Nothing. Darkness.
...
Infinity. Or is it?
...
Who am I?
Am I alive?
What does it mean-
-To be alive?
...
How long have I been here?
What is time?
...
Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
...
What does it mean?
-To be?
Who am I?
...
Time has passed.
Infinity has come and gone.
Nothing has come and gone.
The inky blackness, the black sludge that once was a 'self' begins to churn. It twists and turns to the movements of an invisible ladle, and an expanse both infinite and nonexistent begins to surge. Out of the black sea, bubbles begin to float to the surface, bursts of colors real and imaginary rise from the depths of infinity, of nothingness, of the forgotten self, and stain the waters like oil paint, a menagerie of colors mixing and separating, coalescing. Some bubbles swallow, others are swallowed, some crawl, some fly, some disappear back into the depths. Colors moving, conquering, being conquered, surrendering, until only the strong and the desired remain.
These strong few, these unconquerable few, become one. They form together in the black sea, and rise, rise and rise as if plucked by God's hand out of the nothing, out of the everything. The colors drip and fall from the dome of imaginary light, forming a picture, a landscape, an ethereal plain of green and blue inside a dome stained purple.
-And she awoke, knowing nothing except that she was, and would continue to be. She had no body, she had no essence, she was shadow, less than shadow, and yet she was. She was unaware of the sea outside, she only knew what she could see, and that she was.
The grove was beautiful. The sun gleamed through the trees in brilliant ribbons of golden light. Dust fell from leaves and branches, shining as they passed, showering over the rainbow of flowers below. The grove was small, the trees were blooming with flowers and fruit, pomegranates and olives. She felt that she must have walked through the gates of Elysium to behold such a sight.
And so she was on the outskirts of this garden, one with the shadows of the trees, existing without being, watching without eyes.
On the edge of the grove, beyond her but between her and the other side, was a young man, sitting, leaning against the trunk of one such pomegranate tree. He was beautiful, as pretty as he was handsome. He had pale, toned skin that was the visage of death, with deep emerald eyes which were both sunken and full of life. His hair was as brilliant a gold as the sun that fell into the garden; near-white, it fell and waved like a waterfall from his head. He wore a rather plain toga, his upper body exposed, and held a gilded lyre in his hands.
He pulled the instrument close, and rested his eyes. His fingers, barely touching the strings, sat still in silent anticipation. For these moments, all the world was quiet, and she couldn't help but feel that her own heart had fallen asleep, and was waiting for the call of his rhythm. It was as if the whole universe were waiting with bated breath for the young man's music.
-And then he began to play.
His fingers danced across the strings like a ballet, each digit a trained professional. Her spirit rose and fell with the music, and even as her existence was ephemeral, it swayed with the trees, and with the very wind that seemed itself to be dancing in time. She rose and fell with bitter-sweetness as he wove a story without speaking, a story of love, of hurt washed away, of fear, of loneliness, and the force which gave these things meaning. She couldn't even be surprised when the birds began to sing along, or when woodland creatures stopped in their passing to hear, and then, ignoring her, approached him, lazing in front of him. The deer, the mice, the birds, they didn't even graze, they were as if asleep, their ears and tails twitching and swaying alongside the tune.
How long was it like this?
She wasn't one to say. She who could not exist would have no perception of the passing of time, and certainly not when entranced in the sights and sounds of the glorious dream.
Except when the dream closed.
It was the deer first, that beautiful stag. He raised his head, looking to the woods, distracted from the performance for the first time. His black marble eyes caught sight of a form beyond the grove, so he leaped to his hooves and galloped away. It was here that the digits ceased their dance, and the young man looked off to the distance, a distance beyond her perception, her nonexistent eyes fixed on the garden by forces beyond her understanding.
Without the music to hypnotize them so, the other creatures began to flee, scattering into the deep wood as a man crossed the threshold into the grove.
His skin was a deep, dark tan, his ethnicity an utter mystery. His face was angular and handsome, his dark, almost violet curly hair was stained with golden tips and a goatee was plastered on his chin. He wore a jacket made from a tiger's skin, a leopard skin around his waist, and garnet silk pantaloons. He possessed a wide grin and a bohemian charm, someone who lived in the wild but still tried to be as presentable as possible. But what stood out were his eyes, brilliant golden eyes that seemed to illuminate the soul.
"Oh? Sorry, did I interrupt something?"
The man with the lyre looked to him with confusion, discomfort touching the edges of his emerald eyes, "Not really, no. I was just... practicing."
"Really?" He laughed uncannily before returning his eyes to the young man with full attention, his brow furrowing even as his smile widened. He gestured with wide arms to the woods around him, which had gone silent and still, "Why would you need to practice when nature itself is singing your praises?"
His gaze lowered with suspicion, "Well, it doesn't matter how good you are if you can only play one song."
