sparrow and lion

Interim 5: happy birthday

The stranger, of course, remembers all of it. The day of birth. The reason for being. The mistakes the witch made.

You cannot tear the goodness from someone and give it to someone else. Even the most delectable fruit cannot be devoured in its entirety. There will always be something remaining. An edge of goodness. A strand of bad.

The events in that cave had been truth, of course. The weather witch could not lie. Not outright. But she could deceive. And so she did. But the stranger did not. The stranger had been born from deception, but who would ever ask for such a life?

It had taken some time for the stranger to create their code of ethics. The first few years of one's existence are full of trial and error, after all. The stranger had so much to learn and it was all too important to rush. And so the stranger had kept silent. They had held themselves back in order to observe.

The stranger had been created for a purpose, of course. All living creatures were. Ants and birds and horses and people and even the stranger. But the stranger had not been created without choice. And so, for years, the stranger had chosen to pretend that they simply did not exist. If you ignored your purpose long enough, you could soon find yourself separated from the world. People became characters and events became plot points until it all changed from any sort of reality into a story playing in front of your eyes and behind closed doors.

The stranger had been content with this, of course. The witch had pushed once. Early on. The warning was clear. The imagery was undeniable. Time and choice that was not a choice. The wise one and the thief. But still the stranger did nothing.

Until that night in the gardens. There had been blood and cruelty and the threats of worse violence. The stranger had managed to dissociate from the emotions and events surrounding them until then. But it became too much. That boy who became the bandit. What had his name been again? The stranger did not keep track of such trivial details.

The stranger, after all, had never been given a name. The stranger simply answered when spoken to. Names were abstract and unimportant. Leo who had always been Leo and Leo who was now Wren. Names were meaningless things. Like insults and threats.

All that mattered was the truth. One must keep promises. Lying was the only sin that was truly unforgivable. And yet everyone seemed to do it. The stranger tried it once, that night in the garden. The stranger had stared into that boy who would become a bandit's eyes and made a promise with no intention of keeping it.

But the stranger had never forgotten that lie. It had been what brought about the punishment. First with sickening medicines and then with the inscription of sin upon one's own flesh. The stranger had felt, for a moment, that the keeping of that promise would absolve them of that sin. But it had only led to another deception and then to near discovery.

Because, try as they might, the stranger learned long ago that there is no such thing as black or white. Everything is simply grey.

But the warnings had kept coming. That cave that was not a cave with the foolish wiseman and the clever thief. The violence of the boy who became the bandit. The holy man's attempt at betrayal. The disparate descents that failed to influence the ones they loved most. The perfect young lady. The ideal estate. Everything bound in blue ribbon.

Maybe the stranger had never had a choice in the matter. Maybe, when you're created for a purpose, that purpose becomes the reason for your life. Warriors can fight wars or seek peace. Tutors can educate or indoctrinate. The stranger could perpetuate the evil they had been created for or the stranger could kill. One or the other. Never both.

What was it the stranger had said to the boy who would become a bandit? The stranger couldn't remember. It had been so long ago. But it had frightened the boy into leaving. Had it been the stranger's words or their appearance? The bandit had recognized the stranger when their eyes met, but had not remembered the warning he had been given.

The stranger wondered what people saw when they looked at them. Honesty? Cruelty? Emptiness? The stranger may never know

The stranger never looked into the mirror, of course. The stranger never knew what the mirror would show. A large, kindhearted boy? A tiny, tempestuous girl? Or, worst of all, the shadows of nothing? Nothing at all.

Oh, yes, that was it. What the stranger had said that night. "I will slit your throat and gaze into your eyes until you die, and then you will be nothing and no one will miss you."

It was enough to make one feel warm and cozy inside.