Almost Paradigm - A Meditation
Daala - Janary 6, 2006
It was an ordinary enough farmstead, and yet, it bore a curious
signature. Harvest seemed to be in bloom throughout the land, but
despite the subtly obvious signs of habitation the fields were
rampantly overgrown, untended and neglected from the attentions
of plow and scythe. More peculiar was that the vines seemed to be
trampled, or crushed. But then, little of the agrarian compound
could be seen; much was shrouded by a thick glen of verdant
forestry.
The vibrant sights and negligible sounds; a slender slip of a
woman basks in each. Though her height was of a common sort, she
would confound one's perception, radiating an impression of a
petite stature. Heavy robes, cowl and mask, gloves and boots, all
obscured the slender slip of the seemingly petite form from the
world. A small cat, Persian, and a quintessential kitten,
wriggles free from a roomy enough saddlebag, eagerly hurtling
towards the ramshackle home silently standing watch over those
fields that thought themselves mudballs and dustbowls. A
startled, mildly frightened cry whispers from cloaked lips; the
dame nearly falls from her horse in the haste of dismounting.
Merrily lit windows cast some semblance of illumination, and the
woman takes a stride, then another and another when a grizzled
giant of an aging man lumbers through the dilapidated building's
door, the fragile little kitten peeping from the towering walls
of those gnarled fingers of those cupped, leathery mitts of his
hands, mewling softly and giving all sign of perfect security and
contentment. Like a sea-swept bluff, the man is tall, well over
seven feet, very, very large, and bearing pockmarked, worn, and
scarred flesh. To all appearances he'd fought and survived every
conflict in humanity's history, consecutively. A narrow strip of
buckskin leather rests over his eyes, concealing them entirely. A
craggy rumble like the shifting of boulders; the basso bore with
it a juxtaposed intonation. The first, the hard lack of
inflection inherent in many seasoned combatants. The second, a
gentler, more kindly cushion. Overall, there was an effect of
steel swaddled in silk, a slayer of sentients struggling to tame
the rougher angles of his nature. Enough of his voice; the words.
"This kitten is well-kept, cleanly groomed. Certainly no stray.
Might its owner come forth to claim it?"
With some hesitation, the woman takes a single step forward,
making no attempt at all to conceal the noise of the gesture. The
man smiles, but it seems an un-natural concept. Imagine, for a
moment, a child born with no knowledge nor indication refuting
the idea that he is the only of his kind. Suddenly, another of
his species discovers the naked wildling of a child. And thus,
the child attempts to assimilate unto the newfound culture of his
brethren. He dresses himself with no concept of what is
fashionable, or aesthetically trendy to his race. The result can
be nothing but naively comical, jarring, and un-natural. The
child's sense of dress and the smile of this man were the same in
this regard.
Another lope of a step. Then another. In no time at all, the
woman and the man stand very close, though the former maintains
something of a distance. As she gingerly takes her kitten from
the blind man's hands, two small children run out, then another,
and another, more and more. Their clean, meticulously well-kept
dress sharply contrasts with the craggy man's shabby attire. But
not so much as the vibrant noteworthiness of something of a more
basic nature. Perhaps a dozen children milled about, smiling
shyly at the woman and tugging upon the giant's leggings. Most
were human, a dwarf or two, several High Elves, and a Kaldorei.
But amongst their number also stood children of the Orcish,
Trollish, and Tauren races. Sounds carry over the whispering
winds, and it is evident that more children are at play within
the glen behind the ramshackle farmstead. They are chirping,
eagerly pointing towards the woman, crying, "Kaius, Kaius, a new
friend? A new playmate?" The woman makes no indication of
hearing, and instead, hesitantly murmurs in the tongue of the
Sin'dorei, slowly, as though worried that her words might fail
her. "I'm afraid that I was raised in a sheltered home, and never
learned Common...do you understand me, Good Sir?"
Slowly, the man nods. The speed of the gesture does not seem to
imply a cautious answer; rather, the quiet aches of a burdened
carriage, creaking limbs that move at their own pace, willpower
be damned. "My Elvish is rusty, I'm afraid...but I'll try and
make do. Please, come in. My name is Kaius, and these are
my...children."
The woman nods, and yet, makes no motion to move. "I...I'm a
leper, Good Master Kaius...I wouldn't think of unintentionally
preying upon your hospitality..."
All of the children continue to mill about, not at all bothered
by the fact that they'd no clue what was going on. Strangely
enough, even the High Elven younglings gave no sign of
comprehension.
"I was stricken by a fearsome malady that stripped away my eyes.
