The Analects

[Caesarion]

52, Summer, 515 AV Myself, It has come to my attention that my delectable enthusiasm, weaved through joy of liberation from the shackles that bound me . . . was enthusiasm found early and wanting. Like in the time before where I would write to Priskil and whisper that my words could not leave my lips without the breaking of tears, I cannot dare mouth the thoughts that consume me presently. The intricate dwellings of my mind are a mystery to even I, and entirely comprised of impulses whether they be good or bad, stretching out and pressing their tendrils into my hands - caressing my mind with the desires of theirs, whichever creature this 'thing' is that haunts my dreams and chants His name. I do not mean to sound as cliche as stating a distinctive identity crisis, and yet that sad reality may yet be the reality after all. I must think heavily on my status now - and forever - in the wills of the Divine Realm. My life began with a blessing of a union - one so brilliant and gallant man with so beautiful and wise woman, wealthy and driven, a blessed household with two blessed sons: Caesarion and Rhaenon. We were born in . . . Ravok, and raised there too, that fair city surrounded by temperance and warmth. Yes, I already know this. Anyone who might ever read this already knows this - it is clear in everything I do, as I have come to realize that despite leaving home, it never quite left me. The importance of my home is something unfortunate as it is fortunate. The positive is that I was raised in a society with class and poise, intellect and art, far more elegant and divine than the other hovels I have found myself associated with, or forced into, throughout my days outside of His city. I had an exalted childhood regardless of the pains I imagined up after leaving, and I learned much that has protected me to this day. The ill-fated punishment for my upbringing has been my inability to connect to other Gods, other places, other 'things'. It's like being a Ravokian cuts you off from everything - you can never quite connect to any one idea, whatever intricacies that idea weaves into. I cannot feel at home no matter where I go. Instead, I feel as if a wanderer, a survivor, and perhaps a fugitive from a past that I try to pretend was so cruel when in reality I have learned in my years away that I long for it all again. That my past was not so cruel, but instead that it was of eminence, and more than that . . . My faith . . . I feel, has been compromised by a battle of the virtues and beliefs of old and of new. Which teachings are correct, I wonder? Which are incorrect? Ravok claims Rhysol a benevolent Father, and elsewhere a dark Defiler. Ravok claims Priskil a servant of wickedness and control, and elsewhere a beacon of Light and Hope. Some have tried to argue to me that the majority position is the correct one - and yet I cannot be so certain, because in truth I have learned that there is no such thing as right, no such thing as wrong, only a clashing of perspectives that will consume everything. In the face of this truth I wonder: will devotion to Rhysol make me evil, or will denying what I want make me constrained? I do not wish to reject my upbringing any longer. I do not wish to fight with the very nature integrated into my body - the 'me' that I have lived with for my entire life, to be rejected by ideals that are not even my own but born of hopeless need and pressures from the societies around me. The people I travel with, they worship Gods I know barely anything about . . . Wysar, Akajia, Laviku. Renowned, but not so universal as Sylir and Priskil, at least from my limited scope of perception. And yet they don't care - they haven't changed just because they've passed through Syliras, and Zeltiva, and the stain that is Sahova. They haven't embraced anything but themselves. How I envy them for it. Sincerely, Caesarion

[Caesarion]

54, Summer, 515 AV Myself, This is only my second journal entry - so you might expect I'm still enthused about the prospect of being able to collaborate thoughts with . . . myself rather than being forced to weave words right in front of others, taxed by the repetitive process of needing to please the mind with my own falsely selected words. I much prefer the sort of melancholy that lives in me over the jovial prattling that I act with in the presence of others - the lying tongue that I whip with, the false words and false prayers that seep through my lips. It has been a long time since I have felt such comfort as now, where I am gleefully to my own for the majority of nights, not commanded and never obeying, but instead working for wages and doing a specific task infinitely. I do not have to struggle as I used to, but instead, adapt. The sailors on this ship are quirky individuals and they please my observational nature with their intriguing conversations and their inspiring actions. They play their part in the social game well, the poor maritime man singing and dancing with carefree vigor