A line from Aeschylus' play, Agamemnon, to set the mood:
"He who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart
until, in our own despair, against our will,
comes wisdom through the awful grace of God."
- - -
They say the first is the most difficult. For all things, one has to take that one step to begin, for there to be anything at all. But perhaps before a step, one must know how to dream. Would he have taken this step, if not having had the dream of something better?
Surely, this meant that he knew how to dream. Or that he always knew how to dream, but never recognized these things as dreams, for they came from desperation and yearning for something that was lost.
What really is a dream, and was this one?
After the first step, one must take another, lest the first one become meaningless. Do not stop going forth and toward the thing ahead; do not disgrace the courage that it took to even dream of taking the first step.
Ahead of you, there is a mountain. And you must climb it. You can't stop midway; you can't turn around and walk the other way. You just can't. Life doesn't work like that; for it is known that the soul will linger at the cliffs of the mountain, at the last few steps you spend climbing. And so, your mind will return there, yearning to reach that place where it was before.
Pain. It is torment to not be there. It is suffering to stop climbing; yet it is the same kind of torment when you climb. Each step takes heroism. It takes delusion to keep going; to keep trying. One must become a fool... or accept oblivion.
One or the other. This is as simple as it gets.
And Kanrel knew that above all else, all the delusions that he had of himself and others, of this world, of this life. He knew that he was a fool. He knew that he couldn't accept oblivion, even when he had looked at it, faced it, and learned to know it better than most.
Years ago. It had begun with the Fall. It had been so long that he had no idea just how long.
Years ago, yet he kept falling. He remained stuck in the grave that he had dug for himself. He just didn't want to accept it; he didn't wish to lie down and accept what he might be for the rest of his existence. For this, he was a fool.
This or that; accepting it or not, he would either way become the fool. He was the fool. He had always been the fool.
If there stood a mirror before him, surely he would laugh; surely, he would cry.
And whether he would cry or laugh, it would not matter. But at least he would now know, without a doubt in his mind, that the man who stood in his mirror was a fool. And all of this, everything that had ever happened, was surely his fault.
And so, he climbed. Step after step, his legs shook, yet he climbed. Where else would he go? What else could he do? This steep stairway, from the floor of the Lands of Shadows Below to the bright and wonderful, beckoned new hope that loomed ahead. This cold light that embraced him. This feeling of nothing that it brought was just another reminder of suffering. It called for him. And so, one can only climb.
The way out, far above him, was like a window stuck to the ceiling. Everything that had passed became unreal. Things that only existed in memory from so long ago, that one could only question oneself, and ask if it was just a dream he once had.
Such a beautiful dream it must have been. For why else would there be such light? Why else were there trees and clouds, rivers and ants, cities and people?
If it were not a dream, why had he ever left it behind? Why would he ever allow himself to be enticed by things that truly had no meaning to them? Why had he become a priest? He almost spat the word out.
Why had he allowed such an exchange? Why does the idea of... power, entice us in such a manner? Why does it have such a hold on men? Why does it strangle you and demand that you respect? Why does it exist in the form that it does?
Why can't we be free? All Kanrel wanted now was to be free.
So much had happened; so many things he had given to be here; so many crimes committed and witnessed. None of them did he wish to face. They might as well not exist in this moment. They should not.
Surely, the wrongs that he had done; the thing that he had released... it would all come for him. It would all, in the end, find him and call for his name. It will force him to stand on trial; to accept its judgment; to take hold of its arm as it leads him to the gallows. For this, he would die. For his crimes, he ought to.
But, to have a taste of life, this wine that had tasted of nothing for far too long, he would give everything. Everything was its price, and everything he would give. Just for a moment of life, a man would accept death. Given the experiences, failures, and crimes that he had committed, no man in his place would deny such a deal.
For a moment in Elysium, all that I ever was and will ever be, shall I give. For a moment of bliss, a hanging does not sound so bad.
Besides, this ascension would lead to it anyway, for all men will die. It is just a matter of time. No man lives forever, even when they try their utmost to defy it. Even creatures like Kalma and Ignar would face their deaths in the end. They too would embrace the ever darkness, and they too would agree with Kanrel.
They, too, would give everything to have even the faintest memory of something.
It took hours, what felt like moments, and became as if years; each step was just like that. Each step, a day that he had lived. Each day, a lived-through suffering. Lashes upon his back; torture for the living; all worth it, in the end. Delude yourself, lest the pain become unbearable.
Become a fool and live, lest oblivion take you.
Climb. Never stop climbing. Look ahead, the mountain never ends; its peak is further and further away. Never does it get closer; never can you reach its summit. But never should you look back; you never ought to turn around and walk back down; never stop. Accept the madness of it all. Become the fool. Live.
And so he climbed. And so we all climb. And soon enough, after the hundredth step, it isn't so bad. It becomes a routine. Just something that you do to stay alive. You've found your wine; at last, you can be drunk.
Accept that there is no other meaning than this; accept that there is no meaning.
And realize that you will never reach the summit; you will always climb, until your feet give way. Let the mountain become your grave; accept its embrace. That day will come, and when it comes, you must accept it. And if there were mirrors ahead, set into the stones of the caverns around him, or the stairs that still loomed ahead, they would only reflect the fool who climbs.
His legs burned. He could no longer climb, not without dragging himself up. But there were so many more steps to take. And that light above seemed ever further away.
Would his ascension ever end? No. Accept it, for it will never end. Each step will only allow you to take the next one. You are not ascending; you are still, like the mountain itself. And like the mountain, you must never waver. Climb yourself until oblivion.
And so, the Fool dragged himself to the next step; and the next; and the next. Without fault, he dragged himself to his end. He was enchained to this mountain, to these steps. This was his prison. It had no lock; it had no windows, other than the one ahead. His sentence was eternal, and so hours would come to pass. Moments, he couldn't recognize passing by. Only a mantra now beckoned him to continue: "Climb, you fool. Live, you fool. Die, you fool."
It pushed him down; it wore him out. It bled him, and it blessed him. It loved him, and it hated him. The words repeated. And repeated. Repeated.
Climb.
They became sparse.
Live.
And other sounds emerged.
Die.
From far above, the light subdued.
Fool.
It hummed, and it was cold.
Fool.
It wet him, and he felt so warm.
Fool.
He dragged himself over the ledge, onto the earth, below the heavens. Where he belonged. The static filled his ears. It was all he could hear.
He crawled forth, reaching something greener than the stones and rubble around him.
He lay on that patch of grass, his back against its green; his eyes set toward the heavens; toward the rain. He accepted the rain.
Tears broke through when he realized something. He shivered because of it: a memory that had latched onto him, like burdock.
It was warm and sticky. "Too red; too warm," he muttered through parched lips.
He closed his eyes. The Fool wept. And the static washed over him.
If this were only a dream, then let the Fool dream forever.
-- End of Part Five --