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lilianslibrary · 26 days ago

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Travels of a Void Princess

III: Enlightened Fun

The Laborer had relaxed in the chair she sat in by this point, drinking from the cup of well water. I paused for a moment to rest my vocal cords. Despite the length I had already spoken, she still seemed attentive.

“What was on the other side?” she asked.

“The other side?”

“Of the Hard Light fields. The Archbishop had said you would be enlightened once you passed.”

I cocked my head slightly before fully processing her question. “Oh, right. You see, the enlightenment the Keeper and Archbishop had spoken of was much more literal in nature than I myself had expected. To be enlightened was to pass through the Hard Light fields in itself, to have your mind engulfed in their luminosity. To be enlightened was to see the light.”

The Laborer seemed disappointed, but nodded, allowing me to continue. I felt compelled to explain things further.

“Hard Light wasn’t a product of Lanterns’ Rite, but it was them who perfected the technique, at least the one they used. Their economy after whatever war caused them to change their ways and grow the wild lands grew to be based on their exporting of Hard Light as a luxury good. I suppose it therefore worked its way into the local culture and religion over the years, though I’m not sure how that came to be.”

She still seemed somewhat confused but accepted this answer.

“When we finished, we ate dinner next to the Archbishop, but there was little talk between us. I had damaged our nascent relationship, and I hoped it wouldn’t become an issue. Dinner that night was quiet, it made me wish we were in our room again.

“With the lack of outbursts at the supping ceremony, I almost, in the back of my mind, expected a confrontation as we relaxed in our room afterward. But no such dramatism came to pass. For her part, the Consort seemed to be stuck in her head, staring out the window at the spot I had assumed earlier that day. We had forfeited our cloaks to the Archbishop to have them gilded with Hard Light for our completion of the rite, and she looked small sitting in that chair. I didn’t necessarily feel much bigger laying in the massive bed we had shared.

“I struggled with how to approach her in this distance, so I merely pulled the other chair in the corner of the room up to the window to sit beside her. We hadn’t spoken most of the day, we even kept to ourselves during dinner.

“‘Are you upset?’ I asked directly.

“Her gaze still fixed out the window, gazing at the starry sky over the top of the wild trees and grass, she sighed. ‘No, not really. I’m mostly just hung over from whatever the ritual did to my head.’

“I felt it too. Not a material change to my sense of self, but a dull ache. I supposed that it was only natural for your head to hurt after having it penetrated by rays of photons.

“‘I don’t mind talking to you though.’

“I felt warm at this response. I hadn’t understood my feelings for the Consort, or whether I had feelings. I knew there was something between us either now or in the past life we had before waking up at the station. I knew that she felt it too, and I knew that I ought to continue it.

“Maybe I felt something myself, too, at that point.

“She drew her chair closer to mine and rested her head on my shoulder. We were quiet and still. The night grew darker and we bore witness to the ballet of glowing insects and other fauna as they danced across that untamed yard. Eventually, as I felt her breathing become more deep, I thought she had fallen asleep.

“‘Void Princess,’ she whispered. ‘Do you love me?’

“I looked down at her, and then returned my gaze to the show of lights outside. No light fields. No purple lanterns. Just the orange and yellow warmth of organic life. Something that sapients couldn’t replicate. I pondered her question, as I had already for the past day. I was unsure.

“‘What does love feel like? How would I know?’ I asked candidly.

“‘Actions, maybe. You love me enough to risk being canonized.’

“‘Being canonized didn’t mean anything to me. You needed to be canonized too, because we are equals.’

“I felt her avert her gaze as she heard my answer. The lateness of the night and the warmth of the citadel had brought out something in the Consort that I was sure she wanted the answers to since waking up in the nexus. ‘What about feelings?’ She seemed to pout if only slightly.

“This I knew even less of. ‘What I said before is still true. I am glad to have you at my side. Not just because you help me, though. Your presence feels… right. I don’t know what I would be without it.’ I wasn’t sure how she’d take this response. Her demeanor neither worsened or improved. ‘What of yourself? What do you feel?’

“Her response was slower than I anticipated. ‘I feel the same. Something seems right about being around you.’ I wasn’t sure if this was the truth, or a way to respond in kind.

“‘Tomorrow we leave for that station again, after our parting ceremony,’ I thought aloud.

“‘Weren’t we supposed to stay longer?’ she turned her head to face me more directly, I turned my head to hers.

“‘We may be overstaying our welcome now.’

“The Consort spent the night closer to me in the bed than the night previous. I wasn’t sure if our conversation had made things worse or better, or if it had changed things at all. The next day was marked by another knock at the door, another summoning to the main hall after breakfast.

