It had been years since Kanrel had first arrived at the City of Last Light, yet he still remembered what he had seen while taking these very steps to reach the very final floor of this building. The sixth floor, and a larger room, where behind an elaborate stone desk sat a familiar, imposing-looking figure. The one, Kanrel simply knew as “the Receptionist.”
Their eyes scanned papers laid on the desk, and with gracious movements of their hand, they made careful markings on some of them. And, as Kanrel and the two Atheians, as his company, walked into the room, they lifted their gaze from the papers and met the three figures that approached them.
Kanrel met the eyes of this creature, their gaze locked for a moment, and the anxieties he had about this moment rose to the surface; his heart raced, and he had to avert his gaze. At that moment, just for that moment, he felt like Ignar had felt before Kalma. So insignificant, so small. Who was this creature? Kanrel was certain that it wasn’t the space, for it seemed comfortable, with its chairs and shelves, the large engravings on the walls, the couches that seemed well cushioned… yet the atmosphere remained as such: unsettling and uncomfortable.
The Receptionist let their gaze wander from face to face, and still, no visible reaction did they give; only that of the same dismissiveness that they seemingly always had had. For a short while, they lowered their gaze back to the table, and with a few quick yet graceful strokes of their pen, ink met paper. They lifted their gaze once more, but instead of dismissing them, instead of pointing them at the chairs to which Kanrel was already ready to walk, they spoke: “Do not avert your eyes, Kanrel; do not fear, for fear lowers one’s status in the eyes of greater beings.” Their voice was flat, and Kanrel was unsure if the creature tried to give him earnest tips or if it was mocking him.
“Your company fears more than you do. So you must raise your head and have the grace to at least act as if you weren’t afraid. Through this, you might give comfort to your friends.” The Receptionist added—that the lack of emotion in their voice made this feeling that persisted greater; then they got up, and they stood, a tall creature, taller than all of them. So pale they were in the blue light that descended from above; to them, they imposed their might, just how much better they were than the three before them.
Empty; lifeless. They gave their observations as such, and now they stepped from behind the table and positioned themselves before them; surely they could see how they all shook; surely this made their opinion of them lower than it already was.
The Receptionist raised a hand as if to strike, as if to put them down, as if to train dogs that dared whimper before their master. The hand moved toward him; Kanrel closed his eyes; the pain would soon follow; the pain would lay itself upon him…
But there was no pain. Instead, he could feel a gentle touch on his face, a singular finger placed on his jaw that ran down the mandible until it reached the chin; it felt strange to have someone touch his short beard in such a manner. When Kanrel dared to open his eyes, he looked up and saw, for the first time, an expression on their face: wonder. It was... it was wonder. Their gray eyes quivered ever so slightly, their brows furrowed, and their lips were slightly parted, but no smile or anything like that had conquered their face.
“Strange.” They muttered a toneless observation, “What is the use of this? Why had such an evolution happened?” The expression that had been on their face dissipated; it was never there; it wasn’t supposed to be. They took away their finger and stared at it for a moment, then their gaze met Kanrel’s past the finger, and they asked, “Do you now fear less? Do I seem more… normal?”
Kanrel shook his head slightly, not knowing what to say or how to react.
“A pity.” The Receptionist simply said and returned to their seat and sat down again; they seemed to ponder for a moment, then added, “But do heed my words; such observations can often grow a man into something more than what they already are.”
“You are all weak. But you can always pretend to be stronger than you are; perhaps you might fool those who are equal or stronger than you are, but in the end, everything is about grace.”
“Have the grace to pretend to be greater than you actually are. Lest you become nothing more than prey to feed the greedy mouths of those who know to be above you.” The Receptionist finished; their tone remained the same, a flat line of zero intonation; everything they said they pronounced as if it were a cold fact, observations that were the absolute truth. Such conviction had that toneless voice.
They then pointed at the chairs, “You may take a seat; the council will soon hear you.” Their gaze returned to the papers on the table, and they grabbed their pen and continued to write; a steady rhythm of pen touching paper filled the air as Kanrel, Gar, and Y’Kraun found the very same chairs where Kanrel had sat the last time they had been there; this time, there were just the three chairs.
The Receptionist and their presence remained immense. They were imposing. They were so before, but now they were more confusing than anything else. Had the creature, the pale Atheian, who had no emotions, tried to feign having some? Did they, for a moment, pretend to be normal? Or at least tried to?
Why would such a creature give him tips? Why would it care about Kanrel’s fear? Why would it stand before them and touch him? Was it all part of that pretense? Was it something more, something more vile? Was it all a play, a play of power, to show him just how insignificant he was to these creatures who stood on the very top of the Forum and the governance of the Atheian society?
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He had the urge to rip apart the tips of his fingers again, a sensation he hadn’t had for a while now. But now, he could control himself, and he didn’t even need to sit on top of his own hands to make sure that he wouldn’t wound them. He didn’t need to hear the Receptionist’s flat voice, nor see their smile without wrinkles, their gray eyes looking at him as they would ask him to not be so nervous…
He had the urge to look away, to not stare at them. He glanced at his friends: Y’Kraun visibly shook; their eyes were wide and far away was the happy man they had been just a few minutes before; far away was that memory of a kiss he had shared with his wife-to-be. And Gar… he was even worse. Gar seemed, sick. He didn’t move. He just seemed unwell, as if he would soon faint. As if, he would puke as Kanrel had done on the very first day he had reached the Forum, right onto the courtyard before the doors into the Forum.