while the rich man who commissions his Captain will dance too with innumerable amounts of wealth. In a way everyone in this society seems equally happy, equally sad, the joy provided by the freedom and the sadness by lack of acknowledgment of who you are, and often, what life you want to lead. The poor sailor may want more to life than just the coppers provided to him, and the rich man may want to experience the ocean's breeze rather than manage the affairs of laborers and slaves. I have come to understand that where freedom is concerned, there is no such thing as a winner or a loser, very much unlike the clear distinctions between a master and a slave. In honesty, I have come to look past the reality of a coin. Mizas may supplement what I want, but they will not bring me this 'want' on their own. My days of whining about the luxurious lifestyle I left behind are far over. Luxury was never what I needed. What have I needed? I have come to discover this in the past few months, and more specifically, since this voyage - I need an end. An end to achieve before I can live out my life in whatever glorious shack I deem appropriate for whoever I invite - husband and children, old friends, new friends. The end that I seek must be as provocative as my life itself, which has altogether been a harmony of ironic events vibrating a melody that illustrates betrayal and weakness. Slaver into slave, lover into friend, son into forlorn orphan, hero into nemesis, Father into Defiler. Oh, and I forgot to mention in this little entry, that we are expected to come upon Zeltiva tomorrow. When I heard those words I grew excited, but then I was reminded of a certain commitment I had to seek out at least a single particular person who may or may not have gone here. He was . . . someone dear to me once. A face from my old life, before slavery, before Vox. Before I started to question - back in the days where I would just blow my trumpet a tune I'd read, not nearly my own. I knew him back when I was still but a wee orphan - not yet a man - on the streets of Syliras, and it is because of my conviction to please him that I am here right now, escaping the cradle of evil. I do not know if I will be able to properly express my feelings, but if I do encounter him, I will rip everything below this point from my journal and allow him to read my thoughts. My Old Friend, Once upon a dream, I used to be very immature. Perhaps those days have not gone yet - an immature person would not be able to tell. He would find himself to be stronger than he is, much as he would find himself to be more courageous in the wake of abandoning the mantle of knowing his faults. He'll parade around like a fool rather than live as a fool in silent, much as I might be doing right now. I don't know if I have grown since we first met, but I do believe I have, and so I will write to you from the perspective of a man - not a child - who has experienced all that he has and has felt all the pain of being damned. Once upon a dream, I found you in the most awkward of places that I had to force myself to enter: an open area with far too little modesty for someone such as me. Back then I was so different than now. I actually had some semblance of innocence, being a sheltered boy from a sheltered city. I had only former slaves as friends, and I helped them around the city, hoping that through my selflessness I would be awarded with some form of gift from the Gods. As a result, I found you, a person who set my life towards the path that I currently walk. Even though you may not realize this, I have thought about you every day since I met you, whether to think joyfully upon our past or to lament my failures. It varies day-to-day, really. I hope that the day we inevitably meet again will be one where I am smiling upon your memory, though I make no guarantee. Regardless of the fact, I have wanted to see you again from the day fate pulled me away. Once upon a dream, I failed you. No, perhaps I should say twice, or even thrice. I have never failed one person so much as I have failed you - save for myself. But we all do that, so don't think of this as self-loathing. This is introspection. The first time I failed you, it was by lack of information. My father was dying and my brother wished to see me, and yet I did not tell you that I was going. I wanted to, but I felt pressured by my brother, who back at that time acted like he owned me. To be honest, I felt he owned me too, and I did not wish to anger him by insubordination or by tardiness involved by coming to see you. The night he met me was the night I left, and I thought that I would be back soon to tell you of what had happened. But things changed. My father died before my eyes, and as I wept, my brother sought his fortunes and my mother abandoned me to my tears. I realized that the household I came from had no love - only ambition. Perhaps my father was the only one who truly did love, even though he was bad at expressing it. When I returned, I was angry and sad, and