Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 12: The Marionette of Aletheia
Title: The Marionette of Aletheia, Chapter 12 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 2,100
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
The Survivor saw very little of the Keeper over the next week. Given the size of the scope of his duties, she couldn't be certain if he was avoiding her company or was engaged in too much business to be bothered. They spoke briefly before breakfast and after dinner, but they hadn't shared a meal together since her first night in the lighthouse.
Of course, had he been avoiding her, it was well within reason. Not only had she discovered the spirits haunting him, she had also confessed herself a murderer. Thus, the Keeper of Stagrock learned that he harbored a fugitive, a particularly ridiculous peril, given that they were in the Northmost Lands, where anyone could wash away past crimes by uttering a few simple words.
Though she had seen only a little in the way of his character, he didn't appear a man who tolerated the company of others against his own wishes. He could've sent her away or left her to live out her days in the miserable cellar on that tiny island, only allowing her sanctuary in the lighthouse when a delivery came due from the Dockmaster. Yet he hadn't. Instead, he extended her every courtesy and kindness, and the only matter that gave her pause was his now-constant absence from the lighthouse, where she promise to reside until she declared her loyalties.
If the Survivor was being honest with herself, she would admit her concern for the Keeper's behavior bothered her, so much so that she had to distract herself from it. She had always avoided housework and cooking, yet since the move to Stagrock, she had taken its general care and upkeep upon herself. It hadn't been something she set out to do until she was arm deep in it, refinishing the surfaces in the kitchen and repairing furniture.
She could've lied to herself and claimed it was done as a means to thank the Keeper, who had asked nothing in return for his assistance, but she couldn't fool herself, especially not when she worked herself to the bone to distract her from her incredibly vivid dreams.
They had started before she took up residence in the lighthouse; nevertheless, she tried to write her odd dreaming off as the effects of her new surroundings on her imagination.
She dreamed about her parents, Eva and Leopold, who were possibly the only real people in New Brook. Everyone else in her life had become faceless nobodies, their images transmuting abruptly in her memories only to fade away as if they had never been there at all.
She dreamed about growing up alone, without friends or family, constantly moving from place to place with no roots, no stability. In this dream-life, she became a kind of bounty hunter, collecting people for a paycheck.
She dreamed that she lived in another place, full of friends and a few tolerated enemies, but everything there was strange: the attire, the tools, the timing. She battled villains with incredible powers, overcame age-long curses, and bested monsters larger than anything still living.
None of it made any sense to her, yet while she slept, she felt more alive than she did while awake.
In many ways, they were the opposite of dreams, for those disappeared with the morning sun. These expanded upon reflection, like a bowl filling with water from drops of a leaky faucet. On more than one occasion, she had caught herself quilting the dream into her memory, as if it belonged among those priceless moments of her childhood. She had grown up loved and protected by Eva and Leopold Swan, who adopted her and raised her among their four biological sons as if she were their own, yet somehow she wove her misadventures with a childhood friend named Lily into one of her family's weekend trips.
She had never known anyone named Lily, and she had certainly never run away from home and broken into a house for a sleepover.
Just a few weeks ago, back when her life had made sense, she would've shaken it off and assumed it was just a part of getting older, but the Bailiff had said something to her that struck a disturbing cord. He attempted to convince her that he had memories of a past life, or something like that, but she dismissed him. It seemed too impossible.
The Survivor closed her eyes. She was thinking herself in circles, and she needed to get out of her head.
Whether or not the Keeper was avoiding her, he was suffering and had been for a very long time. Though he was yet a stranger to her, she felt compelled to trust him and to help him if she could. They must be old souls.
Old souls. At least, it would fit into the Bailiff's insistence on past lives. That made her smile.
