Dearest Father;
I find myself drawn back here to this journal tonight, for I have had an experience I must relate to you - to someone... anyone. It is a bittersweet taste of my life, wrought from music, pain, laughter and what is left of my shattered soul.
The evening began peacefully enough. I was returning from Ghenesh, using my Trump of the City Gates. I was bored of Ghenesh's rather unpleasantly barren scenery, and wished for my eyes to enjoy the excitement of the City as I walked back to my residence. It was raining that afternoon, and the Carapace, heated by the fiery sun of the deserts of Ghenesh, was near-boiling on the outer surface. And so, as I appeared, water literally evaporated around me, not even touching the Carapace itself. A thick cloud of steam formed in a moment, and the guards at the Gate took positions of battle, thinking me a demon-beast of some sort.
'Good evening, gentlemen. You need not fear my attack. It is I, Laughing Boy, returned from abroad.'
They looked at each other, and then back at me as the rain continued to cool the Carapace and cleared away the steam. Once they made out my...my face, they shrugged and lowered their weapons. 'Good evening, sir. Be well.'
I saluted them and began my walk through the streets. The Guild Quarter is past the Market Quarter and near the Docks, so it is not an insignificant walk. But I was weary of mind, and enjoyed it. I am sure my more naked form attracted its share of attention, as it usually does - but my mind was not on the people on the streets. I was soaking in the sounds of a City - the City - coming to rest after a day's hard work. The rain still sizzled a little on me as it fell, but it was a minor buzz. The cries of heralds and shopkeepers, the clacking of shoed horses on the streets, the ringing of afternoon bells for dinner - all of these wound their way around me and through me as I progressed.
Eventually, I returned to my villa. It is a simple affair, and set off from the other dwellings in the street. The construction is stone with a mildly white plaster that covers the surface, and makes it appear carved from a single massive sandstone block. I have spent some time decorating the main archway with some intricate scrollwork, and I will someday use the surface of the house as a large canvas for some bas-relief. But that is a note for the future. I unlocked the door and threw it open. I deposited my travel equipment on my workbench, and hurried to my painting studio. I had an inspiration of painting a shopkeeper's storefront I had seen on the way back - the clerk huffy and officious, a young waif begging at his feet for a crust of bread. Such is the City Queen Dara would make. It has a poignancy that disguises the true intent of the artwork - to remind people of the harshness of the Realm in which they live. I quickly assembled my tools and began to work.
It was a thing of beauty, and still stands on my easel near me now. It took several hours to complete, however. After seven o'clock, I paused to activate my lighting system. I am mostly happy with the functionality, but I will improve upon it, I am sure. The luminescence, the frequency of replacement of parts, the rather extravagant energy draw - all of these require work to refine. But it meets my needs right now, so I am reluctant to commit time to it. But my lights remain active during the night, and from time to time I attract random attention. And so it was that around eleven-thirty, a young man wandered to my door. I am known as a kind host, and so I invited him inside. He was no more than twenty-five, a sailor by his dress. His black hair was matted against his head, as it was still raining steadily outside. He stumbled more than entered, but I saw his harmless manner and continued painting. Usually, these drunks require nothing more than a moment or two of rest, and they either collapse into a stupor or take their leave of me. I saw no menace in him, and so I returned to my work. My mind drifted as I considered texture and color. I do not know when, but I started quietly humming the operatic area from Corwin's Earth that I mentioned before. As the strains of music passed over the man, he roused himself.
"Whasszzat? 'at'sss....byooooteeful." He slurred through his words of praise.
"Thank you, sir. It is not my composition, but I will sing it fully if you like."
He could not muster words, but nodded - and so I put down my brush, and began to sing. I remembered sitting in a private box at the Sydney Opera House, watching a performance of Pagliacci. It is a sad thing, a tale of infidelity and murder in a comic theater troupe. I imagine it is sometimes difficult to perform, sometimes even therapeutic. I lost myself in the actor's portrayal of the pained man, assuming the garb of entertainment and happiness even as his heart shattered due to the faithlessness of his wife. I wish my face might have a similar range of expression. But as I completed the main section of the aria and spun down to its' conclusion, the man sat up, his face a mixture of ire and disgust.
