Albithurst

I swear I didn’t plan it this way.

I wouldn’t have if I could have; I’m put now in a somewhat difficult position of wrapping up both The Poems of Madam Albithurst and The Watch in the Sand in one post. I’d rather do it over two, but time and tide wait for no one; So…

The Poems of Madam Albithurst

Did my experiment work? It’s obviously not my place to say. There is a delight I’ve found in the bizarre and otherworldly tone of the Myriad Worlds, where the people and customs are as clear and distinct as our own, if decidedly unfamiliar. I am currently working on a guidebook to the entire Velvet, and that might not have happened without this experimental work.

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.

Now I suppose you desire an explanation for what happened once we had finished our dance. Alas, this is a poem, and poetry provides truths not through narrative, but through thought, heart, and soul.

The Great Construction was completed, but so far I think never used. The engineers and scientists went home, happy with their efforts and with the simple assumption that someone somewhere might finish it someday. A commonplace occurrence for those who are only responsible for the middle of a project. Those who begin and those who finish, they never have the luxury of contentment.

The door was large and steel. The room was cold and dark. My Archonarchian friend ushered me inside, and closed the door behind me. The light came from high above, creating a cold silver circle for me to stand in.

I certainly felt at the time that the dark emptiness was a refreshing change from the chaotic outside. The noise had given an ache to my head, and now I found myself at rest. But it was not long before the soothing respite was broken by the sound of approaching steps. In moments, another light shone down from above, a second circle of silver, a moon drawing ever closer to mine. In the middle of the circle stood a man I had seen before.

In the centuries before recorded time, before the Myriad Worlds were set in their spiraling dance, the great giant Yurghyn stood tall on the land of Ut-cart. Ut-cart was, among the known world, the most verdant and beloved of lands, with people who cared well for each other and the balance-of-things.

Yurghyn, however, did not care for the balance-of-things, for the evil that he saw in the wasp sting and the viper’s tooth repulsed him. With his might and magic, he ruled over the people of Ut-cart, and guided them away from evil with a firm and steady fist.

I am not ashamed to admit, I was crying when we left Lady Song.

I did not look to see if my companions too had been affected by her words; more fool me, I thought it polite. Of course, had I been born of another time and perhaps another place, I would likely have found it the height of callousness to allow them their thoughts alone.

Of course, that lovely part of me that embraces my Sensate nature was already crafting a poem — but now I found myself in conflict twice over. First because I could not find the words to express such an experience as Lady Song — an embarrassment in itself — and second because a portion of me did not want to craft a poem. It felt, in some macabre way, gauche. Barbaric, perhaps, which was a state of being that I had long decided I would never experience.

And there we were, in the darkness.

Surrounded. Alone. The five of us together.

No hopes, no dreams, nothing but the uncertain truth of our situation.

There was a pool of light we could not see.

A howling scream we could not hear.

Children, children everywhere, grabbing and laughing and crying.

Thousands dead, thousands more alive.

A singular moment stretched on into infinity.

We were now, and then, and to become. It was everything I ever wanted. It was Hell.

Now, I will not say that this is where the conversation ended. I will say that this is where the important and interesting aspects of the conversation ceased. Hours passed as each of us tried in turn, begging, pleading, promising, and threatening. The two Majesties did not mind our efforts, nor succumb to our pleas.

If you are interested in the fascinating, if at times repetitive and at all times impractical, conversation, you may find them in my poem The Detailed Discourse of the Two Majesties.

Oh, the Apex, the beautiful and winding words that descended from the base of the cervical vertebrae to the occipital.

Heresy. Damnable heresy for one such as I, a Sensate in good standing of the Grandiose Guild, to say I still find myself at a loss for words. What could be said to convey the glory and horror of the hallways, stairways, and byways of the Apex.

For the beauty was not in its sweeping archways, its Ivory palisades, its golden buttresses, nor its marbled cloisters. The strong tendons of the Apex shone in the silver light, yes, and the broad trapezius glistened with glamorous charm.

Even with the careful and steady guidance of Nock, it took us many days to make our way out of the wooded jungle that was the Inner Wings. We traveled through the Asparitetis and out the other end, around the Oyn and about the Upper Scapula we walked, seeking egress from the foul environs, until at last we arrived at the Pollier.

Covered with barnacles and dangling vines, the Pollier was perhaps the quietest portion of our journey. It was neither cold nor warm, but still and soft. I do not think any of us particularly enjoyed the experience, but it was the necessary transition point between where we were, and where we needed to go: the Spine-case.