Butterfly Dreams
Chrysalis: Not Forgotten
© Ilah, 1999
They cluster around his feet like children around a storyteller of old; wide eyed and fascinated, they hang upon every syllable. And he, missing only the motley costume, holds them spellbound as he plucks towers and palaces, kings and armies, like a magician reaching baubles from the thin air. Byzantine and Egypt, Pharaohs and Caesar and Kings - he folds back the cloth of time; a jeweler displaying his wares and each jewel shines beneath the polish of his care. His web has reached out and drawn them all in - Shaine with his slow smile and bright eyed Elizabeth with her quick and greedy mind; the deceptively fragile beauty, Christian, who kneels with awe as though before a living saint. Even distant Isabeau and aloof Amon; Isabeau intent with unblinking stare at the night sky beyond the window pane, Amon with book in hand, the pages of which have gone unturned for the last hour as each succumbs to the lure of the storyteller's craft.
All of the young ones, and I. Too old to sit at his feet like the children, too drawn to turn away. Just beyond the door, unheard, unseen, cloaked in shadows. I rest my cheek against the cool wall, trace the texture with a fingertip as I let his voice wash over me. Memories stir, shift lazily beneath the patina of the ages as he touches on things I know, places I have seen. So many things and so much distance between then and now; the years lay like the heaviest of quilts, smothering, and it seems as though each night only makes them heavier still. But his words have a beauty to them all the same and it draws us in, moths to the candle flame, to circle about the memories of the oldest of us all.
At length the story ends and even Elizabeth is too rapt to utter forth another question that would launch the next tale. They disperse, his disciples - Shaine to the hunt, Christian to his quiet pursuits, Isabeau to her solitude - each alight with the visions and thoughts they take from him, tumbling through their minds. Amon's eyes flicker towards me as he departs but we exchange no words. He passes on, and in a matter of heartbeats the room that was only just filled with eager ears is emptied, home only to the shadows and echoes of the moment past.
And when even their heartbeats have passed beyond hearing, the last footfall faded, he looks up and his dark gaze turns towards my shadow. "You're welcome to come in."
His voice is soft, his tone gentle. And like the wild creature coaxed from its hiding place I step out from the shadows. He rises as I approach, ancient courtesies to both of us, and together we stand and regard one another. Before him I am as Shaine is to myself - naught but a child, and his years were countless when my mother bore me beneath her heart. Yet I do not feel as I should, there is no frisson of awe as I look at this, our race's eldest surviving son. Perhaps... Perhaps there is no awe left in me. When one has seen perfection, touched it, then what is left?
He studies me as well and it is his eyes that unman me. Dark and liquid, inscrutiable - he was in the prime of life when the change took him and our faces might be of an age, timeless and firm. But our eyes... it is the eyes which tell the age and his tell of so many ages, so many countless empires and centuries swept away into the scouring grains of time. To look into those eyes is to see a span of life such as the thoughts can not comprehend, a yawning abyss which the mind flinches from, drawing back in self preservation. And yet it is also to see a soul - thin, worn to the bare planes by the passing of the years; grown, engulfing all that the owner has seen and known, layered and multi-faceted... the soul of a man.
I stand closer to him than I ever have. For the first time we look at each other and as those impossible eyes search over me I wonder what he sees.
"Marius." Oh, just to hear my name upon his lips. He walked among my people, knew them, surely lived as one of them. On his lips I hear my family name as I have not heard it in centuries, not from any lips - not from my contemporaries; Bram, of my mother's people, or my beautiful Greek child. My name as a Roman would speak it, the inflection just so, the sounds just such. It shocks me to my core. Such a simple thing and I can not remember when last I heard it so and to hear it now is only to remember such a great length of time. How much worse must it be for him, who bears three times my age?
