Saturday, January 15, 2005

DarkRoom

The small size of the room is oppressing. The monotonous grey walls seem to bear down on you to grind you into a pulpy mixture of flesh and bone and blood, and you close your eyes momentarily, trying to calm yourself down as a spell of giddiness overtakes your senses and throws them into disarray. You can't afford losing your cool now. Feeling the cold hard metal of the foldable chair beneath you, as well as the table surface supporting your forearms, helps to ground you as you open your eyes and fix them on the person sitting opposite you.

For all the room's lack of space, the single fluorescent tube affixed to the damp ceiling still barely manages to throw adequate illumination into all of its four corners, leaving you wondering if there might be some shadowy figure concealed in the dimness that clouds the periphery of your vision. You cannot make out the features of the person sitting opposite you, since his back is facing the light, and his face is masked by shadow just as yours is thrown into sharp relief by the failing rays from the lamp. But you do not need to see his face to know him, for even as you try to recall what he looks like and fail, there is a feeling nudging at you in the back of your mind, that you have known him forever.

He sits very still, like a viper coiled to strike at an approaching enemy; the rigid tension of his defensive stillness is evident in his silhouetted shoulders, and somehow the knowledge of his wariness saddens you. You reach out with one hand, try to make contact with him, to show him you mean no harm. He jerks his arm sharply out of your reach with a hiss and a speed that startles; you involuntarily draw back and watch him with no small amount of mixed sorrow and fear in your eyes, trying to read some emotion in the shrouded face and failing miserably.

You change your strategy. You cannot see his face but he can see yours, so you carefully mask your emotions with an expression of concern and a touch of understanding, hoping that he will let down his guard. Suddenly, involuntarily, you call out his name, a strange word that you know is his appellation even as you utter it and yet you forget it as soon as you say it, and that wave of confusion leaves you troubled. It shows on your face, and he scoffs lightly, turning his face slightly in disdain. Why have you brought him to this place, he asks you; he has important things to do and has no time to waste sitting around in dim tiny rooms being interrogated by some pretentious upstart like you. The size of the room gets to him as well, you can tell from the quaver in his voice.

You get down to business. Ask him what his business is, why he's set himself against you, why he's doing what he's doing. Again, that sardonic tilt of the head, that scoff that does nothing but magnify your anger. His arrogant nonchalance has always irritated you, his refusal to care about anything or anyone besides himself and his purposes. His business is his own, he says airily, and it certainly does not involve revealing any of his plans to other people, especially not the person he has most purposefully set himself against. Tapping his slender fingers on the table impatiently, the staccato beat echoing throughout the room, he beseeches ever so politely that you not waste his time on needless questions while precious time slips through his fingers. You ignore his words, not letting him get to you. In clipped tones you inform him of the folly of his ways, of the wrong he has already wrought in his misguided ways. You implore him to stop before it is too late.

He stiffens at your words, and you nearly stop short, wondering if you are only alienating him further away from your cause. He bends his body so that his face nears your own, and his eyes catch some of the light, gleaming menacingly in the implacable darkness that still conceals his true appearance, and you feel the urgent desire to grab his head and turn it towards the light, to see him without the intervening cloak of shadow. Frustration envelopes your senses and makes it hard for you to think clearly, to think of ways to persuade him. The task ahead of you seems to become more and more insurmountable and you beg silently for the strength to do what you must. AS he looks you in the eye, his posture radiating tensed anger beyond all else, he whispers softly but in a tone that drips with venom words that bear no repeating, words that cut to your bone and display all that you are for all to see, but for the fact that there is no one around to see it but him.

His words have shaken you, and he sees it, he knows you can see he sees it. He takes delight in the fact that he has won this round, and settling back into his chair, his venom spent and coursing through your veins, he tells you to take your sanctimonious preaching to people who are as blinded to truth and reason as you are, and stop bandying it in his face. You let him be, and press down yet again the tumult of anger that seeks release, that seeks righteous vengeance against him. You will not let him bait you to rash action, and you continue to eye him sadly, wondering how it ever came to be like this, when it was that he began to change for the worse. You ask him, patiently, why he's doing this. Why choose the path of darkness?

There is a slight shift in his posture. He denies adamantly the fact that what he is doing is wrong; he says that he has not chosen the path of darkness, merely the path that best serves his interests. What of the oath he swore to the Guild, you question, knowing he cannot resist answering now that you have broached the topic, for he has ever so much to say about the woeful inadequacies of the Guild that you are as well a member of. The Guild is a crumbling bastion of illusory ideals, he tells you, his tone almost willing you to believe him. The rules that the Guild imposed upon its members in the past are no longer valid in today's tumultous world, and no one member in the Guild ever bothers to follow those rules to the word anymore, let alone him. Why do you still persist in being loyal to a Guild that has lost its connection to the world, a Guild that has fallen into disrepute ever since the passing of the last century?

