Work Text:
Since I have refrained from delivering my thoughts to the eternizing embrace of writing for the better part of a century, I find myself at odds with the ink that is slowly staining this yellowed paper and what to spell with it.
I had promised myself, after the great despair that came over me in 1723, that I would abstain from the simple pleasure of running my fingertips on the coarse grain of a blank sheet of paper and relay my miseries to its innocent body. Thus, I picked up an old book, one of those that were still made with parchment and that had been sitting to gather dust with good reason. I washed and grated – not without effort – the old pages (cursed to host a terribly written pamphlet whose title would be better forgotten to the world) and created for myself a paralogism that I find exceptionally convenient. Though I have always preferred paper for it did not come of cruelty, I must admit I appreciate the possibility to wash a sheet anew that only parchment can offer.
The pamphlet I erased from the poor pages had long exhausted its value to mankind while still being written but I couldn’t bring myself to fully destroy it. After all, in this novel Alexandria where I have fashioned myself guardian and scribe of long-dead humanity, all purpose would be lost if I were to become a second Caesar with flaming torches and a too strong desire to prevail. I decided not to be the conqueror leaving an innocent library to the fire and made a second copy. The horrible text is now preserved in a version of my own hand (which I find myself regretting the more I ponder over it) and the parchment is free for me to harrow. Thus, under the rays of a waxing moon I earned myself a relic of times older than mine to torment with my words.
But I see that the sentimentality I’m prone to in writing has indeed followed the auspicious blessing of the moon I first worked under and so I shall finally begin my recounts and harrow this page no longer. (Though, if it is mercy to start sharing my mind, that I cannot decide.)
The fact happened not many nights before this. I was leaving my rooms to spend my waking hours in the usual comfort of reading – Josephine had just come back from town with new magazines – when I was met with a most unusual sight. Right outside the door to my bedroom a fragrant plate of sweets awaited me, simple and inviting like a pleasant memory of childhood (or what I suppose those to be).
They were arranged tastefully but with no fanfare, as if welcoming a hand to disassemble their poise without invoking the guilt that comes with ruining a beautiful thing. I found it an agreeable little move and, with my curiosity piqued, I retreated inside my study with the plate and its sly arrangement in hand.
The note that had been left with the biscuits was just as simple as them and no less sweet for its brevity. It read:
Please enjoy. – A. Bedford
I had held no doubt as to who the clever mind behind this confectionery was, but the note left me momentarily fuddled nonetheless. I reread the few words written on it three times before finally setting my eyes on the contents of the plate.
I hadn’t tried human food since the far 1714, a fact that would have doubtlessly left the well-meaning Mr. Bedford astounded. (He has a tanned complexion, one of those that become speckled with freckles under the summer sun, and I surmise that it would look pleasantly flushed before such discovery.) Knowing from his loud altercations with Josephine that he must think me some captive kept under her hand, I judged the gesture all the more endearing, though completely misplaced.
During these first few weeks of his employ I have devoted some time to studying his character. The hidden crevice that I’ve used before to enjoy spy on balls and performances has once again presented me with a beautiful play. (One, whose tragic ending I await with dread.)
He is surely one of a rare sort. Despite the glumness that seems to cling to him, he embarks on each ordinary task with resolve and dedication, but he seems to lack similar devotion towards anything that does not concern his duties. He appears to enjoy the mystery that he’s constructed around the reluctantly innocent Josephine and I have entertained the thought of indulging his investigative flair by leaving traces to encourage his rescue fantasies. For this, I envisioned various options: scattering around the house the remnants of a letter with cryptic words of distress, letting out pained murmurs in the darkness or even knocking on his door at the dead of night only to vanish a moment later.
Despite the intrigue, I soon abandoned these day-dreams of mischief and reminded myself that my wait for a saving knight had ended a long time ago. No daring hero had come for the damsel locked in this tower in life and the teaching had been enough even for a hopeful mind. Even more so now, as this Andromeda is closer to the terrible ketos and doesn’t dream of seeing the gleam of the sun on the armours of Roland or Rugiero. She has learned to be content with the shine of the waves[1] around her.
I thought my silence would comfort his anxiousness after a while but in that moment, confronted with the plate before me, I realized that my quiescence had not quenched Mr. Bedford’s suspicions. Instead, it had brought us to a culinary empasse.
Thus, I decided to redouble my efforts in reassuring the dutiful soul and quell his endeavours at once. I wrote to him a courteous yet cold little note before I even touched the baked gift, thanking him profusely – for I indeed found the gesture heart-warming – but asking him to refrain from any similar actions in the future. I walked to his room, leaving the note in the usual manner as the sound of his laboured breathing came from behind the closed door and pierced my heart more than the hook did to the poor paper in my hands. Then, I retired back to my study and finally devoted my attention to the plate of biscuits.