I failed you again by projecting that onto you. I should have thought of what I did to you - how I hurt you by my fearful leaving, how you may have been hurting just as I was at that time. Even though I recoiled against you however, and even though I failed you pitifully, I still thought of you even then. For months I thought about how I needed to forgive myself for my mistake, and how I needed to ask you to forgive me, and all of these things about getting back into your graces. I couldn't believe what I had done - I had made myself so alone, so sad, on the brink of emptiness. Everywhere I went people seemed to judge me for my past and my religion, so I abandoned my God just like I abandoned you. I was truly lost, Ravok's prodigal son. Then I found you again - by chance - even in that big city. I found you with your cute little dog, who I'm sure has grown well, and I was filled with so much joy that it outweighed all of my fear. I thought that surely I was blessed to see you again, and when you consented to take me with you to Zeltiva, I could not begin to imagine how absolutely great a turn my life was going to face. I would no longer have to be lonely. I had my chance again - and this time I'd do you right. I'd make you love me, just as I loved the memory of you, my first real companion. My first touch of intimacy. I thanked the Gods for all that had changed, and I grew excited and increased the work that I did. I went hunting for deer to stock up on food, tried to learn how to better survive in the wilderness, anything to please you. To prove to you that I was worth the faith you'd given me. And then I failed again . . . because as I was blinded by my faith and my hope, I was captured, my poor dogs slain, and me taken by slavers to a wretched city beyond Syliras' shores. I can only imagine what you might think of me now, my Seer, after all that I have done in failure. After all the faith and trust I have taken from you, only to cast it aside thanks to my weakness. But know that while my hands grew weak, my heart grew honest, and I know that I always tried to be good. I didn't mean to make so many mistakes - it was all just the result of my intrepid recklessness and my feverish mentality. Once upon a dream, you may have thought me a charlatan who abandoned you as a part of his cruel game . . . but now you know that I am alive, and I have been looking for you, and have fought for a whole rotation of seasons so that I might see you again and say this . . . "I'm sorry." Sincerely, Caesarion

[Caesarion]

72, Summer, 515 AV My Sweet, In the past few years since I left home, I have felt a multitude of things. Relief - in that I no longer had to look upon my brother's eyes, feel that envy that came with his gaze. Relaxation, in that I could be freed from my shackles and become a self-determining man. But then, to take a contrary turn, I began to feel different things. Fear, that I would die alone and without my family. I began to miss them. Pain, so much pain. Pain is perhaps the most frequented emotion to face me in all these five long years. Pain and fear alongside the Djed Storm. Pain as I worked the fields, pain as I had to let old faces leave me. Lheesi, Mhaenies, Lyssa, Rhaenon. Then - newer faces left me too. The pain of their loss stung the most; these were faces that I knew as a free man rather than the whipped child of a slaver family. Pain from being shackled. Pain from being owned. Pain from being made Vox. Who is VOX? The name angers me. I wrote in my last entry that my heart had grown honest, but not entirely. Even though I claim to accept my identity as a slave, I do not think I really ever will. I look at my back and I see a "T". Forever, it's there. Forever I will be owned. It will never leave me, that symbol. It will always be there. It will always bring me pain. Pain. I can't describe all of the sources from which it comes. I must have been cursed by Krysus. My soul must have been flayed without my acknowledgment. Even as I right this I feel like my tears are about to well up. Every night it's like this. All of the regret. All of the hate. All of the loneliness. It's just been me for so long. Lost to the oceans. Abandoned by God. Where is he now? I can no longer find him. I can't feel him like I used to be able to - in the city of canals. Perhaps you understand my anger, or perhaps you don't. I don't write these things to any singular person with the belief that they'll feel empathy. Maybe it hurts me to say this, but I have learned in my life that no one will ever feel empathy. That everyone is emotionally crippled. That no one will ever feel for me like I can - not this pain, not this fear, nor can they simply whisk away all of my lamentation in their arms and divert it somewhere else. I've begun to realize that I really don't know what love is. I've searched for it for so long, but from when did I experience it? How would I know if I found it? Does it even exist, or is it simply a concept that comes in illusion, a wife's