Favoured, Futile
25 July 2018 | PG-13 | 2,398 words Mephi pursues a brilliant plan for his life that involves doing nothing. Set during his uni years way before he becomes an Archon.
Curfew reaped the streets of Amsherrat. Where tasselled camels hauled up carts of sleek silks, fresh fruit, sat nibbling their cud in the bazaar aside vendors hawking screaming caged cockerels, and the sermons of streetside preachers: these echoes of a life boisterous enough to breach the dorm’s sandstone walls, now snuffed with the ember of sunset. Every merchant’s flag came down and priests returned to their cloisters, for dining, refreshment, and bed in these hours ordained by God as True Night, where all must be housed and sleeping.
In this silence, in the hills by the campus of Clearwater University, a figure instead pressed outside. Mephi tel-Sharvara—econ major, son of a minister, and quiet hermit dabbling quietly in Hermetics, now ascending a sheer bush-path with his hands clenched over his chest as if to cage together his skin, for on every step upward, his heart thudded like a live bomb.
The amber sky had blackened completely by the time he crested the hill to the overlook. Panting, he slumped himself over the bench and waited miserably for his pulse to stop thrumming in his ears.
Frigid wind racked the trees and chilled every trail of sweat until it stung. The taste of iron rose in his throat. How truly abysmal was his physical condition. Sure, the orthodox route to campus took a shallower hill, but plenty of students scaled the shorter overlook pass every day. Were anyone present to see how badly it exhausted him, sheer embarrassment alone would bar him from ever daring to show himself around them again.
But, solace of solace, at this hour, there would be nobody.
Mephi heaved himself off the bench, breath still heavy but heart calmed level. Cloudless cold was sweeping in south from the desert, that shook his hands and rattled his teeth. But, as he leaned against the guardrail and gazed over the numb streets of the city, stillborn under the starlight, he reasoned that for all the bodily discomfort, this moment was rather peaceful, and that for the sparseness of his ventures into the city proper, he probably liked Amsherrat.
Here the galleries housed the masterworks of the nation, soon enshrined to bedeck the cathedrals. Here was the architecture, waterworks, and sculpture all boasted of in brochures, the museums and cuisine, history and opportunity, the wondrous mountains of crystal and the trade port on the river Katani. And the plucky young academics rearing to join the elite. Here was so many things to be excited for, exclusive to this city, that Mephi did regard with vague fascination, but that even in experiencing, with those painted sailboats and sinuous fountains and eager students all boasting of unfettered talent, dedication, and virtue before him, left his fascination, still, only vague.
So maybe he was wrong and he hated Amsherrat. The noise and the crowds and how hot the noon got, all of that was awful. None of it was unique to the place, but it was what he most keenly felt here, so it was, perhaps unfairly, what he personally knew it for.
Or maybe all he liked was Amsherrat’s cold shadow, this thing he looked upon during True Night as would a perched vulture eye a rotting cadaver. As would an archaeologist pick over ruins. Those unabashed voyeurs giddy for the life of something, but only once it was dead, and neither party could touch the other.
Just one of those cases where it was hard to tell what he thought.
Mephi shifted his position on the guardrail. Cold had numbed his hands rigid, and his fingers ached when he flexed them, but when he brought them to his mouth to blow warmth on them, he froze. How stupid was this? They’d cool again in seconds. So what was the point? It was stupid, and pointless. Stupid, and pointless. Stupid and pointless. Much like Mephi. Stupid and pointless.
Someone who can feel bored in Amsherrat, defy True Night, and hides in their room every day until nightfall is sick. With that thought, he stared at a distinct section of the panorama before him, the sprawling grounds across the way of the Trinitarian Abbey of the Medicinal Third Order of the Thrice Great Aquilegia, colloquially known as Nine Columbines.
There his gaze lingered, until he cast it straight down. Beyond the guardrail, the drop from the overlook to the ground would dash a hypothetical faller fatally. Foliage along the cliff-face would cushion it somewhat, supposing that he tripped or was pushed or that the guardrail buckled under him, but he likely could still snap his neck on something, a rock or a branch, on the way down, belt his head against a boulder, impale his chest upon a twig.
