I’ve never been able to articulate exactly what I was asking for. This is it, though. And perhaps he sees it differently; I’m not sure. Maybe one day he’ll tell me.

However, for whatever it’s worth, I don’t offer my vulnerability to him hoping to entice him to share similarly. Maybe I did, once, but I accepted a while ago that our relationship will never look like that. I wish … but wishes are not useful here. I can only control my own behavior and act on my feelings and my desires. And I want to remain open to him. He has been someone who I can trust, who has helped me through so many internal struggles when I needed to talk with someone. I could close off my heart; that’s something I have often done, to protect myself. But I am choosing not to. Even if I am never his equal, even if he remains something of an aloof mentor—I can let him be what he wants to be, and practice being who I want to be to him.

I think, at least part of it, is that he doesn’t want to become the focus of the story. I think, especially, he’s trying to give Aurelius room to be. That’s sort of why—I don’t know that I want you to influence Jorule one way or another. Jorule is himself, as you are yourself. But I think, sometimes, or at least I hope that, as you are also more witness than participant to this story, he might be able to find some sort of camaraderie there that he denies himself with us.

That is fair, as regards your relationship to Jorule–it is not mine to say yea or nay there, nor would I wish it to be. If you wish to remain open to him, then all I would advise is to do so with your eyes wide open, and a firm grasp on your analysis of, shall we say, return on investment. And…you are doing so, so I am content.

One admits to being of two minds, regarding his aloofness from the story. On the one hand, one sympathizes–one does not wish to…make one’s companion dimmer, so that one can shine more brightly in comparison. Yet–if one may be blunt–one thinks he is being a fool. He is part of the story, whether he wishes to be or not, as am I. By contributing and interacting, however grumpily or reluctantly, he has already put his finger on the scale. He cannot have his cake and also eat it; he is at the table, he is playing tiles, and to say that he must limit his play so severely lest he become the sole focus of the game is both to aggrandize himself…and to underestimate the strength of the others playing.

To be quite frank, I feel that he is warding off an imagined risk, not a real one–one that says far more about himself and how he sees the world around him, than provides any reflection upon the truth of things. That is his right, but it is a foolish play in my eyes. That it also provides him a convenient excuse to retreat whenever things become uncomfortably intimate for him, I think, is telling. But he could not steal the stage any more than I could, not even from his companion. It…irritates me…that one who holds himself so high in perception and knowledge seems blind to this.

As for he of the Duelist’s Mask…I cannot say I knew him well, but yes, I knew him. He was one of my allies, for we oft had common purpose, and he was strong in much that I was not. I do not think anyone knew him well. I am not sure he knew himself well. He was a strange man, of many contradictions–his true self leaking out from around the ill-fitting but long-worn mask. He and Jorule would have been oddly kindred spirits, I think. I had hoped, in time, to forge a world where he could be as lauded for the sharpness of his mind as he was the sharpness of his blade. But I suspect, in my heart of hearts, that there was no end for his tale but tragedy. His soul had borne too much careless forging for much else.

And yes, you are correct. I had planned a far crueler fate for those who had underestimated me than the mere destruction of the body. I sought to destroy their preconceptions. I sought to leave them in the ruins of their ignorance, able to see their errors…but not correct them. To allow them to exist in that knowledge, toothless and coddled in their luxurious seeming of power, watching helplessly as a more-vital generation of outcasts and misfits reshaped the world around them.

There are so much worse things than mere death, after all…

What do you want from Jorule, Shijin? I have never seen your elegance falter so much as when talking about him. He frustrates you, yes—but when you imagine him taking a proper seat at the table, playing his tiles, what do you envision? For you are a person who does envision beautiful futures. I’d like to know what you see.

I don’t know what I imagine. Or, I imagine a lot of things, and I’m not sure if any one of them offer an intelligible read on him, which is disconcerting for me—I’m usually … not only for survival, but as the Sword-Saint, I was good at reading people, understanding them. I always found it very important, almost … sacred … to try to understand someone as best I could. But when I think about my frustration, the fact that he effortlessly deflects so many attempts to get to know him—I can’t force it. I can only be myself, and accept what he is willing to give.

I may borrow your words on vulnerability to simply ask him. I still think we might just be very different kinds of people, no matter how alike we are in other ways.

As for the one who’s echoed by the Duelist’s Mask—it sounds as if you wish you had been able to know him. It … as I said above, you envision beautiful futures—and fight for them, too. And even if the only possible end is tragedy we still have to try. That’s what I’m learning.

As for your … is revenge a fair word here? Your goals—I think, so often, that being seen and being able to see clearly is a boon. You remind it can also be a weapon. But I suppose anything worthwhile can wound.

Indeed it can. I once brought an enemy to their knees with an apology. It was, admittedly, not a very sincere apology–one filled with backhanded cuts and bramble-thorns, but nevertheless, it was an apology. Mm. Even forgiveness can cut, if wielded as a blade. One…is not sure how one feels about that.

And you ask an excellent question. I suppose that I do not particularly want anything from him. Yet…he prickles those who I hold in esteem, and that galls me; he blunts his own strength and that…annoys me. As I told him, I feel that we shall have need of every ounce of strength that we can summon, ere long.

I suppose this has always been a flaw of mine–ever has it irked me when one who seems capable of better play refuses to do so, whether from blindness, or weakness, or sheer cursed stubbornness. Life is too short, and the lives within it too precious, to waste them stupidly. Whether it be the lives of others or your own. That was, in many ways, the fury that drove me to defy rule and kin. They wasted that which was precious, that which was still good and useful, because they were too blind to see their worth–

Forgive me, good kensei. I fear my passions have gotten the better of me. How strange, that despite the years of sleep and the vast curtain of Winter, my tongue still burns with the names of the ill-used dead…

It makes sense, I think, that you would still feel in such a way. It sounds like this theme has very much shaped your life.

