Deliriously submerged in the remains of
that murderous, treacherous dream, I struggled to rise, gasping as if
His hands were still encircling my throat. But when clarity entered
my brain, it generated a question: how could I have allowed such a
vile weed to wrap its roots around my heart? That I am harrowed by
both dream and he who is the embodiment of bravery! And to question
his innate, indisputable virtue. That these thoughts crossed the
matter of mind, reveal my obligation to attend and learn from the
Emperor.
Though the last journey through the
Emperor's city had been part of the dream, it seemed as if this
aspect must have traveled through the gate of horn, for reality
resembled dream in every detail, except one. Though the streets were
still of the sturdiest construction, and the combination of strength
and wealth of the city so obviously intertwined, the people did not
scoff when I asked for the Emperor, instead wondrously of his
generosity and benevolence. Understanding this to be the Emperor I
sought, relief permeated by body, like the feeling one has when
consuming a warm soup.
The palace was near, but first I
negotiated a dank jungle, crossed a burning desert, and traversed a
raging river, or at least their simulacrum. In pleasant imitation,
an installation, garden-like in execution, greeted visitors to the
Emperor's Palace. Strolling over crushed sea shells, dazzling in the
afternoon sunlight, I recalled the heat their form had reflected in
Arrakis. At the brook of Beruna,
arraigned like a miniature (and useless) moat, I refreshed myself,
inspired to meet the maker of this fabulous yard. And there resided
the wondrous Palace itself, nestled among the layers of the Emperor's
life, like an old man nestled within the layers of his familial
descendants. Greeted at the gate, and escorted through a number of
immaculate passages, I was left facing a final door.
I knocked.
“Come in,” a sonorous called in
reply.
I stepped into the room, well lit (but
not inordinately so), and stumbled upon a cushion. Flailing I fell,
into a pile of softness: cushions, blankets, and pillows. Rising, I
realized, was made awkward by a lack of solidness. On elbows I
surveyed the stationary hills and valleys of ivory softness, like a
frozen image of the swell of the sea. Eventually I struck out, like
the unskilled swimmer I was. Finally, against a wall, I steadied
myself, and rose upward. Only then did I see a plump figure, beaming
as if he had rescued me from sinking himself.
“It does take some getting used to.”
He crossed over as easily as if the floor were solid marble, instead
of the soft sea that it was.
I wasn't certain which words would
issue first from my mouth. All the courteous questions, which the
situation demanded, were as common, and their answers obvious, though
hearing them from his lips would still retain their power to
astonish. Should I ask who he was, though I already understood, or
how he was, though he seemed of amicable attitude. I didn't want to,
but the need, the desperate necessity for him to answer in the
negative, cascaded outward.
“Are you the Emperor?”
“Of course, dear boy, who else could
I be. But do not fear embarrassment, for you see everyone asks that
question.”
He hadn't stopped smiling through his
speech.
“It seems to them,” and here I
presumed he meant everyone, “that I should be as rugged as a
warrior, and as meditatively serene as a monk. But I abdicated the
first archetype, and never embraced the latter. I am only the
emperor” (and you could tell he said it with a small e).
He led me into another room, and we sat
on cushioned benches, at a velvet covered table. With wooden
utensils we ate, and he apologized for my fruitless journey.
“You see, I have nothing to teach,
for there is nothing to say,” and almost as if he knew why I was
there, he continued, “And even if there were, there is no foe for
which such qualities are necessary. I have eliminate them.”
“Are you saying bravery is only of
value in combat, in war?” I asked, but he seemed fixated on
himself.
“I'm a fraud, a fake. In a past,
obliterated by a lack of reliable sources, I was a young conscripted
soldier in a tribal Chieftain's host. We were about to engage,
bloodily and fruitlessly, another chieftain's army. You can see how
this had little relevance to me, except for my bodily integrity. I
couldn't bear the agony of injury, the gore of the separation of the
flesh from the bone, the tensile muscle from the human ivory. I knew
then it had to end, and I saw only one way forward. I surprised our
company commander, defeated him, and rallied a small part of the
Chieftain's host unto myself. In desperation, I consolidated the
loyalty of my company with empty speeches of freedom, of glory, of
whatever I could to move them, though nothing but the preservation of
the flesh mattered to me.”
He paused to drink from a wooden cup,
and smiled ruefully at me. “You needn't look so dismayed.” To
which I replied, not at all. Then he continued.
“Yet, my victory only led further
into contention. I had taken a company by force, but we were only a
third of the entire host. The Chieftain sought revenge, while other
powers, unknown to me, feared my ability to rally the disaffected
against authority. I was compelled to launch a desperate and secret
assault upon Beruna, where the ruler and my former chieftain
conspired to destroy me. Capturing this jewel, upset the regional
balance of power, and men from afar searched out my throne room to
swear their loyalty. But my former master had fled, and I, leaving
behind a trusted lieutenant, chased after him to your village, ready
to inflict righteous judgment for what he had forced me to become.”
“You see,” he said, gesturing at
himself, and momentarily releasing me from the enthralling story (and
reminding me of our present situation), “this is who I truly am
meant to be: generous, slightly pompous, fleshy, and content as you
see me.”
“But how could you accomplish all
that you have done?” I said in astonishment. “The feats, the
repeated besting of overwhelming odds...” I didn't know how to
continue.
“Simple. I studiously avoided combat
until my position was superior, and then once it began, I heedlessly,
flung myself forward. Thoughtless, I couldn't entertain the
possibility of injury. Fortune smiled on me, gifted me in tactics
and the use of a sword, though I was born to be a pauper, tilling a
farm. This then, is courage: lucky skill and a desire to avoid their
use.”
We sat at the table, as the sun sank,
and finally he rose.
“There is an extra bed in the next
room. You can rest there for the night.”
I thanked him for his kindness, and lay
in the softest bed that's ever touched my skin. In the final moment,
as sleep approached, I realized what lent him bravery, it wasn't that
he was afraid of non-existence, of endings and emptiness, but of the
terrors of existence.
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