Ever once in a while, I pointlessly essay into a story without much sense, but full of crazy wordplay. This is, I believe, generally known as fluff.
This one uses Pygmalion's Ishmael and Kareya, but has little to do with Pygmalion; Kareya is simply my mouthpiece Sue here. (Although, in the one aspect of her personality she talks about here, she has always been my Sue; I make no excuses for this.)
Featuring Nietzsche's "Thus Spake Zarathustra" and the Lorenz attractor.
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Butterflies
The one next to him was sleeping peacefully; the silver light of Selune's moon played on the raven locks spread widely on the snow-white pillow. But Haer'Dalis, sleep shunned that Trademeet night.
For a time, he rested in the bed, watching the sleeper; murmuring to himself the words of a nascent sonnet; but to no avail. The muses failed to oblige; no deity would pity the hopeful supplicant. There was to be no comfort in the sweet oneiric delusion; and no solace in the gentle familiarity of art.
He sighed and rose from the bed, nimble and graceful as a young cat in hunting; and, some would say, reeking of sexuality as cheap as the wine his bedfellow and he had both drunk earlier that day. He dressed, quickly and quietly, without wakening his companion, and fled the room's calm for the corridor; mayhap some other soul who shared in his restless plight had had the foresight to repair to the common room's communal haven.
The corridor was empty; but, as Haer'Dalis entered the stair-case which would lead him into the darkness' maw below, he espied a most curious novelty: the trap-door at the end of the stairs leading up, to the roof of the inn, was open. A thief, perhaps, lured to the inn with the promise of the party's riches and its enchanted weapon-stock; if so, soon to be frustrated, for the party carried their riches not with them; if not dead at the party's blades.
Perhaps he should return, sound an alarm and investigate; but, as to a cat, the rooftops called to the bard that night; and, never one to refuse, he followed their sirens' song.
The night was splendid, brisk and cool; and, under the starlit sky and the massive moon, the lady was sitting on the edge of the small terrace, alone.
"Haer'Dalis," she said, though he approached silently; and belatedly, he wished that he had chosen a different set of clothing; or that the wind had been headed another way. "What brings you here?"
"The same reason as you, my falcon," he replied.
There was a brief pause. "The sparrow doth not sleep? Methinks 'tis a pity." She did not turn round; nor did she make the slightest move to let him pass.
He settled into a crouch, a little behind her and to the right. "Aye," he replied, matching her flat tone note-for-note. "The raven will no doubt be irate and irksome; for no spell shall assist in the morrow's march."
"Then the march will have to be postponed," she said, giving up the game and moving to face him at last. "What is your excuse?"
"Company. What is yours?"
"Solitude."
"Solitude and sorrow, her merry companion... Prithee," he said, eyeing the wretched face before him, "what thoughts lay heavy on the falcon's mind?"
"'Dalis, you pray not; you pry," the woman replied annoyed; and he laughed.
By the time he stopped, she was already afoot; and passing him on the way to the open trap-door.
"Where are you going?" he called after her, rising to his feet in one fluid, desperate move.
"Tonight, I resent being laughed at," she announced coldly. She was already near the trap-door, and standing in the golden shaft of light streaming from the corridor below. The light wrought deep shadows and deep lines on her face; it was a tableau curious in its beauty.
"Should the sparrow help discover the chaos in the falcon's mind?" he asked softly; and Kareya froze.
And then, suddenly, she looked straight at him and smiled beatifically.
"Verily I say unto thee: one must have chaos in one's soul to give birth to a dancing star," she quoted; and he started: had he really misjudged her affairs so much?
Then, quietly, the woman added, almost to herself, "If so, I am barren. I have no chaos in my soul, Haer'Dalis."
"Are you dead then?" he pressed on accusingly. "Or, worse yet, a Modron?"
A shadow of annoyance crossed the woman's face. "Perhaps; but I will make no excuses for it."
But she did not turn her back on him again, nor fled again; and so, he reached out his hand to her; and she took it; and they both seated themselves again on the terrace's cold floor.
"Patterns," she announced coolly, as if daring him to deny her words. "Patterns in reality; patterns in behaviour; patterns recognised, detected subconsciously, unconsciously—intuitively; a world perceived in patterns, Haer'Dalis. And where there is the pattern, what lies beyond is negligible and neglected; rounded up, or down, to fit it."
"That much," he replied merrily as his blood froze, "was suspected."
An absent smile crossed the pallid face. "It takes an effort of conscious will to shed the pattern for the sake of the person and the incident; each time and every time, always, time and again; and so rarely is it ever worth it, this doomed, principled war one attempts to wage on one's true nature! And one is not a saint; one forgets, or succumbs to anger; and, even when not, instinct always comes first, feel before thought; and one finds oneself again on the ancient, well-trodden path which can lead only to perdition. Change, one knows, is inevitable and desirable; change, one feels, is to be at all costs avoided; for all one secretly yearns for in the depth of one's soul is the security of a stable, ordered, patterned world... And yet—"
The woman took a deep breath, letting pass a beat before she resumed her soliloquy; for a soliloquy it was, a work of improvised artifice, however genuine and heartfelt the sentiments expressed in it be; a soliloquy intended and played out expressly for his, 'Dalis' ears; for him, for that night's sole, solitary, and most singular audience. And so, quite interested alike in the subject and the form, he considered the first and revised the second: cutting away the less gainly parts; occasionally substituting in lieu of an awkward expression one far subtler, far briefer and far more to the point—all the whilst Kareya spoke on:
"And yet—it behoves one to keep a flexible and creative mind, about people and about things both; as a matter of principle; and also, as a matter of pure survival... And one knows that, and attempts that; but, one finds, in view of acts, intentions are worthless. Be yourself, they say; what if one has intellect enough that one knows that to be oneself is to perish? Be yourself, they say; what sayest thou to this, sparrow?" The wizard looked up suddenly; and her eyes smiled cheerfully in abject refutation of her every word.
"'Tis a fine weather we're having tonight," he murmured in response, in his best social voice; and they both laughed; and after they laughed, the wizard said sadly, "And yet, even in weather, one finds patterns of its own."
And about her, silver starlight and silver stardust started to coalesce into a faint shape not unlike that of a silver butterfly's wings; but Haer'Dalis raised an elegant eyebrow and, easily, effortlessly, annexed the threads of the illusion; and the embryonic shape-form abruptly shattered and scattered into a flock of multicolour butterflies which dispersed in all directions away from them both; each one different from the next; all glittering like polychromatic gems and starlets of their own regard.
And so, they both stood there, on the rooftops of an alien city and in a land they could call neither his nor her own, surrounded by the flock of jewel-like butterflies and sheltered by the starry, starlit, splendid sky; and laughing like children and madmen are wont to laugh and worry-free as 'tis the children and madmen's way to be worry-free.
At least, that is, until a tousled, sleepy, raven-haired head appeared in the trap-door; and out emerged Ishmael of Candlekeep, spawn of Bhaal and child of Gorion; and was summarily amazed by the spell they two had woven between and about them; and, once the amazement passed, reminded them, in no uncertain terms, that they would all be leaving Trademeet the following day; and that all, the party and its neighbours, would certainly profit from a few hours' decent sleep.
For then, the butterflies died, as it is all things' way to end and die.
And it was not until they all returned to the inn's inside; and Haer'Dalis returned to his bed and its occupant, lucid and annoyed—that he realised how deftly the wizard had dealt with his friendly threat to make public the other sentiments 'Dalis knew lurked in her heart and mind.