(no subject)
Cobalt is having another one of his strange fits outside. Most members of the circle are used to it -- a good fit will put him back to being the most productive of them all -- but some of the newer members will always be frightened. Cobalt's fits are worse, though less frequent, than any other's; he almost always ends up injuring himself in some way, and takes weeks to heal before he can get back to production.
Lavender is one of those new members, but she possesses a quality that is rarely seen until the later years: empathy. She stares at Cobalt, raging and screaming, and feels sorry for him.
She turns to one of the elders standing beside her -- Gold, she thinks, from the trim on his clothes -- and speaks. "Why do you let him do this to himself?" she asks.
"Cobalt is the oldest of any of us," Gold says slowly, "and the wisest. He manages his fits better than any other member. No others have survived fits as strong as the ones he faces. The nature of the individual fits is unknown; if we interrupted his now, we could lose him."
"But..."
"I am sorry, Lavender. You do not have to watch this, but you may learn something if you do."
Cobalt has proceeded to attack everything in his sight. He begins with the small, destructible things: branches from trees, any books he might find, baskets people have left around; and then he moves on to the pillars. They are scattered about the area, each ten feet tall and three feet thick and solid basalt. The carvings on the face seem to be what he hates the most, but they do not give way to his fists. Instead, they are spotted red as the blood begins to flow from his battered hand, and slowly the blood forms new patterns overtop the old: twisting lines and long, curving spirals like mist escaping from a doorway. As each pattern is finished, he moves on to a new pillar, until finally only the center remains.
Carved into the center pillar is an image of a giant man, cross-legged and taking up each of the pillar's faces. He has a wide, solid jaw, and one humongous eye planted in the middle of his face; and fanning out from the nucleus of his body are arms, countless arms, one for each of the pillars. They open in every direction, embracing the world, and Cobalt attacks them with more ferocity than anything else. But unlike the other carvings, the man does not yield. With every spot of blood Cobalt surrenders, the man sits, impassive, and Cobalt only becomes angrier.
But Lavender decides she has seen enough. Saying nothing, she runs out the door to where Cobalt is standing. Hearing her footsteps, he pauses and turns to her.
"Did you know this is the hand I work with?" he says to her, holding up his mangled right hand. "This is the hand I work with."
"I know," says Lavender. "So why do you hurt it?"
"Because I hope I never work again," he spits, and punches the pillar. "Because working is what I live for, and I never want to work again. Because I never want to live again."
Cobalt falls to his knees and flicks his belt knife from its sheath. His eyes widen, and his mouth falls agape. "For you," he says to the pillar, and moves the knife to his throat -- but Lavender stops him.
"Don't," she says. "I love you."
"I know," he says, and the blood flows from her like a river.
Lavender is one of those new members, but she possesses a quality that is rarely seen until the later years: empathy. She stares at Cobalt, raging and screaming, and feels sorry for him.
She turns to one of the elders standing beside her -- Gold, she thinks, from the trim on his clothes -- and speaks. "Why do you let him do this to himself?" she asks.
"Cobalt is the oldest of any of us," Gold says slowly, "and the wisest. He manages his fits better than any other member. No others have survived fits as strong as the ones he faces. The nature of the individual fits is unknown; if we interrupted his now, we could lose him."
"But..."
"I am sorry, Lavender. You do not have to watch this, but you may learn something if you do."
Cobalt has proceeded to attack everything in his sight. He begins with the small, destructible things: branches from trees, any books he might find, baskets people have left around; and then he moves on to the pillars. They are scattered about the area, each ten feet tall and three feet thick and solid basalt. The carvings on the face seem to be what he hates the most, but they do not give way to his fists. Instead, they are spotted red as the blood begins to flow from his battered hand, and slowly the blood forms new patterns overtop the old: twisting lines and long, curving spirals like mist escaping from a doorway. As each pattern is finished, he moves on to a new pillar, until finally only the center remains.
Carved into the center pillar is an image of a giant man, cross-legged and taking up each of the pillar's faces. He has a wide, solid jaw, and one humongous eye planted in the middle of his face; and fanning out from the nucleus of his body are arms, countless arms, one for each of the pillars. They open in every direction, embracing the world, and Cobalt attacks them with more ferocity than anything else. But unlike the other carvings, the man does not yield. With every spot of blood Cobalt surrenders, the man sits, impassive, and Cobalt only becomes angrier.
But Lavender decides she has seen enough. Saying nothing, she runs out the door to where Cobalt is standing. Hearing her footsteps, he pauses and turns to her.
"Did you know this is the hand I work with?" he says to her, holding up his mangled right hand. "This is the hand I work with."
"I know," says Lavender. "So why do you hurt it?"
"Because I hope I never work again," he spits, and punches the pillar. "Because working is what I live for, and I never want to work again. Because I never want to live again."
Cobalt falls to his knees and flicks his belt knife from its sheath. His eyes widen, and his mouth falls agape. "For you," he says to the pillar, and moves the knife to his throat -- but Lavender stops him.
"Don't," she says. "I love you."
"I know," he says, and the blood flows from her like a river.