How we began

It was a spacious place, completely quiet, almost empty and with a high ceiling that poured deep ultramarine light onto the polished tiles of the walls and the floor. These tiles may have had their own colors, but the light ate them, drowned the room in blues. It also shimmered sometimes, ephemerally, at the very edge of human perception. It would make an onlooker quite uneasy.

There were no onlookers in this room, but it wasn’t completely devoid of inhabitants either. In a large black bathtub, sunk in the floor, there lay a man. He must have been blond and pale, because the light from above colored his short hair and visage in a similar tint of lifeless cold blue. His eyes were closed and he was motionless, and water was dripping slowly right on his forehead. It seemed like he hadn’t been there for a long time, because his face and hair were almost dry, save for a few droplets alongside his left eyebrow and a wet spot above his ear. Another drop, shining blue, landed on equally blue skin, and his eyelids twitched. He started waking up.

A moment passed, and he already sat upright, wiping the wet residue off his face and grabbing the edge of the tub in a somewhat tense and convulsive manner. The atmosphere of the room changed, the blue lightened up and faded ever so slightly. One could now hear low buzzing and the sound of water hitting the hard surface of the tub. Somewhere far away, beyond the realms of this bathroom, a voice almost inaudibly called out. The man looked around, got up to his feet, slightly shaking, and smiled.

There was a door with a cutglass handle in front of him, and there didn’t use to be one just a few seconds ago. His presence kept transforming this place in ways he, perhaps, couldn’t quite understand himself. But he wasn’t here to understand, he had other matters on his mind, and he just began remembering this. So he took a few cautious steps, still swaying from side to side on unsteady legs, heels of his shiny black boots clicking on the tiles, and wrapped his fingers around the handle. To open the door, he had to grab it hard enough for there to be marks on the inside of his palm. A subtle sign he was sure to appreciate.

Outside there was darkness. He cast a long shadow on the floor, on the uneven fur of the carpet. A corridor led away from here, deeper into the house, and the man carelessly closed the door behind himself and let the darkness submerge him. The corridor was pitch black, that sort of black that appears in a place with no trace of any way outside, not even a little crack that could only accommodate an ant. There the man stood, slowly tuning in to the sounds of the house, listening to barely present signs of some other beings engaging in mysterious activities around him. They came from above and from below, from behind the left wall and from behind the right wall. Rustle, laughter, cries, all sorts of voices and footsteps, all here and simultaneously very far. These people, or creatures, all had something very important going on, their own moments of triumph and suffering where each was the main character. He wanted to lean against a wall, press his ear to it and listen, but it could wait for another time, so he shook his head, trying to leave the mindstate the noises put him in, and headed along the corridor.

His movements changed. He wasn’t staggering and stumbling loudly anymore, he walked forward with new speed and precision, and his steps were silenced by the thick soft carpet. Sometimes he’d reach out and his nails grazed the wall, which seemed to have a different texture every time. After a while his fingers brushed against metal and veiny wood — a door. He pushed, and it opened.

A row of chairs and a sofa formed a semicircle in front of a big fat TV. Some places were occupied, some were empty, but the man didn’t pay much attention to figures sitting there. There was a large leather armchair at the opposite end of the row, by a barely smouldering fireplace.

“Hello, Qivrin,” came a voice.

“Archopath,” the man smiled.

“You’re late,” reprimanded him the one he called the Archopath, although without anger. “We’ve started without you.”

“I was in the bathroom,” Qivrin shrugged.

“The bathroom?” the tone turned inquisitive. “Are you feeling well?”

“My mind has been to weirder places,” Qivrin responded vaguely and glanced at the TV. Two men were there, in complete silence, a chess board between them. The Archopath kept looking at him.

“Sit,” he finally said.

Continuing to ignore the seats and the ones occupying them, Qivrin went ahead and sat on the floor by the Archopath’s armchair. This was going to take long.

***

Chess resemble assembling the Rubik’s cube backwards. A simple set up gains complexity and structure, and you have to pay attention to see what it once was. Attention wasn’t Qivrin’s strong side, so he barely followed the game and stared instead at the men playing. They took time between each move, bit their lips and glanced up at each other, and the camera zoomed in on their desaturated faces. Something glittered inside their eyes as they placed the figures down in a slow, uncertain manner.

“What do you think?” asked the Archopath quietly.

“Homoerotic,” replied Qivrin.

“Of course you’d say that,” the Archopath gave him a crooked smile, he wasn’t in a serious mood today.

Qivrin grinned back. He had a reputation to uphold.

“Back in my day,” went on the Archopath, “they hanged men like you on the central square.”