His eyes pass over me again, seeking. Taking my measure, trying to find the why of my presence. I see the moment of it - wariness in the darkening of his eyes, challenge in the slight lift of his chin. The shade of his maker stands between us, a ghost of bitter history that has touched us both. "Caius Marius," he repeats softly. "Favored of--"
I never even draw breath as the chill sweeps through me. I reach out, fingertips all but brushing his lips, silencing the syllables before they can be released. "Don't." The steel is bitter on my tongue. "Don't say it."
Surprise in his eyes. He draws back and I allow my hand to fall. We regard one another again, strangers, brothers, and then he nods slightly. There is puzzlement in his eyes as he honestly tries to understand. "Why? It is what the others call you." He spreads his hands gently, a peace offering. "I meant no offense."
I don't know whether to be angry or to laugh. In the end the smile is bitter, twisted, and I wish he did not have to see it. "It isn't who I am." Draw in a breath, the words leaping forth whether I will or not. "Not now. It was a title, a fairy tale. I am no legend." Never was any fruit so bitter to mortal tongue. "And there can be no knight when the lady fair is gone."
Understanding, then, but thankfully not the rush of pity cloaked as sympathy that I brace myself for. He gestures me to a seat, resumes his own. Silence, each waiting for the other to speak, unknowing of what to say. At length he nods to the door. "You listen with the rest of them." There is a gleam in his eyes that I begin to bridle at, teeth set on edge - I can not remember ever being treated as the child he must see me as - but a gentle smile graces his lips and only then do I realize it is teasing, soft and harmless, meant in friendship. I try to muster forth a smile in return but the effort fails.
"You have a gift of speaking." Awkward words, but they come to me only grudgingly. He wonders why I am there. I do not know myself. "And so many memories to share."
"Thousands." The smile teases both of us now, warm and utterly gentle. "Would you have one?"
So free to share, to offer the knowledge of the ages. A thousand and a thousand more questions spring to mind and then to tongue. "What..." What indeed. What was Egypt like? What did you think of Rome? What was she truly like, in the days of your shared youth? Did she ever smile? Laugh? So many questions. He waits, expectant, enjoying the opportunity to share, real pleasure in his open expression; and at the same time it is a test, a rite of passage, to see where my thoughts dwell and what I shall ask for. It needs only the first question.
And then it is there and I can not help but bring it forth, acid upon my tongue. "What is it like to lose yourself?"
I have surprised him and perhaps even slightly dismayed him. Confusion, not knowing how to answer, not sure of what I mean - it flashes across his face in seconds; and how adept we become at reading the smallest gesture, the slightest change of smooth features that I may read all of that there in the minute lines of his mouth and eyes. He draws back and there is regret and sorrow in his eyes. "Marius..."
"What is it like?" Stronger now, the words coming with more assurety, almost desperation. The need to know, newly birthed, burns inside of me. "To wake anew, to know nothing, to lose all that has gone before - what is that like? Tell me, Khaemhet."
But he turns me away with a shake of his head, eyes no longer willing to meet mine. "You don't want to know. Not really. You're too young for that."
"Let me be the judge," I say, biting the words off sharply. "Tell me."
I wait. I wait until he must look up, until his eyes, all unwilling, must meet mine. It staggers me, the weight in those dark eyes, crashing across me with the force of the wave upon the hapless sand. I hold myself firm and we sit, locked in each others eyes until he slowly nods. His gaze never leaves me as he reaches out, spanning the distance between us to brush a cool hand across my cheek.
Blankness. Emptiness. Rebirth. A world painfully new, every noise, every shape, every color an assault upon the senses without name or recognition. A world of fear, battering and beating at a mind without point of reference. To flinch at a sound, a motion, every passing thing a tremor that rocks the stability of a world gone mad.I try to jerk back, to break the contact, find I can not. Frozen, I can only watch the pageant unfold before me, impression upon impression pouring like fire into the theatre of my mind.