The Keeper rowed to Stagrock before dusk, his back and shoulders throbbing with pain and soreness, for his task for the past three days had been both arduous and tedious. The storm had brought in considerable debris, some natural, some dredged up from the sea floor, and some - far more than a small portion, in fact - from the shipwreck that marooned the Survivor on Cellar Island. In the days since, hide tide carried flotsam and jetsam into the rocky spires between Stagrock and the mainland. As the tide when out, much of the debris caught along the rocks, sticking out in contrast to the otherwise natural composition of the seascape. Beyond his duties as the Keeper to protect the sea life and preserve the natural beauty of ocean, he had no desire to leave such harsh reminders of the storm that nearly took the Survivor's life. It was only a matter of time before she declared her loyalties and had occasion to walk outside, where she would surely happen upon the unkindly commemorations.
Thus, he labored with weighted lines, a mariner's crook, and a number of repurposed wooden poles, loosing entrapped waste into the waters of low tide, that it might carry its new prizes onward to the harbor or sink down into the depths of the Great Untamed Ocean, never to see the light of day again.
Earlier that week, he addressed repairs across Cellar Island, for the Dockmaster provided enough materials to rebuild the dock and craft a new mooring. His previous requests had been met with half-measures and orders to patch or to refurbish the existing structure so as to save materials, but after the countless tempest that battered the weary landscape, anything crafted from wood was sure to fail, and soon. Finally the Dockmaster had accepted that.
When he completed the building three days ago, there was something invigorating about seeing it all in place, sturdy and strong against the sea, no matter how stiff he felt rowing home. Unfortunately, on his return to Stagrock that very night, he spotted the collecting debris and knew he had days of drudgery ahead. His assessment was unfortunately correct, and the past three days testified to it, as did his aching muscles.
So he arrived at the lighthouse exceedingly worn and tired, not expecting to find the Survivor waiting on him in the kitchen.
The conversation, on the other hand, he anticipated, for it was past time they spoke of it. He should've taken more time to explain himself. Instead, he avoided speaking to her for fear that she might talk about the spirits that haunted him. The only way to ensure she wouldn't inquire after such things was to request that she refrain, an act that required him to broach the topic he so diligently evaded.
It had occurred to him that his absence could be misconstrued as a kind of personal condemnation, for she confessed her trespasses that very same night - crimes for which most would openly denounce her. He could only hope that she was conflicted over discovering his ghastly visitors to the point of where she experienced relief rather than pain over his absence.
Not that he knew her or wished to; in fact, he had lived perfectly fine without her or anyone else for a very long time. He was well-practiced in social evasion, yet whenever he avoided her - a woman he barely knew - he experienced a pang of guilt.
So when he walked into the kitchen at dusk and found her standing with a cup of tea in hand and a kettle at the ready, it should not have been a surprise. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Ignoring him outright, as he had done to her for the past week? Politely inquiring after his day? Demanding an explanation for his behavior? He hadn't given it due consideration.
That being said, had he spent the past week ruminating on the myriad ways she begin their colloquy, he never would have guessed the question she asked without greeting or pleasantries.
"Do you ever dreamed of a past life that's felt more real to you than this one?"
The Keeper had listened intently to her story, and he drank the last of the draught brewed by the Survivor long before she finished her tale. As soon as she told him about the Hermit's tea, he wondered if she hadn't drafted him that very same brew.
"Faceless people," the Keeper said, remembering her feverish words when he first found her. "You spoke of them while I was tending your wounds."
"The Hermit said that these faceless people weren't real," she explained. "Figments of imagination. You can't see it at the time, but you know... somehow, you know. And the tonics help you remember those figments, so that you don't see people anymore. You see them as they are."
"Faceless," he said, understanding her meaning. "And who did this brew reveal to be mere figments of your imagination?"
"Everybody," she replied. "Nearly everybody, anyway. All four of my brothers. My friends, most of my coworkers. Only a few were real: the Hermit, my parents, the Bailiff, and the Barkeep."
"And me?" he asked. "Do I have a face in this world of yours?"
"You do."
She couldn't help but smile at him. A faint flush touched his cheeks, and her interest peeked when she saw that the redness extended down his neck to his chest.
