#77 - What Good, Indeed?

Ahrimaz is dead, Ahrimaz never born, Ahrimaz commits suicide age four, Ahrimaz killed by his brother Ahriminash, Ahrimaz Beloved Emperor, Ahrimaz reviled Hand of the People, Ahrimaz the Damaged, Ahrimaz the Brilliant, Ahrimaz killed by Pelahir, Ahrimaz killed by Cylak King, Ahrimaz kills the Cylak King and becomes Stag King, Ahrimaz is flung off the High City of Yhomdon, Ahrimaz killed by Yolend Heir of Yhom.

The images of who he was and could be and might be and all the worlds where humans never evolved, where the Rummumalos lived and died in peace and eventually spread over their world, and traded with the Pfisirimmmm who swam in the sea.

Ahrimaz opened his eyes to darkness, warm in a bed his mind didn’t remember, but somehow his body did, even if he’d never slept in such a mean little cot as a child.  It wasn’t mean actually.  It was a wooden bedstead and a strap support for a pair of feather mattresses.  The quilt was feathers as well and four enormous pillows, warm enough that he had the window flung wide, even though the winter wind thrust icy fingers into his hair and under every edge not carefully tucked in.

“Ahrimaz, could you please close the window?”  It was Wenhiffar tapping on his door.  “The cold is howling along the floor out here, moaning under your door again.”

“Sorry.”

He reached out an arm and found he could just catch the braided wool cord… when had he tied it there?... to pull the pebbled glass pane shut, and clambered out from under the suddenly too hot bedding to lie on it, panting.

The room was green.  Paintings of trees and vines were hung from waist high, to the ceiling and the ceiling was childishly painted with vines.  Somehow he knew that the other Ahrimaz had painted them as a young boy.  It would have been gauche for me to paint my own rooms.  Father would have had a fit and hired the best artist in the land to do it to his specifications.  Not to mine, of course.  Children are not allowed to know what they want.

He buried his face in the pillows and just breathed in the scent of fresh laundry and a hint of sweat from his cooling skin.  Naked.  How is it that life just is like this?  I lie and breathe and do not hurt. No one requires anything from me.  Nothing, either possible or impossible.  How… strange.

And those words echo in my head around and around and around.  He reached to the side table and there was a chill, fresh cup of water and he could just drink.  Pour another if he wished from the hand-made green jug next to it.  Scorch, he could wander down to the water rooms and pour himself a bucket to pour over his head should he so desire, or sink himself into the hot water or… not.

For once the dogs were on the rug next the bed, driven off by his restless tossing, Heylia lay draped over the back of a worn brocade sofa, paws dangling as she purred in her sleep.

“What good does my suffering do anyone?”  He said out loud and Sure started up to see if he were calling her, let her nose settle back down on top of Teh when he didn’t look at her or address her further.

What good does my agony do?  How does it help anyone?  How does it help me? It rather causes people around me difficulty.  It makes trouble for others.  It makes Limyé dance attendance upon me, and the family. It causes problems for everyone around me.

What good does my suffering do?

What good?

What good does my suffering do for anyone?