Though the other effects of the contagion have since faded on,
thank the Light. Even so, I've little fear of disease, even for
the younglings. Please, I couldn't think of turning you away
without a bowl of soup."
Time seems to slow, stood upon its head for a while. Clutching
her kitten a bit tighter to her breast, the woman nods, a little
quicker than is typical to the gesture, implying a slight unease
or fear. "By all means, then...oh...I'm dreadfully sorry, I've
forgotten my manners entirely. My name is Mara...I am indebted to
your kindness, Good Master Kaius..." As he chuckles hesitantly, a
little uncomfortably, and tells her not to think anything of it,
would she please take a seat inside as he holds the door open,
the children make up in their own minds that the stranger is not
yet ready to play, and scamper off into the woods. Kaius smiles,
not looking after them, for what good would that do? But it is a
smile uncomfortable, like the last one, as though he's not
entirely sure of himself or his own.
Across the common room of the house, larger than initially
apparent, more fields can be seen. Unlike those in front of the
house, they are maintained and blossoming with crops, albeit a
shoddily and sloppily performed job of it. Enough food to
maintain a thorp or small village, it seemed. Countless tiny
chairs line a large oaken table, with a larger seat at the head,
presumably belonging to the mountain of a man, a tiny soup bowl
appearing almost comical in both scale, and the over-abundance of
care with which he held it. The woman takes silent stock of the
place, noting that the dining table seemed recently used. Sure
enough, Kaius brings a bowl of soup over within moments, likely
surplus from a newly concluded meal. A blink from shrouded eyes;
left-overs, with so many mouths to feed? Curious...with gracious,
murmured thanks, she takes one of the tiny seats, managing after
ample attempts to find a point of balance. As she begins to eat,
slowly, half-heartedly, Kaius begins to speak.
"Used to be a Paladin. Couldn't stand the internment camps,
though. We'd enslaved the Orcs; whether or not we put them to
work, they were slaves. Whether or not they'd massacred our
people, their young'uns, their civilians, they didn't deserve
that. I thought that I might serve the light in more ample ways
than with the hammer, so I gave that up. All of the children
living at this farm are orphans. Most, because their parents were
killed. Some were abandoned. You must've seen that there are
babes of the Horde's own, amongst the children. A few of those,
they came from nearby villages. People there wanted nothing to do
with them, but couldn't stand the thought of infanticide. The
others, they came to me in the same way as the others. Or I found
them on my own. Still get about to an extent, even without my
eyes. All of them, I raised from close to birth. Alot of them for
that, you say? Well, three massive wars in one lifetime tends to
leave alot of orphans. That's why they all speak common. Though
I've tried to teach what I know of their native tongues,
it's...been more of a failure than a success... I'm a soldier,
not very familiar with other cultures outside of the context of
war. It's incredible...not a thought nor a care to their diverse
appearances amongst that lot. They don't know anything about
their native cultures, I suppose. I've had those come to me that
are older, of course. Those that know something of their
heritage. Most leave when they're old enough; want to rejoin
their kind. Can't blame them. Now, you come to my doorstep. A
leprous woman, probably as cut off from your brethren as these
lads and lassies under my care. You walk with a heavy stride of a
rended spirit, same as my walk. Would that I might have found
you, sooner...your voice sounds like that of a maiden. Perhaps,
if we'd met at an earlier juncture, I would've cared for you, as
with these babes. Might've cured your malady...my divine
abilities are why I'm not afraid for the kiddos. I can snuff out
leprosy if it's in the early stages. In any case, I've let my
mouth run. I'll stop blowing smoke up your bum, and let you eat
in peace..."
In truth, the woman hadn't taken a bite in awhile, though blind
Kaius couldn't possibly see that. She sat very, very still, as
though gripped in a profound moment, or deep within that part of
ourselves that others cannot see nor hear. Suddenly, the reverie
snaps. Digging into her robes, she quietly lays five pieces of
gold on the tabletop with a very shaky hand; Kaius should know
the feel of the coins.
"I...I'm sorry, Good Master Kaius. I really should be
leaving...thank you again, na-"
He cuts her off, quietly, and still quite respectfully. But he
cuts her off, nonetheless.
"You're not a leper. I know that you're a Forsaken, it's quite
alright..."
By the time the words began to emerge from his weathered lips,
Daala had been a pace from walking out. By the time the words
were finished, she hadn't taken a single step. A shudder cascades
along the curves of her spine, and she turns around, whispering,
so very quietly, "Would that you might have found me, sooner..."