“Our walk to the hall was marked with the presence of what appeared to be a guard leading us. They were more lightly armored than the average soldier we had seen before that morning. We simply followed, both curious and nervous at their presence.

“When we reached the hall, they stood next to someone we had not seen before, someone who had an air and look of significance to them. They were clothed in pure white, a cape overlaying a large robe, both of which were gilded with Hard Light. The guard had in actuality been an apprentice to the one in front of us, a renowned tailor known for their work with the local commodity.

“They and their apprentice took our cloaks from atop a royal purple cushion, itself gilded. The Consort quickly spoke up. ‘I hope it wasn’t trouble to tailor my cloak as well, I know you weren’t expecting it…”

“The tailor shook their head a little, a stern look about them. ‘No trouble, only an opportunity for my apprentice here to experience work in the field.’ I worried about the quality of the Consort’s cloak, but as she dawned it my apprehension faded into slight awe.

“She stood before me, giving a slight spin, the centripetal motion pushing the cloak outward, flowing. The Hard Light gilding lined just to the side of the silver gilding already present, only the slightest line of the black cloak separating the two. She glowed stunningly. It took me a moment to regain my composure.

“‘Go on, I want to see my work on you,” requested the tailor. Their apprentice beside them had a slight grin, I could tell they were proud of their work. Rightfully so. The Consort gave a nod to me as the tailor finished, clearly eager to see the product of their labor as well. I fastened the cloak around my shoulders. It was done in a style akin to the Consort’s, the Hard Light bordering the gold lining with slight separation.

“‘Now, turn your backs to each other and look,’ the tailor suggested. We did so and realized their intention. On the back of our right-hand shoulders lay a symbol, the same as the ones that ornamented the walls in the hallways and our room. The star fortress, surrounded by a triangle of Hard Light. I realized now that the three lines must represent the three fields we had to pass through. The tailor too wore a slight smile as he observed the Consort and I admiring each other's cloaks.

“‘What you did yesterday was audacious. I’m glad my apprentice here had returned to my side from the ship you came in, or I might have had some words for you.’ I couldn’t tell if the tailor was upset or impressed with the Consort and I.

“The Archbishop threw us an exit ceremony. We were in and out in a little under two 26 hour Lanterns’ Rite days. The violet carpet led us back to the ship, and we were escorted to the same room in which we had been in before being put in stasis. I had been entertaining an idea since we gathered our cloaks and decided to put it to action as we were left alone just outside the atmosphere.

“‘I want you to try on my cloak.’ I told my companion.

“She flushed somewhat. ‘Is that allowed?’

“I certainly wasn’t sure of this, but who was there to stop us? ‘It’s mine, so I ought to be able to say who can wear it.’

“She slipped off her own, and I handed her mine. Our similar size became useful in that moment, as she pressed the buttons together near her neck. She looked regal, perhaps somewhat pretentious. But she looked just as impressive as before.

“‘Now you try mine!’ she demanded. I did so, fixing the cloak over my shoulders and giving a slight spin as she had on Lanterns’ Rite. I felt different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I knew my own face was blushing now. The Consort was glowing, both in her smile and in my cloak.

“‘What do you think?’ I asked. She took an exaggerated look at me, bowing down with her hand raised to her chin.

“‘Well…’ she paused, dawning a grave expression. ‘I think you look like a… “me!”’ Her brightness returned upon utterance of the last word, she let out a giggle. I myself snickered a little. We switched cloaks again in anticipation of stasis, which came shortly after.

“Waking up was easier this time. We were now one hundred years old, plus however many years we had previous to our trip to Lanterns’ Rite. The attendants were quieter toward us this time. I wasn’t sure if it was because they had accomplished their job, or because they had heard of the incident on their home planet.

“The station was different from when we had last been there, naturally. Technologically speaking it was stagnant, but the shops and restaurants and signs I had glanced upon our first time there had faded into something new. The trends had progressed in our absence, the tastes of the nexus-goers had moved on.

“The Consort had her own idea this time, as I could see from a mischievous grin on her face despite our newfound exhaustion. ‘We should find a room before we enact whatever malicious plan you have,” I remarked. The Consort bit her lip, still amused, and nodded. We roamed the station for a short period before finding an inn, where we were granted free room and board upon their noticing of both myself being the Void Princess and the newfound Hard Light on my cloak. I worried about the quality of the establishment at this. Though the room was fairly clean and insects struggled to survive with consistent flushing of entire portions of the station to prevent contamination, it was sparse. It was certainly not comparable to the room in the citadel, but maybe we had become spoiled by the hospitality on Lanterns’ Rite.

