Quest 121

[primrosella]

Once upon a time there lived a king whose only son was very sick, and nothing in the world brought the little prince any joy at all. Then one day, he heard a nightingale singing outside his window, and the music was so sweet and so lovely that the boy began to smile for the first time in years. The king was so glad to see his son smiling that he ordered all his men to chase down the nightingale and put it in a cage, and bring it back for his son so that he might always have that beautiful music to lift his spirits.

The end of the story is predictable enough; the nightingale refuses to sing, and the prince grows sad, and he begs his father to let the bird go and be free of its cage. And when he does, the nightingale stays outside the window anyway, and sings for the prince, and they all live happily ever after. Or so the story goes.

I feel like that nightingale, sometimes.

I made a mistake, and I'm sorry for it, and I hate that I can't ever take it back now. I hate that I'll never know if I might've made a difference that night. I hate that people died when the prison exploded, and I hate that they were ever there in the first place, suffering through what they did. I hate that I couldn't save everyone somehow, even if it's foolish to think that I could've.

And I hate that one of the reasons why I didn't go that night is because my friends were trying to protect me.

I don't know why I keep blaming myself for it. Maybe it's because my friends were hurt while I stayed unharmed, safe at home. Maybe it's because I couldn't think of an answer that would let everyone live happily ever after. Maybe it's because I know I've done horrible things too, and yet no one came for me, the way that they came for my friends. Maybe it's because no one else seems to believe that those things are as horrible as I think they are.

I don't know what to do, and yet I know I have to do something. Doing nothing is what got me into this mess in the first place, so perhaps doing something will get me out of it. I hate that I don't know why I'm so upset. If I knew, I could figure out how to fix it, but I don't and so I can't. I wish I could fix it so that things like that would never happen again.

If I had gone to the prison that night, I think I might've died. I think it's likely that I would've been caught in the explosion, still trying to free people from their cells. That's the trouble with racing a clock that you can't see; there's always the risk you'll take too long and never know it. So maybe my friends were right to keep me home.

But it should've been my decision, not theirs. Maybe that's why I'm still blaming myself.

Or maybe it's that, when it comes down to it, I'm more helpless than I'd like to admit that I am, and sometimes there really isn't anything I can do to fix a problem. I can't save everyone. People are going to get hurt and I won't be able to stop it, and I can't change that.

But it should've been my decision.

I know what everyone else wants. But what do I want? What do I want?

...All I know is that I want to stop feeling like this.

There's also a story about a king that offered a rich reward for anyone that could make his sickly daughter laugh, you know. Perhaps that's not such a bad idea. I don't know how rich of a reward I can offer, but I'm willing to try, since there's precedent for it, anyway.


[OOC: Yup, she's cursed. How 'bout them elephants? And I promise she'll start to cheer up soon, too. Last weekend just hit her pretty hard, that's all.]

Comments

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

Dr. Chase said there's a name for it, even.

I don't know why I'm having so much trouble with it. Why can't I just fix everything somehow? Why can't I just...forgive myself...

[had_not_lived]

Forgiving oneself is much harder than forgiving anyone else, I think.

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

And all I can do is keep trying, I suppose. It's hard...but then again, I suppose things being hard hasn't stopped me before, has it?

Tell me something cheerful, Neil. Please? A poem you like, or...something. Anything.

[had_not_lived]

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

...That's terribly clever of you. Is it one of your favorites?

[had_not_lived]

It's one of the first ones Mr. Keating taught us.

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

Did he write it himself?

[had_not_lived]

Oh! no, it's Walt Whitman.

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

Oh, I see. He's one of those poets you like so much, I think, isn't he? And I can see why.

It rather makes me wish I knew more poems from Daventry to trade with you, but I think you have me beat by quite a bit in that respect.

[had_not_lived]

Uh-huh.

Well, I don't really know that much, I just read a lot. More here even than I did at home.

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

There's certainly a lot to read here, yes. And a lot to do, too.

[had_not_lived]

Too much to do to be unhappy.

[primrosella.livejournal.com]

Maybe keeping busy will help make this gloominess go away, too. Or doing something different, anyway, just to give myself something else to think about in the meantime.