You shake your head in despair. You have only heard too much of this argument ever since the Fall began, when the Outsiders began losing its respect and faith in the members of the long-honoured Guild, sparked by scandal after scandal of Guild members abusing their authority in their service to the Community. It is because of arguments like this that the Guild was dislodged from its lofty perch in the heirarchy of the Community, and because of people who believe in the logic of such arguments that the members of the Guild were shunned and hated. You tell him that. You ask him to believe in the Oath once again, explain to him that if only you could win back the trust of the Council, that the Guild might still be revived to its former glory, to be held in the highest regard by the Community.

He laughs. How ridiculous your ideas are, all of them mere dreams and delusions that will never see the light of day. There can be no turning back now, he says wearily, the Guild is no more, and no amount of dreaming and begging could ever restore it. What about the Crisis, you ask. If the members of the Guild were to come together once more, to risk their lives to save the Community from the ravage of the Crisis, then maybe the Council could be made to see the light, and the Outsiders will hold the Guild in respect again. Your voice begins to tremble in excitement as you lay your plan out before him, sure beyond measure of doubt that he will see the wisdom in your plan, that he will turn away from his misdeeds.

A forceful slam on the table breaks your excited rambling, and you are shocked to see him standing, shoulders trembling in anger. Enough of this nonsense, he growls, fists clenching. He will not abide sitting here listen to your mad plans to revive a fallen Guild when the revival no longer holds any meaning for anyone, not the Guild members, nor the Community. The Outsiders have lost their trust in the Guild, he mutters. No amount of work you do can ever find that lost trust, so long as there are Outsiders who will question the secretive practices of the Guild and the exclusive knowledge that is kept within the walls of the Guildhouse and the hearts of its members. You might be able to save them from the Crisis, but as time passes they will ever forget your labour, and they will yet again begin to question, to suspect, to mutter behind closed doors. The Guild will never, can never, be whole again. He beseeches you to stop championing a meaningless cause, and to find some other aim in life.

You refuse to listen to his words, his deception that seeks to steal your soul and your beliefs. They are the words of the Deceiver, laced with sweet reason to beguile the unwary, to make them serve the dark purposes of the Soul-Stealer. And yet, you cannot stop now, not when you still have a chance to save him from the dark miasma that surrounds him and twists his mind to its bidding. They might forget after the Crisis has passed, you repeat, understanding his point of view, but what if the Guild held the power to invoke a second Crisis on the Community, and then save them from it yet again? Would the faith of the Outsiders in the Guild not be strengthened immeasurably. A few more Crises, you muse, and the Guild will surpass its former glory, and become the great Saviour of the human race. Is that not something to look forward to, the power that all the Guild's members will then hold over the Outsiders?

He backs away from you, horrified at the idea you suggest. That is against the Oath, he exclaims, his voice overtaken by fear, and you delight in the knowledge that he is afraid of you. You have won the upper hand now. Did he not just suggest that the Oath is old and impractical, you question. You tell him of your grand vision, to create a Guild that will outshine all else and take the highest position in the Community, even above the Council, to create a new Oath that fits the requirements that the times impose upon the Guild. All will be changed, and all will be better, you intone. Does that not fit his every request? Does the idea not tempt him?

He is really afraid now, and you wonder why. He calls you a madman, but his words carry no weight against the full force of your ideals. One must be prepared to sacrifice everything for the greater good of the world, you explain. Reaching out yet again to him, you ask if he is prepared to make that sacrifice, if he is willing to join you in the momentous task that awaits? Is he ready to shatter the foundations of the past and create a new world for the Guild, to Create? He calls you a madman, a fanatic. He looks around frantically and bolts for the door.

You cannot remember what happens next. There is a faint impression of a flurry of movement, quickened breaths magnified by the close confines of the room. There is the sharp gleam of metal. A wet sound, a thump, gasps. You feel something wet soaking your clothes, a sharp pain.

You are standing. In some corner of your mind registers the fact that your back is to the light, and it is your face that is now mantled in shadow. He lies on the floor, his irregular shadow steadily enlarging in a most bizarre fashion, and you tilt your head curiously. Kneeling over him, you notice the dagger hilt protruding from his chest, his blood soaking his garments and forming the enlarging pool under him that you thought was his shadow. You feel oddly detached, and wonder if you should feel some kind of emotion at this juncture. You shake your head gently, regretting the fact that you had to stop him before he escaped, before he jeopardised your grand plan. How ironic, you think.

Moving your body slightly so that your shadow does not fall over his face, you tilt his head to face yours, to see what he looks like, just out of curiosity. It is like looking into a mirror, and you laugh sardonically. Your laughter fills the room even as the fluorescent tube beings to flicker and fail, and the darkness that envelopes your face seems grow thicker, larger, more sinister. The light flickers one last time, and goes out.

Avaris / 1/15/2005 05:52:00 PM

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