Epilogue 2: Asriel
I often dream of thee.
A portrait in the night sky. Your blue eyes, planets of their own and I the moon that finds comfort in your orbit. Your curls, a belt across space; the brown locks coiling round to ensnare me in your intoxicating void. Oh have mercy on me, you celestial being. For you are otherworldly, my daily worship. I listen to the words that slip out from the curve of your ruby lips, fiery red like the planes of Mars, and take them as the verbatim of love. I need look no further for a work of beauty, for you, Marisa, are the greatest beauty to ever be.
Work comforts me in my wake, grounds my being to reality in contrast to my soul which wanders the planes of dreams in search of you. The theories I indulge in turn the gears of my mind, the brain working like clockwork. Tick tock. A routine is set and I follow it religiously. Long stretches of research and studying with only short breaks when the stomach calls for nourishment. And even then, Thorold attends to that for me. You were right, Marisa, he is a better servant. Like a virus in the computer system of my daily schedule, thoughts of you infect my workflow. It can never satisfy - work, that is. I find myself craving sleep in hope of finding satisfaction in that world of make believe where you exist again.
I often dream of thee.
A hand-stitched tapestry of motherhood. Notice how the embroidery utilises silk to colour your skin and hers. You both shine like porcelain angels, smooth and unblemished. My imagination must have taken its time crafting this piece of artwork as the pair of you make an image of perfection. Closed lids, you embrace each other in heavenly slumber - her chubby fingers clutching at the threads of your hair. Neither of you wish to let go and in this fabrication, society is not present to tear this mother-daughter bond, that is so pure and right, apart. Love imbues into the rosy patch sewn onto your cheeks. I know you could've loved her if you had the chance; the love inside you cries out like a banshee and is only silenced by the ever oppressive world we live in. Not now, though. Right now, this tapestry hangs on the wall of what could've been. These are my favourite girls. Marisa and Lyra.
The frigid air of the North distracts me from my desires. Expeditions equal escapism. A simple equation for a complex problem. A conundrum complicated by emotions and feelings I dare not explore, at least not while I'm awake. Not when there is more to live for, more to do than reminisce on past fantasies. The North is freedom from it all but it's not far enough. The taste of you is still palpable - your cries, your kisses, your soft words; they chase me out onto this barren land. So I search for a greater purpose to inflame my heart and consume my mind, in hope of filling the alcove you've made inside of me. That pit that longs to be filled with your love and her love. Oh, my dears, will you follow me out here?
Will you follow me out to the world's end?
I often dream of thee.
An incomplete film reel of growth. Gaping holes in development that are so stark each time I return to Jordan. How have you jumped from baby to toddler to pre-teen? What had I missed whilst I was away? I can imagine you taking your first steps, those unstable chubby legs tottering side to side as you chase after Pantalimon. But I met you already walking - cold to my embrace as you had already forgotten these 'paternal' arms that once held you. I conjure thoughts of you learning your first words. Was pronunciation difficult? Of course not, you're a Belacqua. Learning comes innate. However, I saw you at six already talking fluently and you'd chosen 'uncle' to address me as I was never there to tell you to call me 'father'. An error that could have easily been corrected but how the lie bore fruit in my mind producing an apple tree of knowledge where I could take shade from the burning rays of guilt and regret. Where you could not ask me where your mother was or why I was never there to be the father you needed. Yes, 'uncle' was much more preferable so the deception took root. I never had to imagine you disappointed though. That crestfallen look is seared into my memory. I see it every time I leave you, the tremble of the lip and the break in the voice. Another shattered hope of joint voyage to the North. I'm sorry, Lyra. I just can't. Before I knew it, you'd become bold enough to run away after hearing the news that I would abandon you once again.
How old were you, again?
Twelve?
Further still. I must depart from this world. I can feel my dreams as they begin to encroach on reality. Marisa, your essence lingers in my cell amongst the bears and Lyra, you magically appeared in front of me in my one region of solace. My North. Expedition is unequal to escapism. The equation no longer solves the problem. The events of life have proven it wrong and rejected my null hypothesis. A new solution is needed and I strive to rip my answer through the fabric of reality itself. A portal into another world only to find more portals and more worlds. And away I go, further still. Running away from favourite girls, Marisa and Lyra.
The irony is…
You both follow all the same.