"I take it that this tea you've brewed for me was not ginger and mint by mistake," he said.
"No," she replied. "I know I should've said something before, but - "
"You rightfully suspected that I wouldn't drink such a concoction," he interrupted. "We don't know each other, but let me make things clear for you. I am the Keeper of Stagrock Light. A man of duty and honor. You are the Fugitive, the Survivor hiding under my protection. You are in my charge. You have glimpsed the horrors in my life, but you have no right nor leave to add to that burden."
The anger lurked beneath surface, breaking into his voice suddenly, drafting his ire as he spoke. He hardly meant the things he was saying, but as soon as he said them, he felt the need to commit to them. What was this stranger thinking, adding tonics to his drink without his knowledge? He wasn't sure if he should be more concerned about her believing herbs could affect hope, memory, and courage as she described or of the fact that she plied him with said herbs without his consent.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You are absolutely right, but if I told you, you would've refused, and I couldn't let that happen - "
"Why?" he demanded. "Why is it so important?"
"Because people in your life might be faceless, too," she replied. "Your ghosts might be figments, and if they are, you can banish them with a thought. All you need to do is see them for what they are. This tea was meant to help you do that."
The Keeper, now completely enraged, pounded the counter with his fist. He focused on his breathing to calm himself, so when he spoke next, his voice was tempered and even.
"The Dockmaster will be arriving three days hence to inspect the new mooring and dock on Cellar Island," he said. "I suggest you declare your presence and allegiance, but regardless, he will learn of your situation. Against my duties as Keeper, I have hidden you here, and I will do it no longer."
With that, he turned his back and ascended the stairs, his anger curbing his hunger and common sense alike.
<<< Previous:
Chapter 11: A Tribute from Lycaon
Next: >>>
Chapter 13: The Mirador of Helios
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Aletheia means 'disclosure' or 'truth' in Greek. Philosophically, Aletheia is the opposite of Lethe, which is forgetfulness and concealment.
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 2,100
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
The Survivor saw very little of the Keeper over the next week. Given the size of the scope of his duties, she couldn't be certain if he was avoiding her company or was engaged in too much business to be bothered. They spoke briefly before breakfast and after dinner, but they hadn't shared a meal together since her first night in the lighthouse.
Of course, had he been avoiding her, it was well within reason. Not only had she discovered the spirits haunting him, she had also confessed herself a murderer. Thus, the Keeper of Stagrock learned that he harbored a fugitive, a particularly ridiculous peril, given that they were in the Northmost Lands, where anyone could wash away past crimes by uttering a few simple words.
Though she had seen only a little in the way of his character, he didn't appear a man who tolerated the company of others against his own wishes. He could've sent her away or left her to live out her days in the miserable cellar on that tiny island, only allowing her sanctuary in the lighthouse when a delivery came due from the Dockmaster. Yet he hadn't. Instead, he extended her every courtesy and kindness, and the only matter that gave her pause was his now-constant absence from the lighthouse, where she promise to reside until she declared her loyalties.
If the Survivor was being honest with herself, she would admit her concern for the Keeper's behavior bothered her, so much so that she had to distract herself from it. She had always avoided housework and cooking, yet since the move to Stagrock, she had taken its general care and upkeep upon herself. It hadn't been something she set out to do until she was arm deep in it, refinishing the surfaces in the kitchen and repairing furniture.
She could've lied to herself and claimed it was done as a means to thank the Keeper, who had asked nothing in return for his assistance, but she couldn't fool herself, especially not when she worked herself to the bone to distract her from her incredibly vivid dreams.
They had started before she took up residence in the lighthouse; nevertheless, she tried to write her odd dreaming off as the effects of her new surroundings on her imagination.
She dreamed about her parents, Eva and Leopold, who were possibly the only real people in New Brook. Everyone else in her life had become faceless nobodies, their images transmuting abruptly in her memories only to fade away as if they had never been there at all.