“I know a thing or two about hanging,” Qivrin perked up, he was glad to get distracted from chess. “There are multiple ways to die there. Very few actually die by suffocation, you know? Broken neck is a much more humane way to go. That’s why-”

One of the shadowy persons that resided on the sofa hissed at him. Qivrin abruptly stopped and showed them his teeth, and he had so many of those. They stared each other down in silence. Meanwhile the Archopath turned his eyes back to the film, so they had no choice but to swallow the mutual offense and quiet down. Qivrin stretched his legs out and leaned against the side of the armchair. He was breathing deeply and unevenly, a feeling of unrest took over his mind. The men on the screen looked more intense than before.

What is it like to want your opponent? Qivrin wondered. Surely, he wouldn’t ask one out for a chess game. A sword duel on the rooftops, in windy and rainy greys, that was much more to his liking. Dull shine of steel, droplets of blood on a sleeve… His heart picked up the pace, and he dug his nails in his hands. How much time had passed since he entered this room? Enough for him to get dizzy and for his thoughts to wander.

But everything has its proper end, and the screen faded to black. Now only the faint warm light of the fireplace illuminated the room. Something started moving in the dark, shadows quietly murmured to each other and got up from their places. The Archopath submerged deep into his armchair, and Qivrin could only see his legs and narrow palms lying motionlessly in his lap. Today his right hand was bare and his left one wore a metal contraption — many small petals rose from a flat plate that rested on three rings. Qivrin had already seen what it does.

“Archopath?” came a soft husky voice, and it pulled Qivrin out of his troubled thoughts. Some other guest didn’t hurry to leave too.

The being in the armchair turned his free hand palm upward, a lazy way to emote permission. Qivrin made and effort and tore his eyes away to look at the enquirer. A young smooth face, pained and hungry eyes. They audibly gulped.

“There’s, there’s a girl,” they blurted out, “she hasn’t been treating me with respect.”

“Place? Era?” asked the Archopath emotionlessly. The guest handed him a charcoal drawing of some constellations. They seemed slightly familiar to Qivrin, hadn’t he been there before? A millennium or two off, maybe. Nowadays he barely knew where he came from, as his past had filled with so many details that he just left it behind.

“I’ll talk to her,” said the Archopath. He moved forward, and the light outlined his face. The guest muttered their thanks and promptly started backing away. Qivrin peered into the hand drawn map again. He rode a horse in an endless steppe by a river, how did they call that place?

They were alone, and the fire was fading away. Qivrin could no longer see the Archopath, but he felt his presence the same way two pieces of rock that orbit one another are each aware of their counterpart. He was sure the Archopath sensed him too. There was no sound in the dark, Qivrin liked it that way and tried to hold his breath, and the other one didn’t breathe as a habit.

“How about a walk?” finally said the Archopath.

“Sure,” Qivrin responded. Maybe that river was still there.

***

And the stars aligned. For a moment Qivrin witnessed the grey drawing overlaid with fierce black skies, real stars shining bright through their paper replica. Then it all dulled to grey again, and he felt blinded and lost. He wanted to turn back, but some force didn’t let him, and his feet kicked against an unseen barrier in vain. Then he saw the Archopath above, and his head cleared a little. He was lying on his back, facing a dark clouded sky.

“Don’t disappear, Qivrin,” said the Archopath with some tint of care in his voice.

“Not going to,” responded Qivrin.

The Archopath was still dressed in the same clothes he wore in his TV room, a formal black suit, but now his hands rested on a dark wooden cane. Qivrin, disoriented, tried to sit up and grabbed its lower end for balance. His hand immediately burned from searing cold. Only now he noticed that it was winter, and snow was falling from the colorless flat sky. Winter air got under his jacket and sent shivers down his spine.

“Where to?” he asked, finally rising to his feet.

“You tell me,” the Archopath shrugged. “Find that girl.”

Qivrin nodded and closed his eyes. The first thing he sensed was water — it ran underground in all directions, like a liquid, ever changing spiderweb. This water carried traces of living beings, and some of them were human. People were thinking all kinds of thoughts while touching this water, and he made himself remember the dull, hopeless desperation of the creature that asked them to be here. And here it was, someone near had seen something similar. Qivrin opened his eyes.

“That way,” he said with certainty in his voice, and a small cloud of steam left his mouth. Nothing like that happened to the Archopath when he was talking.

They stood there for quite a bit, and snow started gathering on the Archopath’s head and suit. It didn’t even attempt to melt, and Qivrin could clearly see fragile hexagonal shapes against greyish skin and even more of them resting on black hair. He impulsively reached out to wipe them away, but the Archopath looked at his hand, and he withdrew. There are things you’re just not meant to do.

“That way,” Qivrin repeated and turned around and ran.

He tripped a few times on an icy pavement, but then made himself forget about it. His boots collided with the ground steadily, a thin layer of asphalt gave in and crushed to dust under his heels. And again he could rather sense than see or hear the Archopath following him. Qivrin got so immersed in the peculiar feeling this run created that he didn’t notice when someone tried to stop him in his way and backed off a bare second before the inevitable bloody clash.