If the reign of King James had been the last to see me partake in human food, the year when I last had been offered food especially made for me was a mystery even to myself. A vicious part of my mind suggested that my final night as a living person might have been such occasion, but I did not wish to make my mood dour when sitting before such a sweet sight, so I didn’t entertain the matter.
Though, if I had thought myself sentimental before trying the confectionery, then what came upon me after the first bite was beyond my own comprehension.
It tasted ordinary. It was familiar though I had never been accustomed to it. It was pleasant and fragrant without the exceptionality of fine bakery. Just like the arrangement of the dish, the biscuits bore no pretense of grandeur but a domesticity that I had seldom found in life and never encountered afterwards.
I ate the first pastry without realizing it and, though my body doesn’t bear desire for human food, once it was gone I immediately craved another.
The crispness of the bite turned easily into buttery crumbs that melted on the tongue and brought along a scent that I only recognized as rosewater after the second pastry was finished. It was a taste that called for the company of loved ones and a lively fire in the hearth. I had no shortage of the latter, but the lack of the former left me with a bitter aftertaste that had no place with the sweetness of the dough. It sparked in me an unfortunate idea which I, unwisely, decided I would act out the following day.
That night, I placed the remaining biscuits close to one of the places where I knew rats to roam, except for two pieces which I saved. Then, I promptly retired to bed even though dawn had yet to break. I fell into an easy sleep, picturing the outrage that would have painted Josephine’s face had I offered her the pastries instead. I remain sure that she would sooner eat living worms reaped from the mud than anything presented by my hands. With that entertaining image in mind I was lulled into a pleasant rest and dreamt of breakfast in a cottage.
When I woke up the sun was still shining with the laziness of late afternoon.
I quickly dressed myself and set to my vigil. This consisted of me silently waiting by the closed door of my bedroom – where I had dragged my desk for practicality – and listening keenly to every sound that came from the rest of the manor. It was lucky that my hearing was preternaturally sharp, as I was able to maintain a vague but accurate impression of what was happening outside of my room without too much strain. Almost a full hour passed this way before I heard what I had been waiting for.
Distant yet unmistakable came the clinking sound of porcelain, soon followed by the thud of a blade falling on thick wood and then the gurgle of water as it was poured into a pot. Flashing a glance at the window and finding that the moor outside was already tinted with gold, I realised that the hour when I knew Mr. Bedford to take his afternoon snack must have already passed and that it was almost time for supper. The thought didn’t deter me as I deemed the moment of cooking equally apt to my goal.
I went to the drawer where I had stored the remaining biscuits and sat to my desk as I unwrapped the kerchief protecting them. I pictured Josephine and Mr. Bedford fussing over the food and dishes, cleaning and cooking for the imminent meal, and let myself be transported by the domestic impression I wanted to impose over their quotidian efforts. With that crafty fantasy in mind I took a bite from the biscuit and started slowly consuming what I considered to be my first shared meal since my death.
Of course, I held no illusion as to the reality of the communion I was fabricating, but it brought a novel, thrilling sort of warmth, which I decided to enjoy in its falsity. That was, until a most unpleasant sound shattered my reverie and suddenly plunged me back into the cold billows of reality.
A muffled commotion resounded from the kitchen: the clang of a pot, muted voices talking with haste, then, at last, a cry that echoed perfectly clear even up to my bedroom.
“By God! He fed them to the rats!”
With few, simple words the hearty meal I had pretended to share was brought to a swift end. I can’t recall whether I finished the second biscuit or I left it to be stolen by the furry legions that scurried behind the walls of the manor.
Standing up, I moved away from the door and ceased listening to the rest of the conversation as it slowly died down in the kitchen below.
A sudden sense of calm had taken over me, as if I had finally been awoken by a dream that, though pleasant, bore an oniric irrationality nonetheless. While the voices below quieted so did my mind.
I was struck by laughter when I realized the hilarity of my own behaviour and faulted my proneness to melancholy for my brief lapse of judgement. That day I didn’t dwell on the matter any longer. Instead, I devoted myself to my usual occupations and even went for an early feeding, leaving the taste of the biscuits behind.
As more days go by, however, I find myself unable to stop from ruminating the events like a diligent Father with his scriptures. In my mind the sweets have turned into Prometheus’s offering of fat and bones, an artful deception that made me long for the taste of meat when I had nectar and ambrosia at my table. The glimmer of fat melting as the cuts were roasted blinded me and I didn’t recognize the empty bone that lay inside; only now do I know how tasting them would renew my suffering for a simple bite.
The vase that does not think itself a vase doesn’t feel the need to be filled. Seldom in my human life had I feared that gluttony would drag my soul through the hellish gates, yet from the moment I saw the simple platter, doom was impending on my quiet life.
