Sophia - Journal Entry 10.08

"And here is my secret, a very simple secret;
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly,
what is essential is invisible to the eye."

-Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Louisa kept the hearths warm for us upon our return from Tir-na Nog'th, even though it was so late. A few pieces of kindling and the fire sprang easily to life. The room is warm where Serenity sleeps, and my sitting room will soon have the chill chased away. I lit all the tall, golden wax candles here, and they offer the illusion of peace, of safety ... of comfort. I have pulled a woolen comforter around me, and sit by the fire, putting pen to ink to paper. I would rather be in my workshop, but it's too early, even for that.

I do not know what I expected Tir-Na to be. I do not know if I had any expectations at all, really. I realize in retrospect that I was unprepared for what it was, what it offered, what half-truths and fears it wove into whole cloth. For, of course, what was shown was not the full story though it contained truth. Dreams never are the entirety. The currency of dreams is emotion, and I, at least, paid in full. I expect several of the others did as well.

I don't know what powers are brought to bear in Tir-na Nog'th — how it operates, and what influences are brought to bear is beyond my ken. I simply don't understand what was shown me. Not quite true; I understand some of it all too well. I simply don't understand how much was allegory, how much was fear, how much was truth, and how much was a message in a bottle.

My body is so weary, but my mind won't stop. Images fly past my eyes, merging one into the other, all bringing messages, all bringing a sense of loss ... and oddly, a sense of gain. What I saw concerning Vialle and Random was ... It was horrible. Not only to have them shown as so utterly unlike themselves, but the betrayal inherent in the scene was incomprehensible to me. I know that Random loves Vialle, and she him in return. I have never, in all my time with them, experienced anything contrary to that truth. I do not know if I was being shown a choice made between greater goods, or a choice made between that which is good and that which is merely desirable. As I told the young Julietta, there is a very grave difference between the two. I can think of myriad reasons why Vialle's reaction would be as it was (though I'm not at all sure where the power for the reaction came from!) ... but the action Random would have had to have done to precipitate it, would had to have been totally un-Random like! It is inconceivable. Oh, and how it ended ... The death. Betrayal, blood, and death.

Enough, Sophia. For now, put it out of mind. There was too little shown to be able to make a clear judgment on the tableau, and far, far too little revealed to consider it as damning to those good people. But perhaps, when seen in the light of further visions, it does show that even the best are not immune to what is coming.

What I remember next was being in the courtyard. I don't remember if I voluntarily moved there, or if I suddenly just was there. I do know that it was where I wanted to be.

In the courtyard there was a figure. And he was moving in the slow, precise, fluid motions of a well-known set. Immediately recognizable from a thousand other times of seeing the same thing.

Benedict.

A slightly younger Benedict than when I had last seen him, but it was he. Undoubtedly he.

Benedict has always had the power to make my heart ache. He always was so silently kind to me, patient, not always nice, but above all fair. It was as if he simply never noticed that which was so glaringly obvious to others, or it didn't matter to him. He never treated me as different. It was as if he had the power to see from his heart, instead of only his eyes, and that seeing was enough to discount the rest. That, in and of itself, was the greatest gift he could have given.

Why is it that one rarely realizes what is before you until it's far, far too late to say or do anything about it? Why is it that when we have the opportunity to say what should be said, we let it pass by?

I have opened the curtains a little, as it's coming onto dawn. I can see the purpling of the sky against the castle towers from the window. Tir-na Nog'th will have faded by now, though its visions remain.

Benedict. Yes. I joined him in moving through the short form and, as was his way, he corrected this posture, that hand gesture. We finished, and I felt strong again, grounded. He nodded once, then took up his staff and began to walk away, and I knew, up there in Tir-na Nog'th, I knew with certainty that I would never see him again. He had to leave, and he had to take care of something alone.

I don't know what it is he must do. I shall find out, however, and then he will not face whatever it is by himself. I know little of the art of war, and I am not very strong ... but perhaps I can help on other fronts, whatever form those fronts may take. No one should ever have to stand alone in adversity. I would not have Benedict be alone.

Benedict faded out of sight, walking into the ephemeral fog and out of existence. I was ready to leave Tir-na then ... but I wanted to accomplish what it was I had come to do in the first place. I found a spring in the courtyard, bubbling up out of the ground. Tapping the dual energies of the water and the earth, I was able to "see" what was happening to Amber ... to understand the prophecy given us. Amber is being compacted, for lack of a better word for it. It is having the kindness, the caring, the heart and soul of it squeezed out ... making it stronger, yes, and yet more brittle. I can see it in my mind, this expelling of the sweetness, the gentleness ... but my words are not sufficient to paint the picture.

Jolan is a case-in-point to illustrate the sickness Amber has fallen prey to. What he does is not done out of love for others or for the bettering Amber ... it's done solely out of self-gain, out of the love for control. He does these things simply because he can. What is powerful and strong is not always what endures ... nor even simply what is good. Jolan has no conscience. Without conscience, we wither.

Amber is dying and it is because we, as a collective peoples are willing to use power for our own gain, at the expense of others. Where and when this trend began, I do not know. I do know that it is a self-perpetuating sickness, and easily is spread.

How to remedy this disease? This was the other question I brought to be answered.

