On my sixth attempt, my herald proved an inadequate vessel for knowledge. He became mad, unable to grasp the fullness of my experience, neglecting my daughter’s love, and incapable of constructing even the simplest structures. The tower collapsed on a calm spring day. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Equilateral triangles were the strongest. It was a gut feeling. Something Alexander knew from the moment he was born. Squares and rectangles were easy to push and pull, but triangles resisted, defiant, rigid structures, the perfect building blocks. Towers, walls, trusses, and levers. He made everything out of triangles, geometric arrangements most fitting for load-bearing walls, sturdy chairs, and dining room tables. He built bridges with matchsticks and kindling and righted crooked shelves with oak pegs and an ashen shiv. Never too wide at the top or narrow at the bottom. Reinforce the joints, distribute the weight, diagonal grids, lateral steel skeletons, columns, bars, and beams.
Alexander licked his bulbous lips and ran his fingers through his greasy brown hair. Patches came out at the root, leaving bald spots along the sides of his scalp.
He was only twelve years old and knew cantilevered hollow tubes resisted lateral loads, and shear walls and diagrids obviated the need for columns and cores. Architecture failed at the joints, so he added a hinge, doubled the adhesive, and pinned the angles.
The little wooden bridge buckled as Alexander pressed against the trusses. Something snapped, the struts collapsing, wooden splinters slapping him in the face.
He scowled, throwing the shoddy wooden replica against the wall, shattering it into a dozen pieces.
Flexible bearings, anchored foundations, affixed triangular trusses, vaulted ceilings, and flying buttresses.
He moaned, grabbing fistfuls of his hair, his swollen brow throbbing as if a second heart beat within his head.
Counterweights, balances, rigidity, and flexibility. Towers should lean not fall, bend not break, sway, not sink.
His fingers quivered, and his mind raced, architectural designs flooding his thoughts and beating against his skull.
Unexplainable desires drove him, a larva pushing himself free of his cocoon ready to hollow out caves, stitch leaves, and sort rocks ten times his weight. He knew he wasn’t like other boys. The ones who practiced with swords in the courtyard with dreams of being knights, chivalry, and jousting, a prince’s playbook. They competed for his father’s attention, but their efforts were in vain. No other man’s son would come to rule the roost.
Alexander sniffed, rubbing his crooked nose with his right hand. He flexed his fingers in front of his face, smooth but with splintered nails and inflamed knuckles. His elbow hurt, the mass of swollen tissue protruding from his back leaving him hunched and his knees shaky.
He lay against a dirty mattress, the buttons of his tunic popping off, unable to accommodate his awkward form. The sheets were too small, and his feet stuck out the other side, resting against the damp stones and warped wood.
Alexander shivered, turning over, tiny yellow eyes watching him from hovels and holes. He counted the bottles stacked in rows on wooden shelves. Key Blue from the capital of Bruma, Velvety Noir from the sulfur mines of Sidlea, and sweat wines from the Ivory Isles. He knew them by heart, the glass, red, blue, purple, and green, and the corks the shape of half-eaten cheese, lonely, cold, and damp.
Alexander sympathized. He knew what it was like never to be tasted, sealed away for years and souring with age.
He heard a screeching noise, a heavy latch lifted, and a door groaning. His ears perked up, and he leaped from his bed, cowering behind the cases and shelves. Beams of light flooded the cellar from the aging warped stairwell and his pale milky eyes squinted in pain.
She was a young woman, a cautious doe rounding the corner, her eyes darting frantically, searching for signs of movement. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, and she flinched from the sounds, the tray in her hands shaking and her heart beating wildly.
“Hello?” she said, taking one step at a time and looking over her shoulder.
This one was different. He’d never seen her before and, unlike the older one who beat him with sticks, there was a kind look in her eyes, the innocence of youth and the openness of inexperience. Maybe she would understand. Maybe she would reach out her hand. Maybe she would be his friend…
Alexander stepped out from behind the shelves, stumbling on shaky knees and swollen calves. He dragged his right arm behind him and worked his lips so the tissue didn’t catch on his teeth.