A large muscular man, Qivrin’s height and twice Qivrin’s width, stood in front of him. Their eyes met, and Qivrin saw all color leave his face. The man made a choking sound and swiftly stepped aside, out of his way and out of his mind. There was a door under a neon blue sign, and Qivrin, still high on the thrill of the run, walked right through it. The glass exploded like ice on a river under feet of a careless traveler. There were more lights inside, a whole spectrum of them, and music, coming in waves. And people. Qivrin moved cautiously now, afraid to trample someone, but they parted in front of him by themselves.

The girl he sought danced alone by a wall. She stopped when she saw him and tried to slide away like the rest, so he discarded some of the caution and pushed her down, on the floor. Now he was on top of her, and in the next few seconds he knew more about her than anyone she’d ever met. She wasn’t treating that ghostly figure with respect? But of course, why would she…

The Archopath caught up with him and hit him across the back with the cane. Qivrin got the hint and let go of the girl and sat by on all fours. The Archopath bent forward and looked at her himself.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. She spat out a series of words, Qivrin didn’t recognize the language, but felt the fear and indignation in her tone, and it wasn’t hard to read her thoughts behind those words. She was asking who they were and calling for help.

“She doesn’t understand,” Qivrin shook his head.

“I can see that,” the Archopath curved his upper lip in annoyance. “Help her understand.”

Qivrin reached out to the girl’s mind again, only this time he didn’t just peek through whatever beliefs she fenced herself off with, he pulled them apart till they were no more. He looked into her eyes, and he knew now she saw him for what he was too. Her mouth silently opened.

“Now, talk to me,” the Archopath said. The snow finally started melting, and water ran down his face, as if he was crying for this person and her misfortunes.

She started talking, somewhat repeatedly and monotonously from the lack of words, and he nodded along. The water from his clothes dripped on Qivrin, who knelt on the floor beside. It was still ice cold.

“I literally don’t see a problem,” the Archopath said after a few minutes. “If you don’t want to know someone, don’t. Your ex only wasted our time.”

He straightened his back; a being with looks of a young boy in a club full of adults, he still towered above them all.

“Let’s go, Qivrin,” he called. “We still have time to do something nicer.”

The stars started shifting again, and the girl watched them both disappear. She thought to come back to her usual life, or, maybe, call for help again, but it suddenly seemed less interesting.

***

This time the room was illuminated better. The fireplace was burning lively, and there were chandeliers. Qivrin sprawled out on the floor, one hand almost touching the fireplace grate, and listened to the Archopath chastising the enquirer. He liked it when the Archopath was mad at someone else. Many, many centuries ago he was thrilled to find out the adults in his life could be displeased with other children, and in a way, he never grew out of the shallow joy that discovery brought him.

“Just find yourself another girl,” he cut in for a moment, lifting himself up on the elbows to take a look. The Archopath was in his old spot again, arms angrily crossed, black hair in clumps from when it was wet. The being that hovered in front of him was slowly puffing up with silent rage, but didn’t dare to talk back. They ignored Qivrin completely, and he was okay with it. He was feeling good about himself.

Qivrin raised his hand and looked at the pale skin and the veins and the bones bulging underneath it. Following a momentary impulse, he bit himself, his inner row of teeth dug in the tissue around a knuckle. His skin didn’t taste like anything.

Meanwhile the conversation — or, what’s more like it, the Archopath’s monologue — was over, and the other person was leaving. The Archopath leaned back and made a short angry sound: an exhale, perhaps, his first exhale in a decade. Qivrin scooted towards him and put his chin on one of the armrests.

“What do you think will happen to the girl?” he asked. That question was on his mind for a while.

The Archopath shrugged and looked at the dark TV.

“Nothing bad, I suppose,” he said, his voice still a bit stiff and lower in pitch than usual.

“We changed her.”

“Yes, we did.”

Qivrin sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his face against old leather. He got a sniff of what the girl’s life used to be like, her daily agenda was to impress people and to have a bit of fun, topped by a vague hope of meeting a just right man to make her happy. Now she won’t have anything of the kind anymore, and that didn’t seem like a big loss to him.

The man could barely remember what it was like to be like her, and the few things he managed to recall did not inspire him. There was too much pretense, too much energy eaten away by intricate social rules you had to follow if you wanted to be fed or housed. She won’t miss it, he thought.

“Isn’t this how we began too?” he said nevertheless. The Archopath didn’t answer. Qivrin didn’t need to look at him to picture the slight frown and the crease of the lip that always accompanied thoughts of his distant past. The Archopath had a much better memory for some things.

The room was quiet again, quiet in such a way as only something beyond the inhabited universe could be. After a little while Qivrin could hear his own heartbeat, and he had a brief thought to tone it down to match the Archopath, but a sentimental attachment to its eternal run prevented him.

It’s a tricky thing, to calculate your own degree of human.