ataraxion | first story

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[ When the feed switches on, Roy is sitting, as always, in his bed in the medbay. His tablet is seated on the table in front of him, and Roy has his arms folded neatly on his lap. ]

You know, I think life on a spaceship in space should be the least thing from boring. [ He pauses, and chuckles, a bitter sound. ] But then again, there's never anything to do for a guy who can't walk. It's a good thing I'm so good at entertaining myself.

[ He cracks a smile. It's an ugly expression. ]

I've been reading. Useful things, these tablets, the way they store so many books so you don't have to bug anyone else to try to bring you some while you're stuck in bed. [ Dramatic pause. ]

There's this book I read about a young man named Werther. He falls in love with a girl named Lotte, and she has the most beautiful black eyes. [ His smile softens at the edges. ] He's passionately, deeply in love with her, and he would have married her, but from their very first meeting she tells him that she's already engaged to another man, named Albert.

Werther tries, oh he tries, to be a good friend to both of them. But he loves Lotte too much, so eventually he has to go away to somewhere else. But he can't stay away for long, so he goes back to Lotte and Albert and realises they have gone and gotten themselves married. [ At this point of his narration, Roy laughs, and he turns away from the camera, looking off to the distance. ] Lotte tells Werther that she can't see him much anymore, because she's married now, you see.

"Life's blossoms are only appearances. So many pass and leave not a trace, so few of their fruits set, so few of those ripen." Or so Werther says. There's nowhere left for him to go. He can't have her; he can't kill Albert so he can have her; he can't stop loving her either. There's only one thing he can do. So Werther shoots himself in the head. [ He looks back to the camera, looks beyond it, and takes a glass of water and sips at it. ]

It's the best possible thing that could've happened to him. [ Is Roy talking about Werther anymore? He doesn't even know himself. ] If he didn't shoot himself, he'll be constantly reminded of what he can't have, everything he has lost. You see, there's nothing quite so painful than to have to keep breathing when every breath turns out to be... [ he makes a gesture in the air ] hollow.

[ A pause, and he smiles again. Changes the subject. ]

On the subject of books, I'm looking for a poem by a man named Keats. Something about a nightingale? Does anyone know it? [ He tilts his head, and gives another hollow smile. ] It won't stop bugging me.

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[He flops into the nearest chair with so much cross-armed huffed forcefulness that it scrapes along the floor before the corner leg thuds against the nearby table, pitches him forward the opposite way but that's halted, too. There was no risk of hitting the bed in the first place but neither does he doesn't seem too concerned that he's barely missed, well, just about everything else in the room.

Instead of discussing anything, anything at all, he crosses one ankle over the opposite knee and levels a stare over at Roy, arms crossed and fingers still. Wary, appraising, and not at all in the physical way.

This time he's fully dressed in his jumpsuit and scarf, without a rabbit but with the clinging armor of a recent smoke still on him and in his blood.]

Come explore the ship with me, if you have time in between your books. [ or tell her stories — perhaps a happier one than this.

she said she'd ask again. ]

Anybody ever tell you you have incredibly depressing taste in literature?

... d'you need some antidepressants or something? Uh, no offense.

That is a short-sighted way to see it. None can see all ends.

That's a rather gloomy way to look at it, don't you think?

[ Oh yes, Merry knows of breathing when air is hollow, when one's lungs are carved out with grief and self-loathing. He knows of the dark shadowed-places of one's mind, of walks where all the earth presses down upon one's shoulders. He knows of despair that would swallow him alive.

He knows, too, of better places, and pain filled with joy of honored-remembrance, and not self-pitying hate. ]

There are better ways to soften grief. Life is far too precious to lose on sorrow.

[ His face isn't one of overbright cheer, but instead deep thought, as though he is pondering the story and the words, remembering his own hollowed moments, and seeking the truth and wisdom in them. To learn, and not to linger. ]

Or he could have cried, had too many drinks, possibly started a fist fight, and then picked himself up, moved on, and fallen in love with someone else.

You know, as option B.

...All the books that they've got here, and that's what you choose t' read. You don't need Keats, you need better taste, man.

[He doesn't first know what to say to Roy Walker--but he must say something. Watching this makes him sad, though he could not say exactly why. It's only a story--but Bran is not so much a child that he believes that. It is more than a story.]

There are many better stories than that.

I suppose the dangers of love translate across into any reality. A shame he thought taking his own life to be his only course of action. But then, it does make for a more dramatic tale.

I imagine she was his first love.

Not being able to see him much any more isn't the same as never being able to see him.

[ It's said a little quieter than it should be before he exhales. ]

I know it. Don't know if I should tell it to you though.

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