Deviant of Circumstance

originally posted June 1, 2005

It begins, oddly enough, years ago.
Amid the admiring horde of both men and women, high caste and low, free and slave, I stood. Slack jawed. Floored. They proclaimed their love for her as she stood beside her Cosian suitors on the dais. I could not but blink for fear of opening my eyes to an even stranger reality. She had been carried off years ago on the back of a tarn. She garnered applause then as well. Her garment of heavy brocade cast off, plummeting to the dirt as she and her ‘captor’ laughed. Companionship. To a man of Ko-ro-ba. A man who dared to put his filthy hands on my Home Stone, spiriting it away to his Towers of the Morning to the west. A world away. Even then, she was treacherous.Talena.
How the dupes bought it. The daughter of Marlenus took her ‘rightful place’ in the seat of power. The very throne of Ar. I can still taste the bile building up in the back of my throat at the very thought. They began to tear down our walls, brick by brick, stone by stone, exposing the heart of my beautiful, magnificent city to the predation of lesser men. Oh, how they apologized, Warrior and Scribe, Lamplighter and Street Sweeper alike for the supposed sins of their city. Talk of reparations, abatement of taxes, the lifting of our boot from the necks of our enemies was everywhere. “It is only right,” they sobbed. From the inside out, they began dismantling my pristine metropolis. What no man, men, city or coalition of nations could ever do, her own citizens facilitated. They downplayed the heroism of men in the field, calling them butchers and murderers. Called their deaths in battle deserved.
I painted my first delka that night and sang my last song.
I would continue to write, of course. The codes of my caste and the thrum of my heart compel me to do so to this day. I simply lost the voice to sing. Capfuls of coin no longer motivated me. My verse became more seditious by the day. I praised the valiant effort of the men in the Vosk Delta. I derided the rapidly decreasing masculinity of my peers. I pointed out the obvious contradictions in every action I witnessed. At times, I endured the odd jeer or piece of fruit hurled my way. I took no offense. It gladdened me to know the spirit of Ar was not completely crushed, simply dormant. My involvement with the Brigade, that band of dissident rebels and true patriots, increased. I told no one. I wanted neither glory nor recognition. I wanted the men of Ar to regain their arrogance, their indignation and nothing more. When I close my eyes and say ‘Ar’, the intensity of emotion wells and an arousal of something far greater than sexuality rises. Empire. That is what my city represents. Conquest, not compliance. Domination, not deference. Empire. Whatever it took, the men of Ar must be rallied. Slapped awake, if need be. On a wall of the Central Cylinder, for anyone to see, visible from the Plaza and the intersection of three streets, I brushed the delka again. Every time they washed the wall, we were there to mar it with defiance. Time and time again. Large and red, paint dripping to the stones like so much blood. It was a dangerous game, to be sure, but one that desperately needed playing. I would not stand by idly as heroes were discredited by the meek who would inherit the very earth and tile I stand upon today. Let there be a visible sign of rebellion. Let it be painted by my hand and by my words.
We all know how it ended. The Comeuppance. The Rebuilding. The Rejuvenation. The perversions of the past still remain, however. Small pockets of deviant thought. A weakness. A pox. A Darkosis of Soul. In some, it never lifted. I see the effects. Men led into free companionship and dominated. Mouthy slaves. Economic upheaval. I have changed, as well. In my own way, I, too, have become a deviant of circumstance. I no longer accept my lot in life with a cheerful smile and a jovial attitude. I read. Voraciously. Many of the truths kept half-hidden, taught to the youth of the higher castes, but denied to all else, are known to me. Recently, a fellow asked me, not willing to take the tunic of a Poet, once a Singer, as evidence, “Are you a Scribe? A Merchant? A Slaver?” he asked.
“I am of Ar,” I told him.