The thing about the way you see the world is that it’s all internal. There’s no way to be sure we all interpret colors the same way. I think about this sometimes: think that my red might be someone else’s green. And there would be no way to tell. There are differences you can tell. Aphantasia, for one, the inability to form mental images. But the interesting thing about people with aphantasia is they’ll often get quite far in life assuming that “picture this” is metaphorical. It’s like everyone who can visualize has a secret talent that’s just too commonplace to realize some people don’t. Or maybe it’s the capability to not visualize that’s the talent. To not have to relive past embarrassing moments. Studies suggest people with aphantasia are less prone to PTSD, maybe even are generally lower stress. Must be nice.
When I try to explain my talent (on anonymous forums, not in person: as complicated as my feelings are, I don’t want to lose it. If it’s something I can lose. If it really is a Talent and not just the way my brain works), I’m struck by how often people say it sounds awful, that they can’t imagine living life stuck like that. I guess it would be, if I hadn’t lived this way all my life. If I hadn’t grown up assuming that this is how everyone sees the world.
They sent the children away. The house of an old warrior whose old enemies often found him, no matter how well hidden he tried to stay, was no place for babes. And their mother, though she loved the children of her body as deeply as she could, lived too much in the world of her pencils and paints and canvases, and what was yet to come, to properly care for two infants.
So they gave a child each away to families of the mother’s choosing and went back to living their lives: the old warrior training those who came to him, the seer increasingly reaching for her dark greys and staining reds.
“Something is coming,” her husband said, moving to stand with his hand on her shoulder and gaze at her canvas, showing a shadow in the sky and a battlefield that was currently a prosperous temple.
“Yes.”
“We should prepare our sons.”
They did not know where their sons were, for the seer’s powers were not so specific that she could ask for detailed visions of her children, much as she might wish to. But they had a friend, in the shape of a ginger cat with wonderful intelligence and mysterious powers. Willing to aid its friends, and knowing of what import their success might be, it split itself into two cats each as ginger as their original.
The first deigned to allow the warrior to wrap a strip of leather around its neck as a collar and pin it with a clasp bearing the sigil of his ancestors: a fine silver harp.
“But what shall we use for the second collar? We have not two such pins,” his wife murmured, spinning a brush anxiously in her hand.
“Let me worry about that,” her husband answered, and kissed her on her cheek as he rose and went for his sword.
He had, in point of fact, several swords. But none of them would do for his second son. For the child of a seer, a blade of prophecy was required. And the warrior knew where to find one.
In the town a day’s journey from their quiet cottage, the central square was haunted by a revenant: a skeleton with magnificent swordsmanship. Any warrior who wished to test their mettle might challenge it. But it did not tire and it fought almost as if it could predict the next move of its opponent. Its armor was decayed and rusted almost to nonexistence: its device and design long forgotten. But the sword in its bony hands shone as bright and sharp as the day it was forged. It was to this town, and to this square, that the old warrior went.
Many of his students had, at one time or another, tested themselves against the revenant. None had destroyed it, but many had put on wonderful displays and earned the beginnings of their fortune and reputation (locals and passersby would bet on how long would-be heroes could stay in the square at one time). The old warrior accepted no wagers.
He stepped into the square and battled as fiercely as any younger man. He was a wily and experienced swordsperson and he and the revenant were well-matched. But unlike his students and the others who challenged the skeleton, he did not seek to conquer it and shatter its bones so far that they could not re-coalesce. Such was not possible, for it did indeed have powers of foresight that would not permit it to be destroyed until the End. The old warrior sought only to disarm it. And such was his prowess that this aim he was able to effect, though not without losing his own blade in the process. As the skeleton took up the warrior’s own sword against him, the warrior snatched up the shining blade of prophecy and fled gratefully from the square. He was no longer a young man and the fight had taxed him.
As a prophetic blade, the sword had marvelous powers, one of which he soon put to good effect: he shrank it down to no longer than his wife’s little finger and pinned it to the collar of the other cat.
Then, bearing their respective pins, the ginger cats departed to seek out the sons of the warrior and the seer. And many adventures they had with them. But that, my friends, is another story, for another time.
Reina - May 1st
Keeping a diary is an objectively stupid thing for a Power to do, unless you actively want to lose your abilities. Anything which risks revealing your true identity is a stupid risk. But at some point, something has to give, and the leading theories in psychology suggest that if you can’t talk openly to a therapist, trying to talk openly to yourself is the next best thing. And the mirror is too awkward. So I’m writing things down. I’ll keep them for a few days each, long enough to reflect on them (hopefully), then destroy them. That and the fact that they’re written in a very simple cypher should at least prevent accidental discovery.
