words from two

Albir

Impending doom. I would rather--and gladly--face Konnick and his army of accusers than wait here... wait for the sorrow to hit full-force. If I wasn't one straw short of a hay bale before, I will soon be-- this incessant waiting will drive me to insanity. My mind will not find solace in anything; I cannot focus on the written word, cannot eat anything... cannot concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. My hands shake constantly and I cannot sleep, though I feel my body rebelling at my constant restless movement.

I confess I sought her out; I knew she would be somewhere unlikely. (How? I've no idea.)
She was in the Great Hall, standing before the full-length windows across the great expanse of Italian tile flooring. She held something in her hand-- a broom, or some such cleaning device. Yet she simply stood there, unmoving, staring up and out of the enormous windows which were letting in brilliant red and orange hues.
She still remained unmoving as my footsteps echoed in her direction. She didn't turn when I reached her or even when I addressed her with an awkward cough. I realized after a second or two that she was softly humming to herself.
I envied how still and quiet she could be; I longed for a bit of physical peace.
Finally, I spoke. My voice was uncommonly loud and abrasive in the stillness of the hall.
I said, "Will you not at least acknowledge my presence?"
She answered by turning to meet my eyes and bending her head inquisitively.
Here I was not so forthright; in fact, I stammered like a stable boy. I wanted to apologize to her, even to thank her. But all that issued from my mouth was a request for her name. She gave it, "Elsa." Her voice was bright and sweet.
Here I slipped into silence. I did not know how to proceed, for my mind continued to rebuke me for addressing a servant, for seeking the companionship of a household maid.
Still I knew it was what I needed.
She asked me if there was something she could do for me.
I understood that she was asking whether there were some menial task she could perform.
I wanted to answer, yes, there was something she could do for me: she could stand there, silent and still, and let me absorb the calm that radiated from her.
She watched me from the corner of her eye. After a moment she asked, "May I get you some tea?"

Tea? Tea?

Yes. Yes, of course she could get me some tea.
I watched her cross the Hall. Her footfalls made no sound at all, as though she might disappear into the atmosphere of this quiet splendor.
My legs suddenly threatened to buckle underneath me, so I sat down on the floor and leaned back against the cold glass of the window pane.
When she came back, she found me once again with head in hands. She touched my knuckles with the tips of her fingers; hers were warm and mine were cold as ice.
It had grown dark in the hall. She asked me if there were anything more she might do.
She took my long drawn-out pause to suggest she was excused.
On impulse I stood up, spilled my tea and thanked her awkwardly for her patient company.
Her eyes were large and luminous with surprise, but she nodded in reply. As she turned her back, I thought I heard her faintly bid me good night.

It's so lonely here. There are ghosts everywhere. Not in the shadows or the darkness; in the dusty sunlight. In the darkness there are nightmares taken from lost memories-- horrible in their sentimentality. I can't stand it!
God help me.


Elsapatience

Patience. The virtue I'm named for and the one I lack fully. What irony.

This morning I woke early to help in the kitchen. There, cook was singing. Her strong, resonant, bass voice pierced the dim, damp day. Even the sterile blue-white light coming through the windows attributed to the aura of her song. What a lovely morning.

Life is so unusual. To be sure, I know little of it for my age. Still all the same this is my constant reflection.
I feel a need to reach out. It is not an obligation, but a privilege in that I am not sure I am allowed it, if it will be accepted. So I wait.

I was guilty when he discovered me in the Hall, but tremulous that he would seek me out. With the ferocious restlessness he's displayed, I was sure he would reproach me. He didn't, only asked for my name, which I gave--the short version anyway. The poor young man looked so desperate, so sick at heart. If only I were not bound by servitude, I might offer any consolation, even conversation available to me. Still, quietude and docility are all I am allowed. Already I have broken these limits and thankfully have not been punished. I must not do it again.
I asked him if he wanted tea; when I returned with the cup, I found his posture despondent again. He accepted the cup with hands that were like ice. When I asked if he required anything more, he replied with silence. I turned to leave and he leapt up. He... he then thanked me for my company. I didn't expect that, and rather befuddled, I awkwardly wished him a good night.

Tell me what I should do. For once in my life, I am consumed with worry for someone besides myself. Give me permission to extend a bit of solace-- a compassionate piece of my soul. It is for you; I don't know why.