She dreamed about growing up alone, without friends or family, constantly moving from place to place with no roots, no stability. In this dream-life, she became a kind of bounty hunter, collecting people for a paycheck.
She dreamed that she lived in another place, full of friends and a few tolerated enemies, but everything there was strange: the attire, the tools, the timing. She battled villains with incredible powers, overcame age-long curses, and bested monsters larger than anything still living.
None of it made any sense to her, yet while she slept, she felt more alive than she did while awake.
In many ways, they were the opposite of dreams, for those disappeared with the morning sun. These expanded upon reflection, like a bowl filling with water from drops of a leaky faucet. On more than one occasion, she had caught herself quilting the dream into her memory, as if it belonged among those priceless moments of her childhood. She had grown up loved and protected by Eva and Leopold Swan, who adopted her and raised her among their four biological sons as if she were their own, yet somehow she wove her misadventures with a childhood friend named Lily into one of her family's weekend trips.
She had never known anyone named Lily, and she had certainly never run away from home and broken into a house for a sleepover.
Just a few weeks ago, back when her life had made sense, she would've shaken it off and assumed it was just a part of getting older, but the Bailiff had said something to her that struck a disturbing cord. He attempted to convince her that he had memories of a past life, or something like that, but she dismissed him. It seemed too impossible.
The Survivor closed her eyes. She was thinking herself in circles, and she needed to get out of her head.
Whether or not the Keeper was avoiding her, he was suffering and had been for a very long time. Though he was yet a stranger to her, she felt compelled to trust him and to help him if she could. They must be old souls.
Old souls. At least, it would fit into the Bailiff's insistence on past lives. That made her smile.
The Keeper rowed to Stagrock before dusk, his back and shoulders throbbing with pain and soreness, for his task for the past three days had been both arduous and tedious. The storm had brought in considerable debris, some natural, some dredged up from the sea floor, and some - far more than a small portion, in fact - from the shipwreck that marooned the Survivor on Cellar Island. In the days since, hide tide carried flotsam and jetsam into the rocky spires between Stagrock and the mainland. As the tide when out, much of the debris caught along the rocks, sticking out in contrast to the otherwise natural composition of the seascape. Beyond his duties as the Keeper to protect the sea life and preserve the natural beauty of ocean, he had no desire to leave such harsh reminders of the storm that nearly took the Survivor's life. It was only a matter of time before she declared her loyalties and had occasion to walk outside, where she would surely happen upon the unkindly commemorations.
Thus, he labored with weighted lines, a mariner's crook, and a number of repurposed wooden poles, loosing entrapped waste into the waters of low tide, that it might carry its new prizes onward to the harbor or sink down into the depths of the Great Untamed Ocean, never to see the light of day again.
Earlier that week, he addressed repairs across Cellar Island, for the Dockmaster provided enough materials to rebuild the dock and craft a new mooring. His previous requests had been met with half-measures and orders to patch or to refurbish the existing structure so as to save materials, but after the countless tempest that battered the weary landscape, anything crafted from wood was sure to fail, and soon. Finally the Dockmaster had accepted that.
When he completed the building three days ago, there was something invigorating about seeing it all in place, sturdy and strong against the sea, no matter how stiff he felt rowing home. Unfortunately, on his return to Stagrock that very night, he spotted the collecting debris and knew he had days of drudgery ahead. His assessment was unfortunately correct, and the past three days testified to it, as did his aching muscles.
So he arrived at the lighthouse exceedingly worn and tired, not expecting to find the Survivor waiting on him in the kitchen.
The conversation, on the other hand, he anticipated, for it was past time they spoke of it. He should've taken more time to explain himself. Instead, he avoided speaking to her for fear that she might talk about the spirits that haunted him. The only way to ensure she wouldn't inquire after such things was to request that she refrain, an act that required him to broach the topic he so diligently evaded.
