Episode 44 - eNtrance

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  Welcome back to the podcast, to an episode that I’m sure you were not expecting. Because that last episode had a goodbye in it, didn’t it? No, I don’t think you’re wrong. Quite the opposite. That was my intention. Or rather, I wanted to acknowledge that my part of this story was over. But there were other people on that writing site, you know? That’s kind of how websites work. Or how many of them work. Or how I described it to you. That is probably where I needed to take that sentence. But the point is that there were other people there. And sometimes those other people would collaborate or come together to write a story, alternating every other chapter, section, or even sentence. Sometimes they split the labor that way. Other times, they took a tale, divided it in two parts–equal or otherwise–and wrote it. And sometimes it was even more disjointed than that. Sometimes it was just a shared set of facts, agreements on what this hypothetical world and all of its characters were going to be. And then, each were on their own. 

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I did that, with someone on the Symbolic Myst site. Remember that website? Remember the site where this story I’ve been telling you was originally posted. Its moderator, the Gifted Duckling, took me under their wing, but they weren’t the only person I interacted with. There were others. Aishi could be jealous and almost controlling, but still, there were windows of opportunity for touches of humanity to slip in. Just faint ones, though. A crossing of paths, as it were. Enough to share the framework of one world and nothing more.

I faintly remember my co-writer. Haunted Void was the first part of their username. Then came a bunch of numbers. I don’t remember all the numbers. I remember their work because I have a copy of it all, of course. I saved it on my computer. Their material was so much more polished than mine. And I thought about reading it in its entirety here, but I don’t know if I should. It’s a story that should be told, definitely, but the words themselves are not mine. So what can I do? What can I provide but a poor imitation? Nothing really. Once again, I’m sorry.

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The king’s message did not conduct himself with any sort of haste. Upon interrogation, he said that he had not been told to act with haste, but he would not say who it was who gave him the order and all its specifics. Vernin studied him carefully. The muscles in his face filled in the gaps left behind by all that was unspoken. As Vernin saw it, it was the king himself who granted him permission to dally. And in some ways, that was understandable. There was no help that could be given to the dead, but the duke should not have been dead. His brother, or half-brother, as it were, knew that better than anyone. The shared part of their family line was strong. Nothing could detract from that. But even if it could, if a death so sudden was hiding within someone like that, certainly there had to be some warnings in the past. There had to be some marks that could not be ignored. Or could not be ignored in hindsight. And if they were not seen, then they were not there. 

Vernin read the message repeatedly, picking apart every single word, but words–even under such intense scrutiny–could only reveal so much. For all else, he would have to see his brother for himself, but time was not on his side. Some things could only be seen in the moments after death, others still in the hours, and still more the days. Much had been lost, but the desire for justice endured. 

“Stable boy,” the duke’s bastard brother called out. “Fetch my horse.”

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I knew the Haunted Void was a grown man, which was really all I needed to go. I might have been poorly supervised on the internet, but I had that much sense. So I kept my distance. And here’s the thing that maybe I should have pointed out right away, but you know, it only felt relevant when it came to the age issue. But okay. The Haunted Void and I never had a formal agreement on the collaboration front. In fact, there are plenty of definitions of ‘collaboration’ that don't cover this situation, but when one focuses on the outcome, the word drapes itself over this circumstance reluctantly. 

In short, the Haunted Void and I did, in fact, create works that connected together. They shared a world and all therein. But I did not hand him my notes. He did not need them. He saw what was there, all those things I had written out, and he took them, not only spinning them into a tapestry far superior to anything I could have made at the time, but he took all the pieces, each fiber, each thread, each string, and cleaned them. He made the materials better before he took them and crafted a masterpiece. 

And I’m sure it helped that my first attempts were so bare bones. Or less than that, even. To be frank, I don’t even know if all the necessities were really there. I’m sure I left things out. That was practically part of my style back then. And maybe still now. But the Haunted Void could see everything I was inclined to hide. It was why he was haunted. And a void. Grief does that to you. 

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A trip that had taken the duke seven days took his half-brother two. Vernin rode out that night, pushing his horse far beyond its limits. In lieu of an apology, he simply switched his animal out in the next town. And the pattern then continued. Vernin could try to offer his animals the luxury of rest, but it was something he denied himself. He did not want it for himself. He could not afford to give it to himself. 

The logic of this ledger was lost on him. It was something he deliberately tried to ignore. In some sense, there was no need for this urgency. The dead cannot be saved. They cannot be helped. They can be washed and dressed in preparation for that final rest. For that, hands only need to be gentle. And the duke had been about to be a bridegroom, a role he had been eager to play. And he thought–or had been told–that he had a bride just as eager whose hands might have trembled with sadness but would still be gentle. There was no need or reason to assume that his brother lay amongst enemies. But Vernin assumed just that. It explain the sudden death, did it not? But his brother was an older man, at an age where death–if it was feeling cruel–had the opportunity to surprise someone just at the edge of its reach. 