Washrag and cooking pot are gently set down as Kaius halts what
he is doing. "I gave up the hammer, but not that which is more
deeply etched in my bones, as a Paladin of the Light. I detected
your anatomical nature well enough. The children didn’t seem to
care, but why should they? Your strangeness isn’t any different
than their own, to them. You could've slaughtered me, or any of
the children, at any juncture. I do not think that that stemmed
from kindness or mercy; you have a soldier's smell, and this is a
time of war, after all. Rather...I think that this place somehow
resonates with you, it speaks to you. Either you grew up in a
very similar fashion as my children...or a manner that was the
complete opposite, I think. Tell me, Miss Mara. Why have you
waited so many years to cry?"
A pause. A long, long, long pause. They stood there for perhaps
ten minutes, neither moving an inch. And then, Daala bursts into
silent sobs, a hacking, coughing thing as though the tears
struggled to break free, but something held them back. A distance
of ten feet is cleared in two strides and Kaius tenderly holds
Daala to his tree trunk of a chest in a very paternal manner.
They stream freely now, the tears, and continue to do so for some
time.
She only makes a sound once, about halfway through; a haunting
wail of agony and pain, lethal poison pent up for all the years
pouring forth. After that cry, she is silent in her wracking
tears, and when they finally ceased and she left the place, she
vowed that she would protect Kaius and Kaius' children, and that
it would not be the last time that they meet.
She comes in perhaps once a week. Mara, that is. She'd told him
more than once that her name is Daala. But then, Kaius knows
himself to be an aging man, and of all the earned privileges
afforded to those approaching twilight's advent, few are enjoyed
so thoroughly as stubborn self-delusion.
So far, she has made correspondence two times after the first.
They were enjoyable enough, but Mara seemed restrained, and talk
was altogether mundane and small-time. Trust issues, most likely.
Not that he minded. Conversation had always been trying on the
old bear, but something about Mara instigates an easily bubbling
brook of articulation. In any case, today shouldn't be like the
others.
A knock; that would be Mara now. She is shushed to the table, and
made to cover her eyes; there is a puzzlement in those eyes,
unvoiced by those lips, as violet fabric veils her burnished
orbs. A few moments pass. A chilled gust that's not completely
unpleasant. Chattering children churn behind the scenes. Scents
of the forest and all of Her wards. Kaius returns; the cloth is
whisked away. Before Daala's eyes, swaddled in a brilliant
blanket of runecloth, is the most angelic countenance of an
infant human girl that had ever blessed the soul with her
benedict, consecrated, and most hallowed presence. To all
appearances, she is no more than a week old, every proportion,
ever aspect of that whisper of a soul is quintessentially
flawless. Daala is entranced by the babe, love at first sight. It
takes the woman a good few moments to process the fact that that
tiny breastplate stands utterly still.
Looking to Kaius, she projects an ill-fated facade of a gruff
demeanor, betrayed by a crack of the voice. "A corpse. What of
h-...what of her?"
"To sooth so sorrowful a soul as yours? Only pure and abject balm
or bane, and I'll have nothing to do with one of the two."
"You're more straight-forward than this. What are you planning?"
"You're suspicious. Wouldn't expect anything less; I've
blind-sided you. Most would accuse you of being controlling, and
only comfortable while serving in that capacity. I think that
you've just been snapped from the dark too often. You just want
to see four walls, a roof, a few doors, and the floor you're
standing on."
"...please, Kaius. What is this about?"
"I found this poor lass not a few hours ago, apparently too late
to avert whatever killed her. Strange, but my hands couldn't find
any sign of why she died. Maybe your eyes can see something I
can't? No? No matter. A spirit as pure as - don't deny it, I can
see it in your eyes, so to speak - as this babe might just douse
your private inferno. Mara, this child hasn't had her last
hoo-rah! Your sitting here is that testament. Raise her as your
own!"
Blinking rapidly, a sudden dizziness grips Daala. No time for
that; it is pushed aside. She stammers.
"I...Kaius, I-...I'm not in a position to bring up a baby girl!"
"You're rationalizing, trying to tell your burning need to call
her your daughter that it isn't feasible. I can keep her here,
until you're able. She can have plenty of little aunts and
uncles, a place that you might come to at your discretion, and an
old soldier with a touch of experience in this regard."
"A Forsaken baby? What if she cannot develop? She'll be trapped
in that body..."
"What has she got to lose? What have you got to lose? Oh, and
you're still rationalizing, by the way."
She's biting her lower lip, but doesn't seem to notice. There's
no real conflict in her mind; Wily Kaius had won without saying a
word. A little conflict, actually, but reserved for the choice of
which Apothecary should resuscitate the baby.
"What will you name her?"
"Madadayo. In my old tongue, it means, "Not yet!"