It had occurred to him that his absence could be misconstrued as a kind of personal condemnation, for she confessed her trespasses that very same night - crimes for which most would openly denounce her. He could only hope that she was conflicted over discovering his ghastly visitors to the point of where she experienced relief rather than pain over his absence.
Not that he knew her or wished to; in fact, he had lived perfectly fine without her or anyone else for a very long time. He was well-practiced in social evasion, yet whenever he avoided her - a woman he barely knew - he experienced a pang of guilt.
So when he walked into the kitchen at dusk and found her standing with a cup of tea in hand and a kettle at the ready, it should not have been a surprise. He wasn't entirely sure what to expect. Ignoring him outright, as he had done to her for the past week? Politely inquiring after his day? Demanding an explanation for his behavior? He hadn't given it due consideration.
That being said, had he spent the past week ruminating on the myriad ways she begin their colloquy, he never would have guessed the question she asked without greeting or pleasantries.
"Do you ever dreamed of a past life that's felt more real to you than this one?"
The Keeper had listened intently to her story, and he drank the last of the draught brewed by the Survivor long before she finished her tale. As soon as she told him about the Hermit's tea, he wondered if she hadn't drafted him that very same brew.
"Faceless people," the Keeper said, remembering her feverish words when he first found her. "You spoke of them while I was tending your wounds."
"The Hermit said that these faceless people weren't real," she explained. "Figments of imagination. You can't see it at the time, but you know... somehow, you know. And the tonics help you remember those figments, so that you don't see people anymore. You see them as they are."
"Faceless," he said, understanding her meaning. "And who did this brew reveal to be mere figments of your imagination?"
"Everybody," she replied. "Nearly everybody, anyway. All four of my brothers. My friends, most of my coworkers. Only a few were real: the Hermit, my parents, the Bailiff, and the Barkeep."
"And me?" he asked. "Do I have a face in this world of yours?"
"You do."
She couldn't help but smile at him. A faint flush touched his cheeks, and her interest peeked when she saw that the redness extended down his neck to his chest.
"I take it that this tea you've brewed for me was not ginger and mint by mistake," he said.
"No," she replied. "I know I should've said something before, but - "
"You rightfully suspected that I wouldn't drink such a concoction," he interrupted. "We don't know each other, but let me make things clear for you. I am the Keeper of Stagrock Light. A man of duty and honor. You are the Fugitive, the Survivor hiding under my protection. You are in my charge. You have glimpsed the horrors in my life, but you have no right nor leave to add to that burden."
The anger lurked beneath surface, breaking into his voice suddenly, drafting his ire as he spoke. He hardly meant the things he was saying, but as soon as he said them, he felt the need to commit to them. What was this stranger thinking, adding tonics to his drink without his knowledge? He wasn't sure if he should be more concerned about her believing herbs could affect hope, memory, and courage as she described or of the fact that she plied him with said herbs without his consent.
"I'm sorry," she said. "You are absolutely right, but if I told you, you would've refused, and I couldn't let that happen - "
"Why?" he demanded. "Why is it so important?"
"Because people in your life might be faceless, too," she replied. "Your ghosts might be figments, and if they are, you can banish them with a thought. All you need to do is see them for what they are. This tea was meant to help you do that."
The Keeper, now completely enraged, pounded the counter with his fist. He focused on his breathing to calm himself, so when he spoke next, his voice was tempered and even.
"The Dockmaster will be arriving three days hence to inspect the new mooring and dock on Cellar Island," he said. "I suggest you declare your presence and allegiance, but regardless, he will learn of your situation. Against my duties as Keeper, I have hidden you here, and I will do it no longer."
With that, he turned his back and ascended the stairs, his anger curbing his hunger and common sense alike.
<<< Previous:
Chapter 11: A Tribute from Lycaon
Next: >>>
Chapter 13: The Mirador of Helios
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Aletheia means 'disclosure' or 'truth' in Greek. Philosophically, Aletheia is the opposite of Lethe, which is forgetfulness and concealment.