“It was at this point the Consort, after we sat our luggage next to the wall of the room, let me in on her plot. ‘I want to try ethanol,” she explained. She must have remembered our exchange after our stasis to Lanterns’ Rite. I guessed that she was more serious than I realized. ‘How would they be able to tell the age of our species, if they encounter so many different people all the time?’ She was probably right, but something about the situation made me nervous. Regardless of my feelings, I conceded.

“We left our belongings in the room and ventured out into the wider station. We didn’t know it at the time but you could easily find corners of these sorts of places full of establishments that didn’t do their due diligence. We found just such a corner, and getting a hold of a fruity bottle of ethanol was as easy as the sight of our cloaks. The shopkeep seemed apprehensive at first but shrugged and relented. It didn’t occur to me until we had already accomplished our goal that our cloaks might identify us and therefore our age.

“We retreated to the room, making sure to use the extra locks placed at the door. The Consort twisted off the cap and sniffed at the open bottle, trying to mask a faint look of disgust. She gestured the bottle toward me. I took it and hesitantly drank a small swig, holding my eyes tightly closed. Despite its low proof, it took every fiber of my being to not spit it back up. I quickly swallowed and passed the bottle back to my companion.

“‘All yours.’

“The next few hours were spent with the Consort performing much the same ritual as I had, hesitant sips and the occasional remark on its taste. Her strong front didn’t last for long.

“‘People drink this daily?’ she struggled a little with the words.

“‘I don’t think you’re supposed to.’

“The Consort was yawning frequently at this point, I thought she might have actually managed to become intoxicated. She held her knees to her chest, her cloak flowing over her legs. Her eyelids seemed heavy.

“I thought she should be comfortable if she was going to fall asleep. ‘You should drink some water and get in bed,” I suggested.

“She nodded a little, but didn’t budge. I got up and filled a cup for her and put it in her hands, she drank from it. ‘Can you help me into bed?’

“I offered my hands to help her up after she set the cup on a table next to her chair. She grasped, I pulled and she stood up. She hung onto my arm while I directed her toward a more appropriately sized bed. There were two in that room, but we had already slept together on Lanterns’ Rite and I thought it best to keep her company in her inebriated state. I prepared myself for sleep and joined the Consort in bed.

“She rolled herself next to me. She seemed warmer than usual. I had sat her water next to the bed in case she needed it. She buried her head between her pillow and my arm. ‘You should kiss me,’ she muttered.

“I hesitated. In normal circumstances I may have obliged, but I didn’t think it was right. She wasn’t all there.

“‘I think you should go to sleep, love.’

“Her breathing had already deepened at that point. I wasn’t sure she had even heard my reply.

“I felt needed, then.”

#short story #creative writing #confessions to a void #bookish #literature #scifi #space #dark academia

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lilianslibrary · 2 months ago

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Misery in Melody

Confessions to a Void VI

TW: Self harm

I am happy to get back into the swing of things as far as writing is concerned. If you enjoy my stories, consider engaging with them so they might reach others. Thank you.

To those untrained, mistakes in a performance of art can often feel as though they are merely a part of the act. In a wayward spec of paint meaning can be found. In the misuse of a word a passage can be transformed. In a wrong note can be heard a flourish. The world-class painter, the best-selling author, and the virtuoso alike find fault in these inaccuracies and missteps that an outsider to the arts might observe as frivolous.

One such virtuoso resided deep within the woods in a sprawling manor inherited from his family. The countryside offered a master in brass instruments such as himself the opportunity for rehearsal at any time of day or night with no neighbors to disturb; a welcome change having come from close-quarters dormitories and apartments. In that moment the musician was taking advantage of the benefits of isolation, notes flowing beautifully from a silver french horn, traversing throughout the halls and foyer, out through the open windows and into the cool winter air. In the midst of the somber second movement a sour note sounded. The horn player let out a distressed groan. Despite the fireplace long since dying down into embers and the winter air chilling the room, he found himself uncomfortably warm. The scratches and dark splotches on his body knew this scenario well.

Letting the horn fall from his face, he hastily removed the mouthpiece, tilting the horn more and more until the spit and condensation from inside the instrument poured onto a rag on the floor. Angrily, yet showing tender care for the horn with which he had spent nigh a decade, he placed it on its stand and sat down. Lips aching and eyelids drooping, he knew his rehearsal session needed to come to an end soon.

He took a long drink of lukewarm water and picked up his horn again.

The process repeated itself several times over until his lips gave out and the glass of water was emptied.

This was his modus operandi, a viscous and unhealthy mode of practice his instructors and professors would surely be repulsed and disappointed by, had they any idea where he had ended up in his career. “Mistakes,” his mentor had told him in their younger years, “cannot impede you in finishing a piece. If they recur, isolate the passage and drill into it; slow the tempo and raise it until the correct technique becomes mere instinct.” He still came across his professors and instructors from time to time. His mentor still worked in a band the two had signed onto. The virtuoso could hide his anger with his failings in these crowded settings, but when the cracks still showed he was met with consolation and praise. This reassurance from his cohort rang hollow. Though no more than a piece of the larger puzzle, he felt he did not belong, but still did everything he could to prove himself to his mentor.