"You fffreak. I gotta get out of herrrre."
And with those simple words of hatred, he quickly loped to the door. He almost made it outside, but his shoulder caught on the frame and he spun around. Even as he lost his footing and fell face-down at my doorstep, he began to vomit. It was a thick liquid that spread slowly, a rough and uneven material of a dull brown color. I stopped singing and moved forward to help, but he rolled into the walk and got once again to his feet. He turned into the rain and walked off unsteadily, letting the water clean his mouth and face.
I stood there, at the doorway, stunned at the man's remarks. I didn't know what to say or think. After a moment, I felt the touch of liquid on my foot. I backed away, and went to get cloth to absorb the material and clean it up. It was as I was walking back from my storeroom that the pathetic nature of the moment hit me full on, harder than an axe or a sword.
I used to be a Prince of the Blood. Handsome and fair, in a world that knew no sorrow and no pain. I was worshipped as a son of my father, whom I saw every day and who loved me well. The world was bright and full of song and happiness. And now I look at myself, and my lot in life. I am all but forbidden to step inside the Castle that is my ancestral home. I reside in the City, to be rained upon and shouted at by any who deem it their privilege. I will never know the warmth of a woman nor the breeze of wind upon my face again. And I am held in such utter respect that drunks find it acceptable to come to my house and vomit on my doorstep.
The cloth fell from my hands, and I stooped forward, my back suddenly unable to bear the load. My tear ducts are long gone, and I cannot shed one single droplet of pain or regret. All I can do is shudder and spasm, arms drawn into me, face alternately looking down at the pool of filth on my floor and upwards into the yawning blackness of the evening. A hollow rasping sound escapes my mask - a one-note duet borne of sadness and fatigue.
As my body continues to shake and my head goes back and forth, a pair of city constables walks by, observing me from the far end of the path to my door. The senior of the two points me out to his partner, and I hear his words through the light drizzle of rain.
"Look at that, will you. A drunken bastard comes to his door, throws up on his floor - and he's just laughing his head off." He looks back to his compatriot. "Freak, innit." They quickly walk by, throwing up their hoods again to shield themselves from the rain.
Even as they walk away, I find my halting breaths of near-crying transforming even as they form in my lungs. Within a second or two, they have turned from a single moan of despair into a painfully powerful laugh. I cannot stop myself - sometimes it is the only form of expression I have left. From the outer world, I hardly change. I still move spasmodically, I still rock back and forth on my feet, and the sounds leaving my...face...are still unearthly and haunting. I momentarily lose my feet, and collapse onto my knees with a resounding clash of stone on metal. I kneel there for some minutes, eventually regaining control of myself.
After a while, I pull back into the world, and begin the process of sopping up the man's dinner and drink. It is the work of a few minutes - I am sadly familiar with the task. I take the sopping cloths to a hamper and deposit them there unceremoniously. I will put them out in the morning for the laundry service to pick them up.
I return to my studio, and after a moment, pick up my brush. There was still some work left to do with the painting, and my mind required the focus. I finished it only twenty minutes ago, and I am waiting for it to dry before I judge it complete.
I brought out this journal and began to write the story of the evening, if only because I must have something to occupy myself now.
After all, if I try to sleep, it will only be worse - far worse.
And I have noticed that twice, as I wrote this, I found myself humming the aria yet again. It has a rich depth of expression, and the pain and anguished irony in the voice and the melody appeals to me...soothes me...at times like these. After I finish this entry, I will probably attend to a commissioned Trump that was requested of me. Perhaps the investiture of power into the artwork will remind me of my connection to something - anything - larger than myself and my life.
Perhaps next time, I shall recall for you the time I met Daller. It was at a Eregnor cafe, and my Resistance contact asked me to meet a runner they employed, so that I might know her by sight. Know her by sight I did - and several more senses besides. Pure honey, her hair was.
But I can barely place such senses now - only in my memory do they reside.
Good night, my father.
-- Laughing Boy