Shared - Two Cups of Tea

Rain;
Laughing at the window.
Thought I saw your face.
Only cloudy images,
On my window pane,
And all I hear is rain;
And things I tried, to say.

- Concrete Blonde

Storm clouds brewed over head. Oman watched them churn and threaten. In some ways they mocked her as they turned their blooming shade of charcoal gray. They reminded her of great loss, utter sorrow, and life changing heartbreak. The rain that came soon washed away any doubt that somehow we live on after death. It wasn't the first time she'd had the inclination to imagine such things, for if there was a City of Dust, then they were all surely there, their ghosts, raining down on her now. Taking whatever melancholy broke free of the prison-like box she compartmentalized it in.

Fog began to roll in as the sun settled in the horizon. Just as she rounded a street corner a chalk drawing melted into the street. She paused then, proudly, to watch the slow rush of water into the grate, swirling in color defiantly around the iron bars. Once, she had known an Artist. Just like the one who painted this temporary reminder, he was living and breathing. No more, though. Now he is but a bloodstain on the wooden floor of a row-house in Port Kar. Like this chalk, his blood had drained through the cracks into the canals. The sin of his death; of his murder, washed away. The Accountants had seen fit to remind her that she is always of the Black. That this is the life you sign on for, and these are the prices you pay. Steep, as they may be.

The Rabid Sleen's sign creaked in protest. Behind its door there was the raucous laughter of men doing what men do. Inside, on a top tier above some dancing sands, her Sister Savana sat. Oman scanned the crowd to find her. The thoughts proceeding her arrival might seem melodramatic to some. Others still, might see them as a means to an end. Somewhere in those constant reveries she found the sense to procure what she needed in a way that was diplomatic rather than demanding. The two Women met and adjourned to a sidebar, an office, where they could speak without the worry of appearances and expectations. Over their second cup of tea their conversation came understanding and to a degree, trust between them.





" I have come with a request for Names, " The Sea had said.

" I can provide you with Names, " The Crossroads had replied.



Some sin, never washes away. Some sin, stains. But for the Two there can be no regret.

Al Hallaj

Il mio cuore ha occhi che vedono soltanto per voi e sono completamente in vostre mani. Al Hallaj (10 C.)

-Hassan Massoudy

Thread is ripping.
The knot is slipping.
Blindness.
-U2


Knifed.


Bloodstains between us.

I cleaved a niche, crawled inside.
Average Vessel, last Vestige.
Insignificant weight
These leavings of Hate.


Fetal comfort. Love.
Marked, my only sworn Stone.
Its' scar thick walls sealed.
Fused and Healed.


On a rooftop I seeped.
Gone from over your bone.
Drink of my vine.
Threads of silver twine.



Tethered.

Reciprocity

In 1907, MacDougall weighed six patients while they were in the process of dying from tuberculosis in an old age home. It was relatively easy to determine when death was only a few hours away, and at this point the entire bed was placed on an industrial sized scale which was apparently sensitive to the gram. He took his results (a varying amount of perceived mass loss in most of the six cases) to support his hypothesis that the soul had mass, and when the soul departed the body, so did this mass. The determination of the soul weighing 21 grams was based on the average loss of mass in the six patients within minutes or hours after death. Other studies were soon put forward to confirm the results. Experiments on mice and other animals took place. Most notably the weighing upon death of sheep seemed to create mass for a few minutes which later disappeared. The hypothesis was made that a soul portal formed upon death which then whisked the soul away.





I want my 21 grams back, Mother Fucker.







" I saw him," she told her own reflection in her Mother's antique mirror. At times, the distinction between who she is, and, whom she must become is a finite line. World's collide. Tides break. Men fall beneath the ink on a brow. She was trying to convince herself that the delusion of it all, was real. Needing it to be real. The cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the vanity. Through the furl of smoke, she saw her Mother's eyes, so pathetic, weak, and watery pale. Like her Father's ashes. Dust.




In the other room she heard Basle, " Oman, they are here," he knocked gently on the locked door. She flung the paintbrush, with its ink loaded bristles, at the mirror. A hand smeared the stain in large circles. Lineage obscured in the opaque paint. Oman turned her hand over looking at her palm. Black. The Men waited. Seven couriers, bringing the package to her target.




"Drink your tea," another Ghost said behind her, recovering the thrown paintbrush and dipping it into the bottle. With a deftness of memory, she was painted.

Words Borrowed

"We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs, faiths, and fears; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible."