Vernin knew this. It had happened to their father some time ago, thrusting Jemes into a role he was not quite ready for. The young man did not know how to be a duke. All he knew was that he loved his brother, and Jemes always would say that was all he ever needed to know. Bastard or not, brother was brother.

Vernin held that close to his chest as he rode. That simple memory kept the grief at bay. It kept him anchored in what so many would call an illusion. A perception. An assumption. A fairytale.

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I’ve tried therapy a time or two. Then again, maybe you actually wouldn’t consider it trying when one factors in how much I used to filter myself in those sessions. Fair enough, I guess. In whatever defense I have, I never filtered emotions or sentiments, only events. And sometimes it felt justified. Trusting someone is difficult. But it’s made even harder when you think you disagree with that person on something fundamental. People are welcome to their opinions, sure, but if they can’t understand something that underlies your every thought or belief, then what are the odds they’ll understand everything else? If someone doesn’t believe in gravity, how can they understand why you are afraid to jump off of a six foot ladder? Understanding can be achieved. It can be done, I’m sure. Don’t discount human ingenuity or sympathy. Those things can achieve a lot. But at the same time, it’s not a guarantee. It isn’t explicitly a gamble, but it might as well be one. There is a risk. There is a potential reward. And the leap of faith is over a grand distance. 

I won’t make you wait for the point. This point of disagreement. When it comes to this, there is no use in waiting. In fact, I think you might have already been able to guess it. But I believe in stories as revelation tools. I believe they all say something, no matter how thick the veil is. I think that is their purpose and their utility. Narratives, fictional or not or even explicit lies, tell some form of the truth. It shows the version of the truth that we are able to speak. Our relationship with that veil, that act of obscuring–however thick it may be–is also telling. And so, I think it is worthwhile to explore. I can accept that there are consequences therein, but there’s no reason to ignore it in the favor of more direct disclosures. 

Some of us can’t be direct. Some of us cannot confess. We know we should, but the recognition of that in and of itself will not free us from what keeps us silent. It cannot force us to disclose or confess. Nor can the suffering of others. In the end, our choices are our own. 

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No one came out to greet Vernin as he rode up towards the castle. And he was not surprised. Though he was inclined to see every person as a suspect and every object as a weapon, there was a part of him that remembered that this was a castle and he was a deceased duke’s bastard son, the brother of a duke who now was also dead. This disregard was normal. It was the sort of normal he had known his whole life. And without Jemes, it would be inescapable. 

Sadness flickered in him. For his own sake, Vernin pushed past it and looked around. The castle was draped in mourning. Black, unmarked banners hung from every window. If it was only an act, it was a convincing one. 

As he gazed upwards, his eye following what he thought was a shadow, a young stable hand came up behind him. “Can I help you, sir?” the boy said.

The small word of respect took Vernin aback. But then again, he did look the part. He had the funds to dress like a noble of a lesser house. Or as a second son of a grand one, which is what Jemes saw him as. One does not obviously wear their parentage, Vernin guessed. 

Pushing past the moment, Vernin proclaimed, honestly but with careful curation. “I’m the brother of the late duke. Please let the king know I have arrived.”

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The Haunted Void wasn’t necessarily someone I admired, but the idea of him was something I admired. I wouldn’t say it was his strength, but it was this idea that someone can come out of a terrible storm not unscathed but themselves. Or presentable. Not quite the phoenix rising from the ashes better than before. That doesn’t seem… applicable to me. Just coming out of it is enough, I think. I think the existence of an “after” is promising and more than most people get. It’s all I wanted anyway. But here I am, potentially throwing it all away with this podcast.

That isn’t why I’m hesitating, I promise. Or at least, that’s what I’ve always told myself.

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The message was not welcome, but the king choked down his discontent. After all, it was a discontent that could not be justified. Of course the duke’s brother would wish to be present after his brother’s passing. They were close. His omission from the wedding party had been a source of dispute between the king and his potential brother. The dowry negotiations had been easy despite the size of the fortune changing hands, but this matter–that which was settled socially–dragged on with no end in sight. At the end of those negotiations, the crown had won the day, but given how the day after such a debate was always meant to transpire, the second round would not be so generous. The brother could not be denied his rights. The brother could not be controlled so easily. But he would have to be. 

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Aishi Online is a production of Miscellany Media Studios. It is written, produced, performed, and edited by MJ Bailey with music from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. If you like the show, please leave a review, tell a friend, or donate to the show’s Ko-Fi account.