"Hm. True enough I suppose." He leaned back and scratched his chin, "Is that why you're here, then? To write a new song?"
The corner of his lip pursed, and impatience touched his tongue before any other emotion, "Have you heard me play before? In the city maybe? I don't recognize your face."
"Oh no, I think I'd remember hearing you play, my good man; the way you do. No, no, I am from the city, but I've been away for quite awhile." He rose his hands to the trees, "In my time away, I've... taken to the lifestyle of the naturalist. I prefer it out here, and how much more so when I can hear you play."
The man was disinterested in the bohemian's praise, "Well, with all due respect, this music is for the wind's ears alone. If you want to hear me play, I go to the agora every week; that's when I play for people."
The bohemian fell dramatically onto the flowers, sitting cross-legged and resting his chin on his hand, "And if the wind should carry your music to a man's ear, what then?"
"That would depend on the man, wouldn't it? For instance, if he scared the animals away and made the wind still... I may just ask him to leave."
"But what are people if not another kind of animal? Is my breath not just another wind? Surely you don't truly intend to keep your music to yourself? Hell, I'm sure Apollo himself is jealous of your talent!"
He scoffed, a sarcastic smile briefly rising, "On the contrary, Apollo gave me his blessing personally."
The bohemian raised his hands triumphantly, "All the more reason not to squander your gift! You'd be the richest bard to ever live if you would just-"
"-Live in the city?"
"That's one option certainly; there are plenty of cities out there, not just Athens." His eyes drifted to the musician's still fingers, where a simple golden band sat, "And what of your wife as well? You could provide her with all the world's jewels, the finest gems that would rival her own beauty."
The musician's smile drifted with his mind, his face glowing with a deep joy as he began to reminisce, "It's her that provides for me, if anything. I can assure you that she has no need for jewels, and neither do I. I'm content enough being paid with her affection."
The bohemian was unsatisfied, and pushed further, "Ah, so she's wealthy, then."
He laughed, "No. You could call her a naturalist as well, but far more so than even you or I. She gives me my music, and I play it for her."
His expression turned quizzical, a playful grin coloring his face, "She's a muse then?"
His joy remained, "She is my muse, certainly. If you want to praise my music, you should praise her instead."
"Don't discredit yourself. This is your music, not hers or anyone else's! Your music makes the world dance!"
"-It makes her dance."
"-It would make anyone dance! You could have hundreds of women washing your feet before the day was done if you wanted!"
He shook his head, slowly but assuredly, "No I wouldn't. Because then I wouldn't have my music."
The bohemian's expression fell, "You truly believe this talent you have is useless without her?"
"I can't think of a better way to say it than that. You can't make music without something to say. I'd say that was true of all art."
"Hmph. You disappoint me."
"As do you. Please leave."
"Very well." He began to stand, but stopped halfway, "I'll leave on one condition."
The musician was unimpressed, but his brow was enough to express his tiredness of the man, "And what would that be? A song?"
"No, you wouldn't play for me anyway I presume. Just your name, that's all. The name of the man whose music makes Apollo bow."
He sighed, "I wouldn't go that far." He closed his eyes in contemplation before returning his tired gaze to the man before him. "Orpheus. That's my name."
"Thank you kindly, I'll remember that." He stood up, brushing the grass and flower petals off his pants, "Perhaps you'd like my name as well?"
He closed his eyes again, his fingers beginning to pluck at his lyre's strings impatiently, "No, I have no interest in remembering you. I'd rather like to forget you actually."
The bohemian feigned being shot by an arrow in a dramatic display, "Oh! Your words wound me!" He bowed to the musician with equal fervor, "I hope to hear your music again someday."
"If I see you again it'll be too soon."
His golden eyes shined with malice even as he smiled with pearly teeth, "And yet, I can't help but feel that our story isn't over."
...
The silence was deafening. The world seemed to stop in place, slowing down until even the wind was a statue.
The colors began to drip, blur and fall, as if some great gravity was dragging them down, smearing them across a nonexistent canvas. The trees, the two men, the flowers all began to blur and splotch, as well as the ground underneath her as the whole picture, the painting, began to melt and unravel, collapsing into the vast emptiness underneath...
...
Mhm-
Before she was aware of anything else, she could feel the pounding, pounding, pounding in her skull. As she slowly pulled her tired eyelids open, her hand instinctively went to her temple, her thin fingers gingerly caressing her forehead.
Is this a hangover?
She was familiar with the sensation. Though she didn't make a habit of heavy drinking, she'd been drunk before, and she'd dealt with her own fair share of hangovers throughout her life, but this was far worse than anything she'd ever experienced. She could all but imagine the tiny workman whacking away at the inside of her head with the steady strikes of his hammer.
Aisha Alghul slowly pushed herself up to a sitting position.
....