This grim turn in his thoughts was typical.
It wasn’t like he felt impelled to die, or had any reason to. He just thought about it often.
So with his chin rested in his freezing hands, he meditated peacefully on ways to randomly die.
Footsteps tapped behind him. Even, calm, and approaching.
Mephi’s shoulders tensed. But his shock faded beneath a hopeful resignation. Nobody worthy of anybody's affiliation skulked around at True Night. At absolute best, this was campus security, and their discovery of Mephi here would escalate into quite a scandal. Otherwise it was a criminal, potentially a murderer. Or some nocturnal nobody, going about their business, who would pass him by entirely.
In whatever case, no point turning around.
“Hello! A little late out, isn’t it, Mephi?”
Fucking hell it was just Nails.
Mephi restrained a sigh as he turned to face her. Her deformities, some of which Mephi had seen, and many of which he supposed, were hidden as always beneath a heavy burlap cloak. Though her hunched back suggested age, her face glowed with the youth of a teenager. Bile burned Mephi’s throat when he forced his gaze to meet hers, and he found himself grateful that eye contact was neither normal or expected when dealing with her breed. She drew her hood lower and smiled warmly.
Soft Nails was a witch. Banished from her coven, and lacking sufficiently powerful magic to survive on her own, her exile had truthfully been execution.
She was already dead. It would just take until her discovery for it to be formalized.
Well. Ignoring her discovery by Mephi.
“Yeah. Hi,” he lamely replied. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his teeth from chattering. “It is. Very, uh, late. Out.”
Nails smiled as if she had just beheld the laxations of an unhousebroken puppy. The urge flared through Mephi to smack her. “You’re not going to ask me what I’m up to?” she asked.
“Sorry. I’m not... it’s not exactly my business, to know.”
“No?”
“No? I mean.” Now the urge flared to smack himself. There was a perfectly good chance that this was, in fact, his business. “Okay, uh, fine, what are you up to? Like, is this about, you know.”
“Well! It can be.” Nails clapped her hands against the bench excitedly. Considering her sudden enthusiasm, this was likely not the topic she expected. “Wooh, it’s nice that you care. I would truly appreciate your help, if you’re thinking to try it. That’s not just my desperation speaking.”
Then what is it? Mephi wondered.
“I’ll reiterate, you’d make a great witch. Naturally, I’d say your mindset, is actually closer to that of a witch than a human. So I don’t know what you’re doing here playing accountant. It’s obvious you’re not suited to it.”
Mentally he did concede yes. “I score well, though.”
“Sure, but don’t you hate it?”
“Are there any accountants who don’t?”
“Oh you miserable soul.” Nails clicked her tongue. “It’s painful watching you wallow. You’ll be doing it for the rest of your life if you don’t change something soon. Mephi, you already know there’s more options than humdrum society. I can’t see why you wouldn’t choose something that benefits you.”
Maybe because I’m not a selfish fucking monster, you mindless rotten bitch. Wash that name out of your mouth.
“You wouldn’t be alone. It would fix a lot for you, I think.”
Like I want your company. It was nicer when you weren’t here.
But, if he had to choose between anyone and Nails, he would pick Nails.
It was comforting to know that, no matter to what depth his own incompetence or vileness sank, it would never eclipse hers. By the simple virtue of his soul’s purity, he was innately superior.
Guilt never lashed him for thinking about her so cruelly, either. And aspersions came to him easily no matter who he regarded, since, fundamentally, Mephi was a terrible person.
He abided her existence because it soothed his ego. The hypocrisy sickened him.
“If you're that invested, in this idea, you know. You could just force me,” Mephi said. “They keep knives in the anatomy theatre. Like, it's right over there.”
“That's missing the point.”
“How, though? You'd have an ally, in this, whatever, crusade against your old... friends. A better ally than you'd get if I, hypothetically still had autonomy.”
Nails grinned slyly. “Perhaps I'm fond of the young man who gave a waylaid witch mercy?"
Repulsive.
An opportune gust of wind let him blame his grimace on the cold.