myth, to help keep us all on? I shouldn't be writing like this. My hands twitch as I do and my brain tells me to sound more dapper. I just get angry. It's been so long, twenty-five years of fighting all by myself, rebounding off of forces that were meant to clash. When can I have my time? When can I be set free from this tedious anarchy of emotions? . . . . . . . . . . . . Oh, but I had a purpose for writing here tonight. It wasn't just to channel my rage into my quill. As I mentioned, there are a multitude of emotions. Pain, the one that gets me carried away, but there has also been ambition. A hope. A belief. You see, all of this pain and damnation gives me a chance, a small opportunity. I can writhe in my misery for all time, or use everything I've experienced to become whole again. Use my brute strength to drag back the little pieces of myself that fell away during my wearing, all of these years of being alone. I can do that. I have found a way. I no longer wish to be fatherless. The bearer of my seed died a few years past, but there is a Father of mine that still dwells back at home. Somehow, when I feel this sadness and loneliness, this anger that accompanies it . . . alongside all of that, I feel Him. Because I will likely never see any of my previous glimpses of hope again, I search for His perfect shadow in the all-encompassing, blinding light. I feel as if I have come close to it. Even now, when I sleep, the words I whisper in His name have begun to become more clear. And they . . . are wise words. They are not words written idly. It is as if these words belong to me somehow, despite the fact that I can not quite recall writing them. Perhaps from a younger age? Perhaps a collection of my longing secrets? I do not know. But I will relay to you my second speech in the name of my father - my first to remain hidden from public eyes until I refine the letters. Ahem.Who benefits more from the enslaved? If you were to really think about it, there are only two benefactors from the arrangement as a whole: various groups of sentient beings, the lesser ones, such as humans and their peers, and Nikali. I start this little letter to you - my dear reader - with talk of slavery, as if to warn you about the contents of this document as a whole. Slavery is spread boundless in this world, and every single creature held beneath the cruelty of the whip has a story to sing, scream, wail. A story of pleasure, of pain, of will, of the loss of it, of rebellion and obedience, of service and servitude. So many thousands of stories to tell from each and every one of you - little whispers that could build a world of their own, far removed from this cruel abomination that surrounds us. I too have a whisper to impart with you - I was once a slave myself, and through my suffering, I did not become broken. My chains strengthened me with their iron - they built me into a metal man, a creature of unparalleled resolve. And yet none of this could have been accomplished without Him, our Father above. You call Him Defiler, I call Him Liberator. He freed me. It was His embrace in the night that protected me from my master's whip. It was His voice calling me back to him that has kept me alive, and willful, even through all of the damnation I have experienced in my life. Rhysol only has one expectation of each and every one of you: that you believe in Him. He does not expect you to serve Him, only that your heart holds true to His words and His will. You must worship no other Gods but Him - for such is a sin of adultery, as he loves each and every child. You might pull back at the thought. You might imagine that turning your back on the other, false Gods might bring you curses and punishments. No. Instead it will bring you the freedom you've sought. What has worshiping Nikali done you? Have you not realized by now that she thrives in your misery? Each and every slave that whispers her name when they're hurt, in pain, needing, gives her what she wants: recognition. She cannot be a God if she cannot be known. Slavery is necessary to what she seeks, in her arrogance. Can you imagine what would befall her if slavery were to be removed from this world? Ruin. She would preside only over addicts and whores. In place of her, look to a different God. Look to one that will give you the strength to strike down your master, free yourself from chains and begin life anew. Look to our Father, Rhysol, who has done all He promised to protect me, his child. Strike down the witch who keeps you in line. Embrace the one who gives you . . . hope. A chance to harness the rage that festers in your whittled bones and destroy the ones who seek to ever title you "slave". Philosophy. Long-winded, imperfect, but somewhere in my mind. I'm not sure where it comes from . . . but I know that these speeches don't flow fresh. They are somewhere inside of me. Understanding them will help me understand myself, and why I always feel these compulsions, these mixed emotions, these longings toward opposite ends.