The woman screamed, throwing the tray in the air and scattering bread and cheese across the dusty cellar floor.
“Wait!” He reached out as she bolted up the stairs, the door slamming shut behind her, blanketing him in darkness.
His lips quivered as he dropped his hand, looking down at the tray lying by his feet. He sniffed, picking up the bits of stale bread and moldy cheese and retreating to his bed. He curled into a fetal position, gnawing on the petrified food.
Trusses, triangles, and hinged connections provided stable configurations. Bundled tubes and not boxes with anchored substructures, bedrock instead of sand, key to constructing the Babel tower.
“Leave me alone!” He grabbed his swollen head, whimpering in the dark, something skittering by the shelves, drawn to the crumbs.
Tears dripped from his eyes and spattered across the dusty floor. Who would ever be his friend? He was a monster…
“Watcha crying for?” said a honeyed voice.
He leaped from his bed, eyes as wide as saucers, his heart pounding like a jackrabbit. “Whose there!”
Another girl peaked from behind the shelves and corked bottles. She lay on her belly, playing with the hem of her dress. Even in the darkness, he could see her as clear as day, her hair as white as milk, and her skin like moonlight. She licked her lips, moist and inviting, her rose-tinted cheeks growing red and her freckles swelling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, twisting her gown. “I just wanted to see you is all.” She smiled, a touch of womanhood in her swelling breast.
Alexander’s breath caught in his throat, his hands shaking and his mind racing. Beads of sweat formed across his brow, and his body moved, compelled beyond reason, closing the gap between them as if caught in some spell.
She was beautiful.
The girl panicked, pulling on her skirt, her crimson eyes glowing in the dark. She was afraid not of him, but of what he might find. He recognized the look in her eyes, the face of someone no longer playing pretend, and it frightened her, but she had no reason to be afraid.
He caressed the softness of her cheek, her eyes as wide as saucers, reading his intent. Without hesitation, without so much as a single word, Alexander kissed her. It was as natural as breathing, her lips as sweet as the finest ale. He hesitated, waiting for the sounds of her screams and the feel of her clawing at his back, but she didn’t. The girl leaned into him, submitting herself to the strength of his arm, her eyes gently closed as if swept in the currents of a fond dream. He never once noticed the brokenness of her feet or the twisted serpentine nature of her calves. Instead, it was the softness of her lips, the blush of her cheeks, the curl of her white hair, and the seductive sway of her hips.
Clarity washed over him, and he gently pushed her, parting their lips.
The girl leaned back against the floor, resting on her palms and sighing heavily, a breathless quality to her voice. “Gawds.” She touched her lips. “So that’s what that feels like.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
She smiled at him, no fear in her eyes, as oblivious to his flaws as he was to hers. “My name is Decima.” She bowed, lifting the corners of her dress, an odd kneeling curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexander.”
“Oh, Gawds! Morta, are those rats!?” said a voice from behind him.
Alexander spun and found two other girls standing on his bed. The older one wore a dress as black as midnight, her dark hair tied into an intricate braid, and a smug look on her face as she crossed her arms. The younger clung to her sister’s dress, squealing loudly, her face sickly pale and her hands trembling.
“For fuck’s sake, grow up!” The older girl shoved the younger, who screamed when something skittered by her feet.
“Guess what, Nona?” Decima hopped on her knees. “I kissed for the first time! It was wonderful!”
Color returned to Nona’s cheeks, and she smiled, brushing past Alexander as if a statue, something of little importance.
“I’m so happy for you,” she said, wrapping her arms around Decima. “Happy Name Day, sister!”
The dark-haired girl stood by Alexander, scowling as she watched the girls dance around. “Hey, you, lug.” She grabbed his ear, forcing him to bend over, her voice a silent whisper. “Break my sister’s heart, and I’ll kill you myself.”