The injuries dealt to me still echo in my every action. In some ways I wish I could grow past them more quickly (or at least know that I will grow past them in time). I am not sure I will, though. And isn’t it better, that despite the shroud of Winter you still feel these things so profoundly? Better to feel them than not, I think.

As for Jorule specifically … I did ask him, using your line about vulnerability, and it is simply that our values are different in this regard—that I prize vulnerability much more highly than he does. He told me he is fine and I am going to try to accept that. He asked to be accepted as he is and that is a thing I can do, or at least work toward. I like him as he is, though, even if I sometimes struggle to not hear my own self-loathing reflected in his words.

That is, of course, my perspective, and I’ve been led to believe I have a certain … skill, I guess, at building connections with people. In your estimation, is there a problem brewing between Jorule and the rest of the group that needs addressed? He’s expressed an intention to be more thoughtful in his public interactions—something which I actually undermined and plan to rectify soon. If there is something that I can do beyond that I am happy to do it, though.

My dear kensei, to say that you have a skill at building connections with people is like saying that Shinsei had a few good ideas. …ah, forgive me, you don’t know who Shinsei is. Put more bluntly: It is a staggering understatement.

A problem? Mm. No, not per se. Perhaps I am overestimating the degree to which my companion’s distaste will affect the dynamics of the whole. Paranoia was a survival skill for the halls in which I walked in my former life–whether or not it is one here remains to be seen. The task ahead of you is immense, and much of it yet shrouded–I suppose I fear that, barring a complete unity of hearts and minds, that we may find ourselves unequal to the task.

But, as our wise friend would say, there is no choice but to walk the path to its end, and worrying overmuch about distant necessities may as easily cause us to trip over the stone right in front of our feet. And, if you trust that it shall not be an issue, that assuages my own concerns in turn.

Accepted as he is, hm? I think I shall ever struggle to accept his manners; but he would not be the first…prickly…person that I successfully made common cause with. Whether we shall be friends? Eh. Precious few of those I allied with could be called that, yet we coexisted fruitfully enough. I am content, for now.

…though I still need to find a rejoinder to that bird’s last reply. The Scorpion Queen I can bear fending me off; I shall not give him the same satisfaction of having the last word. Or…punctuation, as the case may be.

Oh. That is … I am still trying to work on not minimizing my abilities, but it seems that no matter what I do I am still … minimizing my abilities. Thank you, Shijin. That is a great compliment indeed.

I am not sure if it will or won’t be an issue. I sometimes worry that Wolf shrouds his troubles from me in order to protect me from them, and this might be one such case. He is used to being so singular, and he is strong because of it. I just … well, I suppose I can only speak to him as I would Jorule.

I don’t particularly like that two people who I care for dearly often find themselves at odds. I am also not sure Jorule and Wolf could ever be aligned, not in the large-scale stakes of our story, but in small, interpersonal ways, in how they wish to be seen by others and how they would like to be treated themselves. However, it’s also not really my business unless one of them asks me to mediate, in which case I could try, though Wolf truly is the one who is talented there.

That is also your choice and his as well. I could tell you that I find the person underneath all the prickliness to be deeply worthwhile, but I suspect he’d tell me I don’t need to try to sell him to other people.

What was his last reply? Or his last … punctuation? Sometimes he goes monosyllabic on me and I just keep talking at him, but I’m kind of settled into being an annoying little sister to him, and I don’t think that’s quite what you’re going for.

That was your home in The Garden, right? Or was it Hikaru’s? Or both of yours? Regardless, thank you for welcoming us in. I think I might spend some time reading in that lovely garden behind the house sometime.

It is…a version of a place I once lived, yes. Not quite the same. Regardless, I think it is mine now, and…a gift I did not expect to receive. There are things there of great meaning to me, which…

I must confess, Wolf could not have known of those things. Was it my own desires that created them? Or did something kind in the universe place them there? I cannot say.

By all means, be welcome in that space. Whoever crafted that garden, it is a pinnacle of the art. The greatest artisans of the Imperial Palace would be moved to tears by its elegance. It should be appreciated.

Oh. A reminder: that is not a table in the main room. It is a Go board, of exquisite craftsmanship. It is not for setting food, papers, or–kami forbid–teacups on.

I think, if your desires were heard by the universe and rendered such a place as a result then … it is perhaps naive, to see such a place as an act of love, but you are not someone who runs his desires roughtrod over others, and this world, this reality of mine is kind. I think it is also very cruel, but when it can be kind it is. And you deserve some kindness, Shijin.

I would like to know about your home and the things in it if you ever wish to tell me, but I promise I will treat anything in there with respect and care. The doors themselves are amazing—I want to see the brazierlight shining through the paper of the doors. It seems like it would make the entire dwelling a kind of lantern, guiding one home.

Also it was clear to me that the … Go board served some kind of important function and was not a table. Never fear, I’m reasonably good at deciphering context clues.

I did have a thought, which might be a silly thought but … I made Jory for Jorule if he ever wanted to speak without manifesting in the library or possessing Aury. Would … you like a fiend for a similar function? I’m not sure if you can manifest as he does, but in the event you can’t … I thought it might be nice? My fiends do mostly seem to be birds though, but I could make sure yours wasn’t a crane.