Horn returned to its case and fireplace put out, the only noise in the manor was the creaking of old wooden stairs and the ringing of the grandfather clock fussing at the late hour as the man retired to his room. Living on his own, he settled into his oversize bed and pulled the covers over himself. Time passed, but all he could do was fret over coming performances. The virtuoso, despite all his past successes and years of practice, knew he would certainly make a fool of himself. He slept, but it was not restful.

---

Waking and going about his day, the next morning he brought in firewood and lit the fireplace. Having filled a glass of water and resting in an armchair in front of his music stand, he examined the piece he so struggled with. Each page bore scribbles and markings incomprehensible to a layman, yet each serving as a reminder or alteration to the techniques used in the piece. Changes in articulation, in dynamics, circles surrounding passages with which he needed to work. That somber second movement had the most of them. He had mastered each component of the piece but those circles. Today he would work on them again.

He tried to take care today, taking moments of rest between sections so he might prolong his endurance. Despite this, his tone grew increasingly flat as he wore himself out. Each missed note elicited increasingly distressed responses, elevating his fears and anxieties. He played the same passage again, and again, and again, and each time he created new and varied inaccuracies. The room grew hotter.

“I can’t do this.” Pain to distract him from his failures. Direct the anger at the one who deserves it, the one who lacked the necessary skill.

“I can’t do this.” Circled passages. Missed notes. He resumed playing until his lips gave out.

The Talented One tossed the horn onto the armchair and grasped at his hair. He was out of breath, and the world seemed too big. Everything around him seemed more real than himself. Retreating to the closet underneath the stairway, he stumbled through the threshold, neglecting to light his surroundings. He sat in darkness, the closed walls soothing him. Staring at nothingness, he wondered how he possibly obtained this degree of success. How did he have a degree? How had his colleagues ever seen any semblance of skill in him? He did not deserve their admiration, let alone their companionship. Had he deceived them all? Questions flooded his mind until exhaustion took over. His breathing slowed and his blood pressure lowered. The situation he found himself in seemed ridiculous and he only felt more upset with his inability to cope.

Though his time sitting in the dark felt like hours, the manor was still flooded with the light of day when he emerged. It was earlier than he had expected, but he ended his rehearsal prematurely nonetheless. He had truly expended himself, and any further attempt at practice would only be painful and unproductive. It was only when the horn had once again returned to its case and the fireplace was extinguished that he realized he had not yet fed himself. The grandfather clock rang five. A deadline drew closer.

---

Another night lacking in restful sleep. Another morning’s worth of routine. With bruised arms and legs, the Talented One prepared breakfast, staring at the horn’s case, the folder of sheet music sitting atop it. Today was to be a rest day, he would be doing maintenance and cleaning the manor. Thin cobwebs lined the corners of each room, dust had settled on the shelves and fixtures. His home had entered a state of disarray in the leadup to this series of performances. Yet, he could not remove his eyes from the instrument case. He could not disappoint his colleagues.

Fingers flying across the three valves, sheet music holding his attention undivided. A single mistake followed by throbbing wounds.

Shallow breaths and scrunched face, a cloudy mind possessed him to grab at the sheet music chock full of markings. He squeezed it all into a crumpled ball, and threw it in the fireplace beside him. Feeling a momentary sense of victory as he watched the piece he had sacrificed countless hours to perfect turn into ash, second movement and all, he tossed the horn onto the cushion of the armchair and grasped at his hair, feeling as if he could tear out every strand. His feeble attempt at controlling his breathing was interrupted by a loud thump behind him. Eyes wide in panic, he turned quickly to see that the horn, which was supposed to have landed securely on the seat, lay twisted on the floor. Quickly grabbing for his precious instrument, the relief he had hoped for was substituted for despair. The bell lay crushed flat on one side, and the valves were permanently bent inward.

---

The Talented One’s dead stare at the bedroom ceiling was broken as he registered the sound of knocking at the manor’s front door. He continued to lay, pretending not to hear it, but the knocks continued. Maybe, he thought, if I do not answer, he will go away. This was mere wishful thinking, as he knew this particular guest had a key. The other musicians would have noticed his disappearance, his mentor especially. Creaking from the foyer notified him this was exactly what had happened.

“My friend, your presence has been missed,” shouted the older man. “I was sent to check on you, are you unwell?”

There really is no helping me, is there?

#short story #creative writing #short stories #dark themes #Confessions to a Void #perfectionism #dark academia

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