Warning: this is a harsh story. I hadn't originally intended to post it online, for a variety of reasons; for one, it's a very dark piece, and I think I had internalised the idea, from my works in the other fandom that I write in, that my "mission", of sorts, in writing was to counterbalance the excessive darkness and aggression that seems to be popular in fandom.
However, I've realised after some thought that what I was actually doing in my other fandom was writing the untold stories of that world: where others only wrote of darkness, I tried to illustrate that there was a lighter side to be seen in that world that few people considered. Ar Tonelico's world, on the other hand, is one in which people often celebrate the Reyvateils, but few reflect on the sufferings such an imbalanced caste system as is found in Sol Ciel would produce for this race of people. Again, I am attempting to tell, I suppose, the stories less told; to lighten the path less followed, in order to help people see both sides of the world.
Knowing that this is the path I seem to be on as a fanfic writer, I'm now more comfortable posting the story.
It's told from the perspective of the Angry Reyvateil, the in-character author of Falling Through the Generation Gap.
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Down at the border of the worst part of town, where the poorest of human habitations bleed over into the Reyvateil slums, there used to be a horrible little hangout that called itself the Flesh Fair. Its crowd was invariably drawn from the dregs of the human gene pool, grubby-fingered louts with table manners almost as crude as their vocabularies, the edge only taken off their thuggishness by drink, and in a few cases exascerbated by it instead. The walls inside looked like they hadn't seen fresh paint in decades, a fact poorly hidden by the demeaning centrefolds that dotted the walls here and there; I suspected the place probably used to be a squat, bought out on the cheap or still being occupied illegally in a sector all but ignored by the law. I'd pass by it almost every day on the way to work, wanting so badly to turn away from its graffiti-sprayed exterior and its obscene decor, but unable to keep from staring inwards at the horror and the shame.
A hand-scrawled sign upon the door forbade entry to any Reyvateil, and just in case they couldn't read a constant harsh noise blared over the speaker system, a parody of song distorted and screeching enough to set the teeth of even human passers-by on edge, yet which amazingly did not seem to bother their clientele. Even without the music, no Reyvateil would have been at ease in the place; the main attraction of the Flesh Fair was its reputation as a gathering place for anti-Reyvateil extremists, and from what I could pick out from amidst the cacophony, a full ninety per cent of the conversation that went on there involved the discussion, in savage detail, of what vengeance should be enacted upon the members of our species.
I would have been able to turn away, if not for one thing. The bartenders were a trio of girls, two of them as animatedly vulgar as the rest, but the third as visibly broken a spirit as I have ever seen. She kept her eyes to the floor, her movements skittish, her muscles held rigid in fear. Her lank, mousy hair and grease-smudged skin always looked like they hadn't been washed in days, and the resilient beauty of her face shone through a lumpy mass of scars. I'd seen her get them, watched frozen in shock as a customer smashed her face in with a glass, to the jeering approval of the crowd; she had crumpled to the ground, twisting in on herself, and while I couldn't hear the voice that rose up from inside I saw the light that touched her wounds and knit together the raw edges of her skin.
She was the manager's Reyvateil, and every night he paraded her before this vicious crowd so they could mock her, spit on her, scream in her face. And yet still she was kind to them, as kind as she could be through the terror, probably in part because she feared worse if she stepped out of line, but also because she was what she was. One night I was working particularly late, and I saw the shutters of the place rolled down, rattling with the relentless drone of the sound system. From the painful cries that easily pierced the din, I could tell this establishment's idea of a private party involved no relaxation of that cruelty.
And then one evening, I saw the shutters down well before normal closing hours. The instinctive tension that would grip me when I passed petered out as I realised the speakers weren't on. The next day, and the next, presented me with the same sight: a crumbling, lifeless little haunt that now neatly matched its neighbours. The feel of the place still sickened, its aura of bad intent clinging to the skin like a film, but at least the screams had stopped.
I wondered what became of her, dimly, as I trudged on to work. Did her heart finally collapse under the strain of their hatred? Did they beat their star attraction to death, and then disperse, unsure what to do with themselves now that they'd consummated the act for which they'd hungered so long?