Reina - May 2nd
(WIP)
I find the piece of paper shoved partway under one of our many bookshelves, grimy and creased. It’s one of the worksheets Vi put together (presumably still puts together) for her students to improve their writing and vocabulary: complete with cartoony clip-art of a sandy half-circle topped by a palm tree. I take it to the table and hunt around the flat until I have found a mechanical pencil that also belonged to Vi. Some of the lead in it is the wrong size (that would be my doing) and it takes me a few false starts to start writing. I immediately disregard the instruction at the top, in clear, large font: “Write in complete sentences and give reasons behind your choices. Example: I would bring an ultra-strength flashlight, so that I could signal for rescue and explore the island.”
I smile to myself at how practical and mature the example answer is. Vi doesn’t talk down to her students. It’s part of what makes her such a good teacher. She’s one of those (not as rare as you think) people whose dedication and inclination makes them heroes with or without being Powers.
I don’t write the first thing that comes to my mind. My sword. It’s on the list (it will always come with me, wherever I go), but I keep it in my head and just leave the section numbered 1 blank on the worksheet. It’s here, moving my pencil down to 2 where I pause to wonder why I’m bothering. Am I this desperate for even the most tenuous connection to Vi?
Yes, I decide. And start writing.
Continued on back of page.
By the time I’m finished with the paper it’s a mess of strike-outs and asides. Many of my answers start out at my normal, moderately sized handwriting and grow increasingly cramped as I try to make them fit on the lines for the number they’re assigned to. Vi would probably have to mark this a complete failure. I stare at the blank line, a choking tightness in my throat.
I erase it. The eraser is bad, mostly used up, and I almost tear the already abused paper. Then I write it again. More carefully.
Love, Reina.
She called herself Titania. It was an accurate name, for she was as beautiful and capricious and prone to dangerous grudges as the faerie queen of legend, though “Mab” or “Morgan” might have been even more appropriate. Her power was insidious and terrifying in its scope—even limited to one Suggestion every new moon—but her desire seemed to be more for entertaining drama than carnage. For now.
For all the careers and relationships that had been irreparably damaged by “Tell them how you truly feel,” there were also those that would go forward stronger. There were even those that had begun as a result.
The Suggestions were not impossible to resist: they began as a passing fancy and waxed in power with the moon. If you made it to the full moon without giving in to the (by then) near-obsessive compulsion, you could often resist entirely. Three ‘waves’ had been enough to establish this pattern. The first had been, appropriate to Titania’s cruel sense of whimsy, simply: “Dance.” Even a simple twirl satisfied the urge, easy to mistake, in its early stages, for one’s own whim. Many people were entirely unaware they had even been affected.
The second was the more damaging, “Set a Fire.” Grills and hearths were not the only things that had been lit. It was fairly clear even so early on that Titania was ramping up: testing what she could achieve. Fortunately, young children seemed among the least affected by Titania’s powers, though teenagers fell pray to them as easily as adults.
Third was the infamous “Tell them how you truly feel.” Reina had managed it easily, fairly early on, by telling Vi, over Indian takeout and the background noise of a baking show episode neither of them were paying much attention to, “You saved my life you know. I couldn’t be more lucky to have you in it.”
Vi had given her that perpetually surprised smile that reappeared whenever Reina made declarations like this, and likely answered Titania’s compulsion as well (if she hadn’t already), by responding: “I feel lucky to be in your life. And to have you in mine.”
This cycle, the Suggestion couldn’t be accomplished so benignly. “Reveal your darkest secret,” had none of the ambiguity of “Tell them how you truly feel.”
Reina had tried to resist. She had tried to find work arounds: writing out a confession before destroying the document. But apparently ‘reveal’ meant ‘reveal to someone else.’ And the impulse was only growing stronger.
“Hon, did you hear anything I just said?” Vi asked, a little tightly. Her own confession, of going against the mandatory reporter guidelines at a student’s desperate behest, was dangerous and depressing in equal measure—still capable of affecting her job even years after the fact—and she had clearly been hurt when Reina didn’t answer her with her own confidence.
Reina opened her mouth to apologize and found herself saying something else altogether, her stomach twisting as the words escaped. “I killed the Eclipse.” A misguided Power, more hero-complex than hero, whose loss of control had threatened the entire city. And, it had been revealed in the aftermath, Vi’s childhood friend: Simon.
Vi’s face went pale and blank. Her voice was almost toneless when she replied, flatly, “No you didn’t. D'Artagnan killed the Eclipse.”
Reina swallowed, keeping her mouth shut, teeth clenched, but no other words tried to escape. The secret had been revealed. The compulsion was satisfied.