The stench of Cos still clung to her nostrils. It even overwhelmed the copper smell of blood. The combination of the two was a brutal assault. Oman sat at a table, in the kitchen with her head tilted back. The house she had once called home here in Port Kar, now held very little in the way of comfort for her. The Artist who had shared it with her was dead and gone. With the exception of one lone painting, the entire flat was abandoned. She righted her head, tilting it back from its reclined state and stared blatantly at the portrait of, of all things, herself. It was regarded with a longing to remember the night it had been painted. Instead, currently her thoughts drifted over the brush strokes as if they were not really there. Different circumstances invaded her reverie, and she began to go over them. Inwardly there was a sense of failure that prevailed over the modicum of success in regards to the trip from Ar on a whole. They had indeed managed to escape Cos relatively unscathed, though, she'd lost her pledge in the process. No, Shival wasn't dead. (at least to her knowledge), but, he was missing just the same. It wasn't enough to get what they came for. Pridefully speaking, they should have returned to Ar weeks ago. Too, they should have stayed together. The losing of ones Pupil will not be overlooked, surely and an unblemished record will bear the marks of failure. Much like she did, currently. Oman took the blood soaked rag from her nose and there were obvious and angry hand prints around her neck as if she'd been strangled.




" Has it stopped? ", asked Basle who was looking no worse for wear even with the black eye that was now a very lovely shade and swelling. If it is possible, it only added to his charms. Oman scoffed. She didn't like being rescued by the cavalier guard, who made somewhat a habit of this damsel in distress act. The truth of the matter was that she did not enjoy being reminded that brawling was not her forte`. As a woman, she is not built for close combat. They'd been followed out of Cos, and this was made crystal clear by the awaiting mercenaries that clothes-lined her as she rounded the corner from the Docks of Port Kar. How they managed to arrive first, or, get word that fast, was a mystery. Glowering at Basle, at herself, and at the situation, she replaced the rep cloth. The bleeding had subsided some, but her welted ego was still kicking her ass, but good.



" Oman? ", Basle roused her from the self indulgent pity party, " It isn't like you to be caught off guard. You turned to look at something, and the big one snatched you by the throat, I thought he'd snapped your neck. What happened?" He was looking for an explanation. One she would not give in its entirety, " I thought I saw someone," her voice was laryngitic, still suffering the after effects of being choked. They say that your ghosts always haunt you. If that is true, then Oman is not only preyed upon by waiting Merck's, but also by a past that cannot be undone. Irrevocable, Intangible, and as Indelible as the painting itself. She stared blankly at the portrait leant against the far wall. In this light, it was a vague likeness. Its own empty stare a delicate mirror.



Reflected.

On leading a Double Life, in a Double Entendre`

Screaming at me, all on fire.

Liar, Liar, Liar

I buried you, with my desire.

Liar, Liar, Liar

I buried you so far below.

Liar, Liar, Liar

I hate to see you go.



It occurred to me all at once, that the price we pay for our indiscretions are not monetary. No. This life, through a looking glass has a value greater than gold. Something that we take for granted and let sieve through our fingers like so many promises.

What if there were times where I could see these truths?

What would you say to that, my Lovely Foe?

Why is it that I find myself calling you by that moniker rather than to give your true name?

Perhaps like my own, personal, demon, you would usher forth and become a reality and break me into a thousand shards, if I spoke it. Corrupted Mirror. Your so called sin's upon me like puddles on a dark street. Where I see you in the reflection and I am the depth of their water. I see you and your little, white, lies. Come, my own demon. My old friend.

Go away.

Don't leave me.

Stop following me.

I need you.

Don't look at me.

　
When you believe in things that you don't understand
Then you suffer
Superstition ain't the way

-Stevie Wonder
　
The dark was penetrated by a brilliant flash of lightning. Seconds later the thunder clapped, shaking the walls and the bed with the sonic boom. Rain pelted intermittently at the floor to ceiling windows that ran along the length of the apartment. The storm was on its way, and still, Oman slept. The cloying aroma of the flower bloomed through the twenty second floor apartment. When lightning struck again, you could see the remnant's of the smoke that clung to the marble floors and around the bed she sprawled over in restless sleep. It wasn't a graceful or a lady-like thing to be passed out, half undressed, but she was alone and in the sanctuary of her own home. Every thirty seconds another flash gave birth to the ominous sounds of bowling thunder. It made her twitch in her sleep uneasily, her eyes darting back and forth under their lids. She was dreaming.