Above all, it was the gentleness that swept me away: the unassuming way in which the gift was given, the work that had been done to make it without any need nor request, the delicate thoughtfulness that it betrayed.
Now, I fear the sweetness of it souring to regret as much as I yearn to taste it again. The pain that came with it is gentle, it carves these long-forgotten emotions into my heart most delicately, as if afraid to hurt the poor flesh. The hand that chisels away at my soul works with the firm attentiveness of fingers shaping dough, roughened on the pads and assertive against the pliant give of warmed butter.
Thus I spent the last days lost in musings and the subject brought me back to the readings of my youth[2]. As if to mock my melancholy, the dated ideas that had been popular in my times drove my thoughts to those old matters.
It is gentleness the place where affection most naturally resides. If fire strives to reach the vault of the sky and the rock to melt back into the embrace of the earth, then affection must tend to the gentle heart. It is the peaceful haven where it returns to as a bird flying back to green branches, the place which is most natural to it.
Gentleness truly is not tame, it’s not demure, it’s in the sharp claws of the owl defending its nestlings as much as in the feverish hands that take a lover apart. The movements that moulded the biscuits with care were gentle just as much as the stubbornness that guided them (fueled – I fear – by a terrible misconception about our innocent Josephine).
Called to it, I find my affection inescapably moved and it leans towards this gentle heart and the humanity it brings along. I had thought myself aether, able to go on endlessly on its path, circling the Earth without ever meeting it, but I now discover myself a simple pebble, that sinks to the ground at the taste of biscuits. After everything, I’m just as unable to escape the pull towards the human world as the rock is with the Earth. To forces like these it is of no interest that I have long deserted such a life, they will pull until they meet acquiescence or equal resistance.
Hence the resolution to impose my sorrows to this unfortunate piece of parchment, hoping that it would take the problems from my restless mind and give me reprieve. I thought that, if I could not avoid the hit to my heart, then at least I could pour its aches into the sheet and let them torment its body instead of my tired mind. Then I could go back to being light and free inside the thick walls of the manor.
Instead, as I near the ending of my musings, I wonder whether there ever was such a possibility, given how I now feel even more lost in the memory than I did before grabbing my pen. Perhaps, my knowledge is lacking and I need to resume my studies of the ancient philosophers, or maybe the audacious alchemists. Then I might be able to find the way in which a humble stone can be refined into lightness and float freely in the sky. Once it’s made aether and is rock no more, it can turn alongside the highest spheres and be finally unburdened by the force that claims it back to Earth.
Alas, dear parchment, you haven’t proven yourself a good friend! I leave this soliloquy no less thoughtful than I came to it.
I hear the first stirrings of the house coming back to life and dawn has long past, drowned in my solitary musings. I will take these as my signs to finally retire and spare you from further torments. If the same mercy will be granted to me in my sleep it is yet to see, though I long to go back to those dreams of breakfast that I fear and hope to encounter still.
[1]In the myth, Andromeda was chained to a rock in the middle of the sea to be offered as a sacrifice to a sea-monster (ketos in Greek, which is basically whale lol) and was saved by Perseus. Rugiero and Orlando (Roland is the original french name of the legendary figure) are characters from the Orlando Furioso (The frenzy of Orlando) and they both saved other damsels in distress that were in the same situation as Andromeda because the author (Ariosto) wanted to make a reference to the Andromeda and Perseus myth (as one does). So Alistair here references all of them because the Orlando Furioso went BIG in the XVI century and I honestly think he would have reaally loved the vibe, which I will describe as “Ariosto would have written fics on ao3 and they would have been those crack treated seriously that have you sob and laugh at 2 A.M.” Could have I said “Perseus” and spared you this note? Yes. But I really wanted Alistair to read Ariosto (he was also a little recluse that traveled through books and was forced out of his little bubble, let them bond).
[2]The next part is very medieval/1500 thinking lol
It has a bit to do with the poem from the title, which means and love finds its place in gentleness (I will put the references in the endnote, for those with similar masochistic tendencies) and with Aristotle’s physics, with a dash of Galileo and Newton to spice it up.
Mainly, he refers to Aristotle’s theory about the elements composing the universe, where the four elements that make up the Earth (fire, air, water and earth, from lightest to heaviest) are all corruptible and follow a straight-line type of movement that makes them tend towards their “natural place”. (For example, the earth element tends to the center of the Earth, so if you throw a rock it sinks to the ground, while the fire element tends to the sky so the flames tend upwards). It works a bit like gravity but every element is pulled towards its own natural place. Aether is the incorruptible element that composes the cosmos outside of the Earth, it is the lightest element and its movement is circular and unending, so closer to perfection in an ancient perspective. The sentence from the poem means that gentleness/a gentle heart is the natural place of love.