As the mazy back streets led me further into the slums, I felt a tug on the hem of my skirt, a weak one. I was used to this; these streets crawled with the homeless as lesser slums crawled with rats. I never had money for them, but still, I always looked down. Sometimes, the smile of someone who didn't see you as living waste was all it took to put some lightness in your heart.
I saw blue eyes staring back at me, through a mask of familiar scars.
"You used to work at the Flesh Fair, didn't you?"
"I left," she said, averting her eyes as if the very mention of it shamed her. It probably did, I thought, cursing myself silently. Those two words, their tone, their feel, carried volumes of information to my intuition. I left, with purpose. I timed my leaving. I wanted him to know I'd rather walk out to die than live on like this.
I took a seat on the steps beside her. Screw my client, no pun intended; he could wait another five minutes. "I'm sorry. I can't do anything to help you... I live hand-to-mouth as it is."
"It's okay," she said, and there was almost a little humour in her voice; a light, delicate undercurrent that warmed her words from the inside. Goddesses, but her song must have been beautiful, back when she was whole. "Everyone does."
After a moment in which neither of us spoke, she continued on. "It's strange... it must be because I'm dying, but these days, I almost feel like it's... singing to me." Her eyes were focused far in the distance, and I followed her gaze. "The Tower?" I said.
She nodded. "I feel... a warmth coming from it that I never knew before. I wonder if that's where we go... back to the Binary Field." She turned to look at me, a wan smile on her face. "She lives there... doesn't she?"
"She?"
"Sometimes, I think I see her... out of the corner of my eye. I think she comes for us, you know, when we die. She gave herself for us, let herself be sealed away... and even though she can't help us in life any more, maybe she protects us now...."
I didn't know where Mir was these days, to be honest. I'd heard a lot about viruses emerging up in the Tower, about a year ago, and then as quickly as it started the news dropped dead. But I wasn't going to voice those doubts, not to this poor girl, who only had that hope to cling to; and besides, in a way, I still clung to it too. It wasn't about where Mir was or wasn't, ultimately. It was about what she represented: hope, for all of us, that there could be a better world, a place where humans wouldn't punish us simply for being what we were. A place where we could be free. I still believed in that.
I reached inside my shirt and pulled out the small disc I always wore around my neck, concealed. It was a simple thing, marked with an abstract design in red and black; no one who did not know the colour convention would know what it was, but its subtlety was part of its charm. One who held Mir in high esteem, after all, had to take a certain rebellious pride in keeping it secret, or else be weighed down beneath the burden of the subterfuge.
Carefully, I slipped the cord over her head. I could make another.
"You need this more than I do, right now," I said. "May it guard your steps."
She cradled it in the palm of her hand, tracing one finger over the design. "I don't think I'll be doing much stepping... any more," she said, with that same wry humour.
"Then your steps wherever the world beyond may take you," I said softly, squeezing her shoulder as I got to my feet.
I left her looking at it, seemingly lost in the fascination of the simple pattern. It was one of the signs, I knew, the tendency to get caught up in language, in structure, in geometric designs. Perhaps it was the universal rhythm of the Tower calling us home.
I glanced towards the structure, faint beyond the dusty haze of the street. I released a silent prayer into the Binary Field, and for a moment, held my breath; then turned away into the choking air and the night.
Letra - Eldharia ~Inori Saku Mori~
2 months ago
6 comments:
It hurts so much to read this story... It makes me wonder, what was I doing when this happened? What was I doing when thousands of other scenes like this one played out? Talking, musing, creating... Helping one person, leaving another thousand to die. It isn't right...
It's easy to always be thinking of someone, abstractly, and to be praying for the success of people like them, abstractly, and wishing them all the best, abstractly. But it doesn't ease their individual pain and loss... I think the worst thing anyone can possibly lose is the wonder with which they saw the world as a child. The uncountable hopes and desires they had for the future, changing as frequently as the passage of days, all sincere, all without a spot of doubt.
It's something that people are expected to lose when they grow up. In many cases, they choose to throw it away as a sign of having matured. Reyvateils... So intimately entwined with the world, don't need to give up that sense of wonder. Shouldn't need to give it up. Giving it up is to go directly against the evidence that the world does dream, that there is magic, that people do feel as strongly as they ever have underneath that armour of indifference--evidence that they see in vivid, undeniable detail simply from being awake!
So to have that forcefully torn from them, trampled, and insulted again and again, even when they definitely have not given it up...