Nails did not appreciate that Mephi knew her address, and could report her whenever he wanted. But she was right to think lightly of him. He was too crippled by that same weakness she had mistaken for mercy to even indirectly bloody his hands.
That, and by the tolerance she had apparently mistaken for liking.
He had no polite response. His silence made Nails shrug. “An overwhelming prospect, maybe? Ah, well.” She eased herself onto the bench’s seat and plopped a small bag, which she had been dragging behind her, onto the bench’s table. The thing faintly stank. “What sort of magic do you think you’d get?”
Knowing him, something even more useless than Nails’. But the bag better caught his attention. “Um, sorry, but?”
She followed his gaze to the bag. “Oh, this?” And she opened it. Though the starlight was poor, Mephi could make out enough to determine, between the visual and the reek, that this was organic waste.
Too bemused to stop himself, he dumbly asked, “Why...?”
“It’s dinner.” Nails tied the bag shut again. “The begging, lately, hasn’t gone well.”
“Please don’t eat that.”
“I don’t mind it.”
“Just, please don’t.” Mephi raked his numb fingers through his tangled hair. Given that he had never seen Nails perturbed about anything, she was likely not exaggerating. Still, the image of garbage consumption in any capacity repelled him so viscerally that he needed to stop it, simply for his own peace of mind.
Mephi fished in his pocket, mumbling, “get something from my larder,” and offered her the key to his unit.
She took it. Her thumb traced thoughtfully down its length, and her voice was kind. “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”
“Retard, no it’s not. Please fuck off. That’s what I’m asking,” spoke his brain, while the mouth went, “Could you leave it, um, under the mat? When you’re done, please.”
She nodded. “But gosh, your hands are cold. Now, you know I’ve been excavating scraps from wastebins, so whatever could you be doing, freezing out here?”
“Nothing, really...”
Nails leaned forward. “Oh, but what!”
How to acceptably explain that he had truly not done anything.
Just thinking? About what? Nothing.
Just waiting? For what? Nothing.
Not being evasive. There was nothing he'd done tonight to speak of.
“I have an exam tomorrow,” he blurted.
“Oh...?” Nails said, more confused than inquisitive. Clearly she did not see how that statement connected to his actions, but she knew better than to wait for an explanation. If allowed, Mephi would protract silences until the listener departed. “Then, you're sneaking in under cover of night, to perhaps glimpse the test early?”
“Um, no. I don't cheat.” And if he was going to do that, he wouldn't do it the exact night before.
“No, you don't, do you?” Nails hummed, chin rested in her hands. “Well, whatever the nothing you're doing is, I'm beginning to suspect it's frightfully boring. So if you're staying, I think I will too.”
What.
“It'll be far more exciting that way.” She grinned.
No.
Mephi readied an explanation that no, it was fine, he'd finished doing his nothing and was just leaving, when he remembered that Nails still had his key.
He couldn't ask for it back. Up until a few seconds ago, he had no intention to leave. If he did claim a need to be somewhere, it couldn't be anywhere in his dorm. While feigning a destination could feasibly excuse him for ditching Nails, nowhere sprang to mind, and quickly the lie seemed too much effort.
I'd rather be alone tonight.
Why couldn't he say it.
Because it meant admitting ‘I hate you’? But wasn’t that true? Or wasn’t it true? Or what, no, just...
Every syllable out his mouth that wasn't rejection was leading Nails on. He was to blame for this defunct relationship.
Still, his body seated him at the bench across from Nails. Her idea of an exciting time entailed conversation, and through hours of aborted sentences and bumbled half-replies, which largely devolved into Nails talking to herself between vague grunts of acknowledgement and his occasional perfunctory question, fatigue converged on them both. Yawning, Nails excused herself, and without her, strangely, the overlooked returned to serenity.
He knew he could fail to attend, choose the wrong answers, or neglect to study. But he was a good student. And good students didn't fail unless something was terribly wrong.
I tried my best, but it didn't work out. I couldn't take it. It wasn't for me. I'm sorry.
The clarity of his mind, and confidence of his pen, was sickening.
Grades were posted two weeks later. All ranked, 121 students.
Mephi's name was fourth from the top.
Well.