Kanrel swallowed. Surely it was loud; surely everyone could hear that sound, but none heeded it. Everyone had their own thoughts to worry about, their own actions, their reactions to the fear that had found itself stationary within all of them.
A sudden snort broke the silence, and the pen stopped in its motion. The Receptionist’s gaze met the cause of this beginning of laughter; their gaze saw Kanrel, who grinned so widely that one could see his teeth. That snort soon turned into audible laughter that filled the reception; it filled the ears of the two of his friends, who too stared at him, in their eyes a fear even greater than before. But Kanrel just laughed; his body trembled from the strength of it. His eyes watered as it soon became painful; he laughed, not because it was funny, nor because he could feel anything to be funny. He laughed because he hadn’t done so in such a long time. This laughter wasn’t true, nor was it false; it wasn’t entirely fake. It was just something that suited the situation. It was absurd. All of this was absurd. It was all that he could do.
Soon Kanrel was left gathering his breath and drying tears that populated his eyes; he had everyone’s attention, so it was his turn to speak: “You’re right. I should pretend to not be so afraid. Not only for the sake of my friends but also for my own sake.”
“But why must you make it so difficult? Why must you torture us with your silly tricks? Is this your true intention? Is this the job that you are to do? Do you prepare those who are to see the council with tension and fear, a sprinkle of anxiety to make those who approach the throne with a sense of dread? So that they might submit more easily?” Kanrel asked; his fear had gripped him from the inside. It had made him do this; he wanted to meet eye to eye with it, to hash it out and either submit to it, to understand it, or to remove it.
The Receptionist sat in the silence after his words, and soon a smile conquered that face with a certain lack of emotion; no wrinkles did this smile form, nor did it meet their eyes. “So through fear, you have found your grace, a form of dignity… Next time, choose your words more carefully; then, you might seem more sane as you doubt and question the tyranny of our ways.” A flat tone. A singular line that traveled between the two abysses, of emotions that perhaps should’ve been there; either anger or amusement, but there was neither. They simply gave another observation, lowered their gaze, and allowed the rhythm of their pen to fill the rest of the silence.
Kanrel’s heart raced; he flushed, but if he could see his face, he was not. In fact, his face was quite pale. He was afraid, more afraid than before. But at least he felt at peace with this fear. He had something to explain it. Slowly, he found his center. He found his way to become calm, and his face became a mask of it. A lie that surely wasn’t perfectly crafted, but a lie nonetheless. One, that his two friends could now believe. Kanrel could feel Gar’s and Y’Kraun’s eyes on him still; they were still afraid, but less so than before. Even after such a moment of high tension.
Minutes crawled; he felt again as if he were in one of those lines. Waiting for someone else's turn, that soon he might have his turn… But now, he could let his eyes wander around the room; at times, he even stood up and walked around; one time he even dared to sit down on one of the couches, and they were as comfortable as they seemed. He took a book from one of the shelves, mainly to see if there were any words within or if it were part of a well-constructed set to impose a certain feeling upon those who waited their turn here, and in part to test his own ability to read the language.
The book picked up was a book of poems or short prose, which was surprising given where they were; he read a few lines of it:
And it was already evening when you covered my tears with your palms.
With hands clasped, you spoke a prayer: forgive this filth; cleanse their sins.
With your words, we sank into silence; my flowing tears wet your palms.
It is still evening, and I do not know if I wish to awake; I do not want to close my eyes and step into tomorrow.
Hold me tighter; take my tears, baptize your soul with them.
Lies entwine together, they meet in your fingers,
they are crossed upon my face, a veil over my eyes, feeding on my salt;
I know you do not love me… Yet I long for you.
It was out of place; even then, he placed it where he took it from. During the last few minutes of their wait, Kanrel found the courage to approach the Receptionist and their table. He peered at the papers on the table as well as what the Receptionist might be writing and at least confirmed that they truly were working and not playing a part as an actor to create that feeling of fear for those who sought an audience.
The Receptionist spoke as he did so, “You may pace around the room; you may read the books that decorate its shelves; you may sit on the couches and the chairs; you may even lie down on the floor if you wish, but you may not look at these papers, as the people they are about might not wish their private information to be read by someone who has nothing to do with it.” Even then there was no anger in their voice, but the warning was well understood.
“Forgive me; I let my own curiosity blindside me.” Kanrel promptly apologized.
“You are forgiven, for as long as you do not repeat the same mistake.” They replied and lifted their gaze from the papers; their eyes found Kanrel’s, and they locked those gazes together for a few moments, those gray eyes that reminded him of Kalma’s eyes. One couldn’t meet them for too long, and Kanrel had to look away. He understood the threat far too well, and instead of lingering in front of them for even a moment longer, he went to the chairs and sat in the middle, right beside Gar and Y’Kraun, who had kept following him with their own gazes, perhaps more anxious than before because of his antics. Perhaps at times even amused or inspired by his foolishness. But they said nothing as he sat down.
Silence ensued as they continued waiting; only the sounds of pen and paper could be heard.