I'm glad that one girl found something like peace at the end. Even though her spirit was thoroughly broken, she couldn't stop hoping... She only got to savour her vindication for a short time, and in the worst of circumstances, but she had a reason to believe after all.
I used to think that AR had exaggerated the number of Reyvateils who were mistreated, the extent of the mistreatment, the direness of her own situation... I don't think I could have accepted that it was as bad as she had claimed. It's so inconceivable that anyone should be treated like garbage, strewn along abandoned streets like so much refuse whose containers had been chewed apart by passing wild animals, their contents spilling haphazardly into the open. But the spilt content is song... A final, merciful miracle to anyone who will open their minds to the Tower, and their hearts to the world.
Thank you for posting this story. It has helped me find volumes of insight.
Helping one person, leaving another thousand to die. It isn't right...
No, it's not. But you shouldn't at least blame yourself for that. Like AR, you didn't have the resources to help a thousand people. If you can help one, that's at least good.
I think the worst thing anyone can possibly lose is the wonder with which they saw the world as a child. The uncountable hopes and desires they had for the future, changing as frequently as the passage of days, all sincere, all without a spot of doubt.
I do agree that this is, if not our greatest gift, then certainly one of the greatest we possess. There are other things valuable, like knowledge, and the ability to love in deep and complex ways; but none require the absence of that wonder. Even great and knowledgeable scientists can possess a childlike curiosity. I think to want to promote and strengthen that wonder in others is a deeply noble goal.
In many cases, they choose to throw it away as a sign of having matured.
This is very true. I've seen many people do this. I've seen none who were actually pleased, deep down, with the results.
Giving it up is to go directly against the evidence that the world does dream, that there is magic, that people do feel as strongly as they ever have underneath that armour of indifference--evidence that they see in vivid, undeniable detail simply from being awake!
Very well put. It's to clash with the very things that make the world go round, that empower life. Without wonder's drive, life seems as rote tedium. Within it, the meaning of all things is revealed, and life is known as a glittering treasure of incomparable worth.
So to have that forcefully torn from them, trampled, and insulted again and again, even when they definitely have not given it up...
Indeed, it's horrific. That someone could torture so a person whose mind is so bright and caring, so full of dreams and hopes and wonders. At least she never really did lose it, ultimately. The spirit is resilient, even in the midst of the very worst suffering; that's one of the subtler messages woven into this story. A Reyvateil's fire is never truly put out. Even Mir's never was. And this girl's never was. Even in the darkest hour, as you say, there are miracles, born from the unique nature of a Reyvateil's connection.
Thank you for posting this story. It has helped me find volumes of insight.
You're welcome, and thank you for your comments. I'm touched that this piece was appreciated so deeply; it was hard to write, and harrowing to read, no doubt, and I feel there should be a comparable volume gained from it.
It's something that people are expected to lose when they grow up. In many cases, they choose to throw it away as a sign of having matured.
Seen from this angle, the people who mistreat Reyvateils, aside from fearing their magic, may well be scorning younger versions of themselves--to distance themselves from these former selves, or to garner the sympathy and companionship of those who have likewise "grown up." I wonder if people who chose to cast away their sense of wonder have an underlying fear or denial of what they have become: if they refuse to acknowledge that the world dreams, that magic exists--and more so if they make a mockery of these things--then they won't feel the weight of their loss as much. That would be pitiable, though it'd make Reyvateils all the more valuable to the world...
That would be pitiable, though it'd make Reyvateils all the more valuable to the world...
That's definitely an aspect I've been trying to highlight in my writing: that Reyvateils are necessary because they represent, and retain their connections to, all the things that are vital in the world and that many others choose to denigrate, and that it's ironic and sad that many reject Reyvateils almost specifically for that reason: because they're "different". They stare into the face of the very thing they most need and, afraid to be confronted with their own rejection of it, attack that thing.
They stare into the face of the very thing they most need and, afraid to be confronted with their own rejection of it, attack that thing.
apparently thats how human mind works:best to eradicate, to destroy, then ask questions later.As with the same to reyvateils, humans shun them because they fear them, and in the end created all sorts of nonsense which is actually created by themselves through their imagination and fear.I really feel sorry to all reyvateils for this, being mistreated for someone else's ...thinking.
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