I was drawn to a secluded area of the garden, as that which could heal Amber was to be found there — in the cool darkness, where the firs grew close. There I saw the Unicorn, white and pure, and my aunt, Fiona, beside Her. Fiona was with child, and the child was the Pattern. The light and energy of it pulsed inside of her, streaming from her hands, writhing in her belly. Tears streamed down her face and her expression was one of ... agony? Pleading? Joy? Helplessness? Hopelessness? Fear? I don't know. I moved to comfort her, and she faded away ... and the Unicorn as well. The light in the grove faded ... and suddenly I was with my cousins Rolfe and Sedgewick, somewhere on a beach.

I was bewildered by this vision, and not yet ready to join the others ... I moved away, disengaging myself from their hold. I could see Rolfe's displeasure, but I simply was not ready to be with others yet. I would have rather found my way out of Tir-na alone at that point. Whether I could have actually done so is an entirely different matter.

I wonder now what Rolfe would say should I tell him of that vision. He is the authority in all things "Unicornian". Perhaps he will understand better than I.

As I moved away from my cousins, I found myself outside of the Castle library. It was lit within, and I heard a female voice say with gladness, "Papa!" I looked inside to see father with a young woman ... curiously familiar, very beautiful. It was several heartbeats before I recognized her as me. The "me" I would have been had things been different. This Sophia was unscarred, and this version of my father was likewise altered. It was heartbreakingly apparent how differently they related to one another than how papa and I do. It was in the little ways. The small, tender ways. There was no shadow over my father's heart. There was no shadow over Sophia to make it harder on him.

My poor papa. My poor, poor papa.

I wept to see them there ... wept to see the difference. Wept for the tenderness and their bright, clear countenances. But again, what was shown was not the whole story. We have not come to the end of the book, nor even the end of the chapter. Whomever sent the vision perhaps meant to wound, but what was given was illumination.

Inside pain, there is sometimes a gift ... but I did not understand that until I was home again. I shall write of that anon.

In the library, as I moved to cup my father's face with my hand, he smiled his rich, warm smile, but it was for the other woman. Again I wept, but something moved out I the hallway ... there was someone there, in the darkness, watching. Again, I saw the movement as they shifted further into the shadows. I took a sword from the wall and moved to confront them. I had had enough pain for one evening.

In the hallway, I saw a figure, cloaked in darkness ... and all it said was, "I wish I could take away the tears," then it was gone.

I blinked, and my jaw literally fell open. I was expecting more pain, more dis-ease, and what I found was compassion. I have no idea whom it was, nor even if it were male or female. I don't even know if the figure faded away as the visions had previously, or if it simply left by magical means. It may have been real, or not. I simply don't know! Why were they there and why were they watching me? I knew all the other people in my visions ... they are friend or family, well known to me, and dear. I don't know who this was ... and I find the fact of this presence more bewildering than all the rest.

About this time, I came upon Mallory and Serenity, or they came upon me. Serenity felt we had to move forward, to get to the end of the dream and so be released from it. We started down towards the Pattern room and came across Rolfe, Sedgewick and Sebastian. We descended together.

There was someone in the room, standing at the center of the Pattern ... a cloaked figure bathed in a brilliant light which streamed off of him, and made the Pattern glow hideously bright. It was in agony; the Pattern itself was in horrible pain. Sebastian threw daggers at the figure, and its blood hit the Pattern, causing even greater anguish than before. The being spoke of its reign being unending. Whomever it was, he was the visual representation of what I felt earlier in the evening, the source of what is killing Amber. Whomever it was, its reign must end. Its patrimony must cease, or we shall no longer be Amber.

Very soon after that, papa was able to trump me ... he had been without contact for a while, and I could hear the relief in his voice. He brought Serenity, Mallory and I through to him, and we all sat quietly for a while before taking our leave. What was there to say, after all? There was nothing yet which could be said.

I have made myself some tea, and I hear the sounds of Louisa stirring. The day has come, and yet I have one last thing to write. One last thing to remember.

Sometimes out of pain, we find surprising gifts. It is not a route we would have taken if we had been asked, if we had been left in peace. But we survive what was done to us and, out of those ashes, if we are very lucky, we find grace and strength.

The Sophia I saw was beautiful, truly beautiful to behold. But she is not me, nor could she ever be. She has never known how much joy a single, simple act of kindness can bring, or the wonderful ache which is felt when someone sees you for who you truly are, and not for how you appear. She has not had to learn the wonderment of what is pure, true and good as it is, by looking deeply to its source. That Sophia has never had her hands scarred by drips of molten metal or chips of stone as she brought into reality something lovely, something which never before was seen. That Sophia has never seen the shadows in her dear papa's eyes, or understood his own hurt at what has happened in her life. She may never understand that her father is not perfect — he is only a man with his own troubles, joys, hopes and fears. I know, however, that he loves me with his whole heart. Even with the shadows in his eyes, he cherishes his Sophia, and does his best with her. I love him all the more for that.

It is impossible for me to say that had circumstances not been as they were, I would have been happier. I merely would have been different. I would not be myself. I wish no one the pain, the mental and physical scarring ... but my scars are not the totality of my being. I am more than my pain, I am more than my past, I am more than what was done to me. I go deeper than this mask of scar tissue.

This is the true lesson Benedict taught me years ago, and its realization is the gift of Tir-na Nog'th. May I live this lesson fully.