You who were inquisitive, Shall never cease to ponder Your curiosity shall live He thanks you for your wonder
Who crafted with dedication Now must leave your craft behind We will treasure your creations He will treasure still your mind
There’s a final path to follow For those drawn to the unknown Leave your loneliness and sorrow Let your Joining bring you home.
You who taught and shared your learning Now must heed another call And go gently to your Joining For He loves you best of all.
My grief is a lonely feeling Though I’m not alone in grief, Nor in my attempted healing Absent imminent relief
But the grief itself is lonely And it summons other friends: Like the guilt of sometimes only Wishing for a swifter end
For there are few things in nature Crueler than a long decline Than the gradual departure Of the memory and mind
Grief and guilt I feel in essence For what’s not been said or done. I feel even in your presence, Life without you has begun.
“I think I just met the happiest person in the world,” Marianne exclaimed as she bustled in, setting aside her parasol and fussing with her shawl. “How envious I am.”
Ethel looked up from her perusal of Fordyce. “Oh? There are very few contexts in which I should wish to be known as ‘the happiest person in the world’,” she replied levelly.
Marianne’s doe-like hazel eyes widened behind her wire-rimmed spectacles. “Why Ethel,” she protested. “Whyever not?”
“Happiness is transient,” Ethel replied simply. “Pursuit of personal happiness is either pursuit of pleasure: which is self-indulgent and hedonistic, or pursuit of contentment, which, while certainly less objectionable than hedonism, I feel tends to lead to complacency. People who are content in their current circumstance have no occasion to strive for better.”
“What a cynical view you take of happiness,” Marianne said brightly. Then, having moved on from fiddling with her shawl to fiddling with her gloves and the strings of her reticule, she pouted a little, and added, “And you began moralizing before you had any context. My example might not be at all relevant for your points.”
Ethel was about to point out that Marianne’s example was indeed very unlikely to be relevant, given her penchant for hyperbole and her passion for imagining more interesting lives for their neighbors than they were ever likely to experience in truth. However, she deemed it wiser to concede the point. “Do go on, then,” she said, resigning herself to hearing a detailed account.
“You remember Mrs. Gregorson?”
“I believe so—Mrs. Margaret Gregorson, who was Meg Willis when we were at school?”
“Yes, though I heard Mr. Gregorson call her Daisy—is not that sweet?”
“Is that why you call her the happiest person in the world?” Ethel asked in amusement.
“Oh not her,” Marianne said with some impatience, finally divesting herself of shawl, gloves and reticule and casting herself dramatically down onto the teal-upholstered settee. “It was only that I had heard from Mrs. Freeman that she was in Town and I decided to renew our acquaintance. The Gregorsons have lived very quietly in ____, it seems, since their marriage, for Mr. Gregorson’s means were not so great. But they have recently come into a small fortune owing to the death of Mr. Gregorson’s uncle, who was himself a perpetual bachelor and had no children of his own to inherit.”
“So Mr. Gregorson is the happiest person in the world?” Ethel grasped futilely for the thread of the conversation in the labyrinth of Marianne’s volubility.
“No, no, Ethel, do stop interrupting. When I arrived, there was already another lady in the Gregorson’s parlor. I assumed she must be another caller, though I did not recognize her from our school days but Mrs. Gregorson clarified that she was, in fact, lodging with them, and introduced her as Miss Hawkley: a cousin of Mr. Gregorson.” Here, Marianne paused expectantly.
Ethel eyed her warily, wondering if this Miss Hawkley would prove yet another bystander in the matter of the world’s happiest person. “And she, in your estimation, is the world’s—“
“Yes!” Marianne exclaimed before she could finish the inquiry. “For it was revealed in the course of our discussion that Miss Hawkley is surpassingly fond of books of all sorts, and was a great favorite of this uncle. While Mr. Gregorson inherited most of his belongings which were of any consequence, his extensive personal library he left entirely to her. She was so pleased, Ethel! She could hardly keep from smiling the whole time we were speaking: she even apologized for it, saying she knew it must seem indecorous so soon after the passing of a close relative, but she was soon declaiming once again on the breadth and rarity of the material. She said it would always remind her of the happy times she spent with her uncle, and that, while she grieved his passing, she was pleased that he had gone to his reward knowing that his precious collection would be well looked after and loved with the same devotion as he had always shown it. And so I found myself thinking that if I had something about which I felt so passionately, I would be the happiest person in the world. And that is what I thought on the whole way back to here.” She concluded a little breathlessly, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling behind her spectacles as she re-adjusted them to observe Ethel’s reaction.
