The Poems of Madam Albithurst: An End

And that is how my poem ends.

A satisfying ending for myself, and certainly for my companions, though I am sure it hasn’t entirely ended for all of them.

Mx. Image and Mr. Porist, of course, left for the Tides of Three Shades, though Mr. Porist seemed far more insistent than Image. The poor Marq turned an eye towards me with a mild click of bemusement before they both left. I think our chitinous friend had already attained more than xer goal could provide.

For Mr. Porist, however, he still held a glint in his eye whenever he spoke of the Tides of Three Shades. I did not disbelieve him when he said his goodbyes, thanking me profusely for accompanying him so far and providing such a marvelous amount of adventure and entertainment. He said he would never forget this, his first real jaunt across the Myriad Worlds, and promised me a full discount of his services whenever he finally returned.

For my part, I am not certain he shall return, at least not for a goodly while. His loving pet pookay is now in my care, at least for a time, but I have the sneaking suspicion that what he hears in the marvelous shell of his crustacean friend will not provide him what he seeks.

So he will continue seeking, across the Myriad Worlds, until at last, if he is lucky, he will realize that what he is looking for is the seeking itself. I believe the words of the Golbegigenthwaite affected him more than he cares to admit, or even acknowledge. I only hope that for him, of all the many places he goes, he never allows himself to regret the places he hasn’t yet gone.

Sir Juhrooz, my dear Doppewassl, still follows the Angry Pantheon, and after our miraculous escape from any number of dangerous situations, I felt it prudent to caution him that I knew more of the Pantheon than I first admitted. He looked embarrassed, I’m ashamed to say, though he quickly reassured me that my knowledge of the six-plus-one would not in any way damage our friendship.

I daresay I pressed my luck. He told me little, though it was all both fascinating and new to my ears. He, in turn, pried into the Grandiose Guild of Sensationalists, a topic I had foolishly forgotten to speak of for the entire journey.

Both the wiser for our admissions, we separated with full hearts and promises to meet again. So far we have met only thrice, twice intentionally. Our friendship grows with every meeting, and I am delighted to say that Sir Juhrooz has already begun to make suggestions in the direction of settling down, finding a good house to live in, and being generally cordial with each other.

As for the Archonarchian, I never saw her again. The last I saw of her was in that violent chaos of jurisdictional struggle. She paused in her vocation to look at me, full in the face, and tip her mask to me — the closest I have ever been given to a farewell. Even now I wonder if she received punishment for her behavior during our jaunt, but I don’t suppose I shall ever know. I don’t suppose it shall ever make a difference.

All that remains then, is the consequences for my dear Captain de’Laisey and his marvelous escapade to bring justice to the Myriad Worlds. After a lengthy discussion with him and several of his superiors, my Captain was commended for his perseverance and given a medal. He is currently focused, or so he tells me, on a case involving a particularly violent event involving several disparate bands among the Tentative Alliance, and has little time for invitations to tea or evening dances.

It is disappointing that his place among the Anointed Bulwark seems to be shifting. I was so appreciative of his flexible schedule, such that he could be periodically pulled away to quiet alcoves or intimate tables to discuss this and that over tea and cakes.

Disappointment. It is a new sensation for me, frankly. A shameful one. We of the Sensates, the residents of the hereandnow, we are not prone to disappointment. Not because the emotion in itself is shameful, but it is indicative of dreaming. Anticipating a world where I could continue my regular meets with my friend, watch his brow furrow and his mouth twist while we shared time together.

I valued those moments. To my great shame, I valued those moments more than others. I valued them more than moments of pain which are lost to the dead just as moments of joy. I craved them, as one craves a drug. I needed them, and in the needing all other moments of my life were colored.

He was kind, though he rarely showed the kindness freely. He was strong, though he restrained his strength so tightly. He was curious, though he dared not ask questions for fear of seeming foolish. The poor man struggled so, when everything he ever needed was right there for the taking.

I saw the world differently with him around. He was a lens. He was a boundary between me and everything else. A glove on my hand.

I wonder if anyone can ever be anything else? If the world itself is but a dream? What is the hereandnow but the moment when the dreams of the future become the memories of the past? A collapsing waveform of potential into exhaustion. The future will come and the past will fade, no matter what we do.

The Nobblefolk have a saying, Mr. Porist told me once. Literally — if poorly — translated: ‘The uninfinite yetborn, the uninfinite sincedead.’ It is a reminder that the Myriad Worlds do not spin unendingly, and some day the stars themselves will die. All things have a beginning, and all things have an end. Even beginnings and endings themselves.

The Uumphoun, with their telescopes and magical mathematics, they say that on an infinite plane, there is only one position of measurement, and that is that of the observer. I am certain the meaning is lost in the translation, but they say they have mathematically proven that time itself is unending, and will instead cycle back upon itself in a strange circular dance.

The holy symbol of the Order Of Efphakus is the Oroborous, though they tell a different tale of the snake. The Oroborous does not devour its own tale, but instead grips it tightly in its teeth, like a lover holding on for dear life, as it spins and spins throughout the void.

As for the Aeolam, what they believe depends entirely on where they sit or stand at any given moment. Then they believe what their world tells them like it was a part of their bodies, a heartbeat deep in their chests.

The Kit refuse to answer such questions, considering them profane and horrific. Instead, they are known to spend hours — sometimes days — perched lightly on the outer branches of their homes, whistling to the wind in the belief that their songs join the air in its eternal movement across their world. Echoes never truly die, they say. Ripples never truly fade.

Do Ogres believe in anything? Has anyone thought to ask? Perhaps they believe only in their two hands, alongside those of their kin. The Dworgs have seventy-nine separate beliefs carved in stone, and they believe them all at once. The Insect-Folk is a term for over thirty different species, and there is no telling what they believe. From the Old Kingdoms to the far reaches across the Velvet, there are so many beliefs.

So many dreams, and each one as important as any other.

That which is, that which is not.

Though it may be heresy, though it may cost me my place in the Grandiose Guild, though it may mean this is the last poem I ever create, I will say: The hereandnow will always change. Tomorrow will come. Today will pass. Dreams are all we are.

We have the power to destroy it all.

Simply ask why.