Discovery. Learning. To grasp a thing, explore it - touch and sound, taste and sight, the newborn explorations of any babe. Learning the syllables anew, putting thought to concept, word to object. Soft and rough, hot and cold, light and dark. Innocent delight. World without self.Wondering. Puzzlement. To look into a glass and see a reflection unknown, a face that moves with your own emotion but which you have never seen. Awareness of loss, of wrong. Of something missing. Feeling it, like the phantom ache of a missing limb, just beyond reach. Frustration. Inability to answer the question. Who am I?
Anger. Sadness. Alone. Unable to reach out, to speak and touch with others - desperate for contact, forever alone. A gulf of emptiness stretching out, insurmountable, lost in the darkness. Who am I? A life made from wholecloth, stitched together raggedly, borrowed and stolen. Stories to take the place of memories, crafting an identity, never satisfied, a hollow shell. Despair and loneliness.
Who am I?
"No," I gasp, pulling away. He lets me go, sinks back, allows me to do likewise. "No... Like that-- Why? A new chance, a new start - why let the ghosts of the past bury it?"
Such sadness in his eyes. "The past is not a ghost. It is a part of you. Would you cut out your heart and think to continue, never noticing its absence?"
I duck my head, try to hide the tears that well hot in my eyes. Such a fragile hope, neck snapped in the moment of its birth. Its loss hurts, one more formless pain in a pile that has grown beyond my control so swiftly. I teeter upon pins, and I am no angel to dance there with comfort. Shaken and scrambling to rebuild I know not what from a ruin more vast than ever I imagined, and one more option snatched from my hands.
His touch on my hair is light, comforting. I shut my eyes tightly, ashamed to feel the hot splash of tears against the hands clenched in my lap. He strokes my hair back with the gentle familiarity of a father, an uncle. I want to push it away, I am no child... and yet the shaken part of me is strained at the end of a tether just this side of breaking, smothered in a weight I barely know how to hold, and it would be such a wonder to lean against that strong hand just for an instant; a single moment to allow me to gather myself together again. Such an impossible, unthinkable wonder.
Foolishness.
He settles against the arm of my chair, his presence close but not too close, his touch light and smooth. His voice is soft, unobtrusive, offered without encroaching. "You drift free and you wake to a new life... And yes, the world is different. And for awhile, the wonder of that difference can be enough. It can sweep you up and carry you along. But no innocence lasts forever. Always with you is the knowledge; this is not your first world, this is not all there is. The moment that is realized, innocence is left behind and you begin to grow, to ask 'why' as any child does. And with the 'why' comes the realization that the world will never change, no matter which world it is - it is always the same. Only the trappings change. The world itself is the same as the one you left behind and so long as you live you will never escape that."
My voice is ragged even to my own ears. "Then what? Death is no answer."
"No," he agrees mildly. The softest sigh escapes him, a whispered breath against my hair. "Caius... you can not cut the past away. I know it wears heavy, but you have the strength to carry it." Hesitation, such gentleness in his voice. "You bore her on your back when you were only a child. You have more strength than you think."
His fingers brush my hair again, linger against my cheek for a slender comforting moment and then are gone. He departs in the slip of silence, leaving me to gather myself without the shame of watching eyes. I draw a breath, then another, brushing away tears with a shaking hand. Gathering the trembling reigns of my slipping control, shouldering the weight no matter how hard it presses upon me, two thousand years of regrets and sorrow.
But the world does not change. I can not change the past, only the future. At length it is with firm hands that I brush my hair back, wipe the last traces from my cheeks and stand to seek out the others.
A few of his acolytes have sought him out again, a last story before the dawn, but he looks up as I enter. I meet his eyes squarely and answer the question in them firmly. No, Khaemhet. This shall not be forgotten. His smile as I cross the room and urge Elizabeth to move aside that I might share a seat in the circle is balm to a soul more dearly in need of it than I shall ever admit.
Strength to bear the weight of the years. I hold it in trembling hands, grasped with tenacious nail, but I hold it still. That will have to be enough.