Γ 6

[silk_for_calde]

[VIDEO POST]
[Silk is seated, presumably, in front of his computer; a large red 'T' is emblazoned on the plain black shirt he generally wears in lieu of proper augur's robes. He does not begin to speak immediately, contemplating his image on the screen, stroking at his cheek thoughtfully.]

This curse, although it encourages a kind of honesty most wouldn't choose on their own, is certainly one of the most beneficial I have heard of. It is always healthy to admit one's misdeeds to oneself and to the gods-- and, in this case, to our fellow man.

My prideful side would like to think that this stands for theodidact; but, from the reactions of others, it seems only our negative qualities are emblazoned upon us today. In some ways, I am ashamed to admit to it because of my own insufficiency; I have often felt I do not deserve the honors visited upon me by the gods. In a way, it may stand for theodidact after all; a reminder that I should trust in divine judgment, for it is certainly wrong of me to imagine that I might know myself better than they in Mainframe.

In truth, I am certain that this letter marks me as a thief. 'T' also signifies Tartaros, the patron of thieves, a god of darkness, to whom I have prayed many times for aid. We augurs wear black to honor Stygian Tartaros, so that, robed in his secrecy, we may steal amongst the gods and overhear their words. So in a sense all augurs are thieves, too; we serve Tartaros, I should say, as eagerly and wholeheartedly as the rest of the Nine, and all the minor gods as well.
I have been a thief in truth, however, though not a very good one, and only in the service of a god. The Outsider asked me to save my manteion, and I broke into a man's house to try and steal back the deed to the property. I did not succeed in regaining it; I did, however, make my way onto his property under the cover of night, gain access to his house, and, regrettably, shoot several of the great cats that guarded his grounds. I am not certain whether the cats-- lynxes, Mucor told me they were, great horned beasts-- survived. Tenebrous Tartaros heard my prayers that evening, and aided me... Although in some ways the attempt was an utter failure. However; although I have not regained my manteion yet, I believe I will, in time. Breaking into Blood's was only the beginning of my path. The gods' ways are a mystery, even to those of us who profess to know them best.
I am telling you this for several reasons. One, because honesty is always commendable, and withholding the truth only leads to evil. Two, because I believe no one can ever know the will of the gods, completely; and because, having admitted to theodidacy, it is even more important to admit my fundamental ignorance. Three, because admitting to one's sins is a part of atoning for them; a meritorious act, or nearly.

[He trails off, pausing for a moment, glancing off-screen. When he begins to speak once more, it is quieter, to himself, though audible.]

I have just thought that T could stand for traitor as well, depending on one's point of view. That is a troubling thought; I have never cared for politics, only for my manteion and the gods; and yet... I am to be caldé, when I return to Viron, if the people have their way. Overthrowing the Ayuntamiento would be treason in the Councillors' eyes, of course... But they have overthrown the Charter themselves. Surely a return to the Charter, at the behest of a goddess, Comely Kypris herself, is not treason... But it reminds me that those who would support me and those who would oppose me are brothers; all Vironese. I must stop them fighting; whether by accepting the power they would give me, or by surrendering my own person... I often wonder which it will be. And whether anything can really be done to restore the peace... [Soft sigh]

[/VIDEO]

Comments

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit.livejournal.com]

Yes, the Greeks. Have you found the story of the man who would fly?

Then do I speak to someone from my whirling whorling future?

No, the none of it. I chose Art and freedom instead.

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

I have not, yet. Did the Greeks have Fliers as well? We see them from time to time, in my whorl, like black dragonflies against the sun; it's said they bring rain, but no one knows.

I have no answers, my son, only questions; yet, it doesn't seem unlikely, given how close so many things are. No biochemical people I knew remembered the Short-sun whorl, and the few chems who did remembered very little.

Scylla sometimes draws those to her who would prefer freedom, to make of them Augurs; artists, though, are Molpe's, and I believe you are hers ore than her older sister's. The whorl has need of artists as well, though I suspect you'd have made a fine augur.

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit.livejournal.com]

Fliers? Only in a man and his son, and the man made wings for them both out of wax and feathers so they could escape their imprisonment. The Fliers would prefer rain. If they get too hot in the sun, their wings might melt.

How much older than me are you that you can call me son like the fathers did? You seem a man, though--human.

Whorl. It's too good a word. Every whorl is in need of artists. And every artist, every true artist, can make a whorl.

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

I will look for the story. The Fliers in our whorl-- I met one, and as he lay dying, he told me they are losing control. Of the sun. What that means I cannot say. Did the man and his son learn to fly?

I don't see any difference between men from Earth and from my whorl; another sign, perhaps, that my theory is correct.

The task of an artist is to create, and as creators artists are the children, too, of two-headed Pas, builder of the Whorl and god of mechanisms. Artists and augurs both hear the whispers of the gods, only in different ways.

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit.livejournal.com]

They did learn to fly. It was a dangerous undertaking. With wings of wax, consider the problem. Consider if one flew too close to the sun.

The artist, like the god of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

Of course; they would fall, once the wax melted. A story about the dangers of pride, no doubt.

Do you really believe the gods are indifferent? I imagine the artist would watch his creation, curious to see it change over time, wanting to know how it would be received.

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit.livejournal.com]

There is a difference between indifference and disinterest, between distance and avoidance. The reception is a different ordeal entirely.

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

For the artist, perhaps; for the gods, I am not sure. Pas watches us in the whorl he made for us, listening to our prayers and accepting our sacrifices. Our gods have been distant, for some time, but I think they are returning-- two theophanies in less than a week by Comely Kypris. They are not disinterested; that I cannot believe.

As an artist, how do you regard your creations?

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit.livejournal.com]

Comely Kypris. Cyprus. Aphrodite. It must follow after.

They are creations, things I have made. They are mine, but they are not me. They are meant to be greater than they themselves are, as the sum of a man is greater than his parts, and as some men are greater than their parts. They are meant to be the universal as reflected in the particular. A poem, a story, containing a moment recognizable to all.

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

Not you, and always less than you are, but sharing in some way a piece of you?

I suspect it must be so for the gods.

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit.livejournal.com]

No, not a piece of me, but something familiar to all. I, as artist, reveal it. That is what I mean by indifferent and removed.