The rain poured down over her drenching everything she wore. She was standing on a long pier in the garbs of a peasant looking over the anger of the Sea before her. The tumult of waves crashed over the dock's edge and splashed up over her booted feet. She felt no fear, only a profound and certain curiosity. Something was coming, something was here. The Ocean roared at the shore in defiance. A huge wave rolled in. The sky was grey and lower to the ground than one might imagine. Lightning crept upwards from the horizon to the ominous cloud covered sky. It was a forest of arc's, its limbs and branches of electricity spread to loom between her outstretched hands. The onslaught of the impending wave came crashing down, it parted around her and rocked the pier she stood on. Something was so very near. The metallic taste of ions clung in her mouth and tongue.In this dream she spun around, so fast that it whipped a long trail of water from the braid which hung down her back. A Man who stood at the end of the wharf. He was completely dry and his feet were firmly sunk into the sand. The oceans tide was claiming him little by little. The defiant shoreline persevered. Facing him fully, the rain seeming to wash whatever sins she'd committed between the planks at her feet. The tale of each one slowly dissolved into the ocean under her. Oman stared vacantly at the figure, an amalgam come to haunt her. This man was unknown and yet she knew him. At least in the dream sense, he was a de'ja'vu. Lightning struck her. It coursed around her entire being, arcing from her fingertips to the pylons of the pier. The man dared her to release it.

Another thunderclap rattled the pictures hung on her bedroom walls. Oman jumped off the bed, the sheet sticking to her cheek, her eyes were so dry she couldn't focus. These premonition's always found their way to her in this halcyonic state. Still disoriented, the intensity of the dream made her heart thrum in her chest. Storms were horrible, terrifying, omen's. They told of change, rage, war, and death. Lightning was the curse of the Kings, come down to loose their judgements upon those who were deemed guilty. Only the innocent could survive it. Tuchuk's were intensely superstitious. Oman was no exception to that.

Staggering to a stand she managed to feel her way along the wall to the light switch. In the light she found herself alone in the sanctuary of her home.

Amphitrite

In poetry, Amphitrite's name is often used for the sea, as a synonym of Thalassa.

The dinner ahn upon the city, there was quiet. Crowds had thinned out, as most people had returned to their Arian homes and their Arian families. I stood before a mosaic of Neptune and Amphitrite. Each tile was hand painted, a painstaking process of someones devotion. I can't say how long it held me captivated, or how long it was before I started to drift off in thought, but there I found one of my oldest memories.

We were riding in a wagon, across a vast expanse of grass. Jara held my hand as the sounds of the impending dusk crept up to the caravan. I was cowering in a corner, covered by a thin blanket. Jara sat shirtless, with his back up against my legs. His face had a large burn from temple to jaw, and his hands were peeling and painfully red, there was a pungent odor of salve. Soot and ash coated my throat and dried my eyes, they were gone now, our father's people, dead. We'd been found in a field of high grass, thankfully, by another train of wagons passing by. A midwife, her sister, and her companion carted us off to our last known relative.

The two women were talking back and forth as the wagon rocked, one of them was sewing a leather jerkin. " It is good we found them," the Midwife said. " Are we sure those were the wagons of Khan? ", she looked at us both, her brows knitted, " they do not look like children of the Plains."

The Seamstress put down her work, and also peered over at us. " They are marked, as was Kasim Khan, look at the boys back. "

" Hrmm, " the Midwife continued, a nod as she spoke. Yes, we both had the same port wine marks, as our father before us. " The girl, too?", she questioned the Seamstress significantly.

" Oh yes, both of them, " and she began to sew again. " The boy has so much Storm in him, look at the scowl of his brow, " she said pointing the needle in Jara's direction. I didn't know then, but it was significant. Tuchuk people had a great reverence and fear of storms, particularly those that brought lightning, wind, and rain. " You can almost smell the charge coming off of him, " she nodded as she stitched.

The Midwife began to roll a ball of yarn, " They are not both full of the Storm though, look at the girls eyes, " and she pointed a finger right at me. Jara looked over his shoulder, and squeezed my hand. She continued thoughtfully, " She has the Thassa in her eyes, just look at them, full of all the ghosts on the sandy, kelp ridden, bottom, " then she clucked her tongue against her teeth. " She had better hope to find a companion of Earth or Forest, only the Mountain or the Trees can hold onto that much Water. Rare though. " The Midwife looked upon me as if I were the most pitiful of creatures and finished her thought, " I've never seen that much of the Thassa in one child, no indeed." The woman took a deep breath, " It's a right good thing really, not a burn on her, Water douses Fire, you know."

" Quite the pair, Wrath and Vengeance. It is good we are taking them to Hadas, in Lydius, " the Seamstress spoke of our Aunt with familiarity, " it is the only place where the Ocean and the Storm can live in peace. "

We rode for a while in silence. I can remember looking into Jara's face. I was soothed by the way he patted me, saying nothing, and asking nothing to be said. The Midwife had a matter of fact tone as she finally spoke up, " You know they think that they think Turian's are responsible for the fire, but, funny that they only found one set of boot prints, and someone found a tarn feather, of all things. "

" Hrmm," the Seamstress questioned, " A tarn feather, you say? "

As I walked away from the tiled fresco, a wave of sadness and longing came over me. I cannot say how long it will stay, or whence it came.