Beside the Lotus Pool

       It is the latter part of the afternoon when I have risen, and go to sit beside the lotus pool. The serving boy brings a tray of coffee and some delicate pastry (of which a new variety is concocted each day by the finest baker I could find in this place in this time). I have little appetite - so fickle are the vessels of mortality! Yet the pastry is light, so I eat of it a little. The boy, beautiful as he is, does not look to be well either - but he is a new acquisition, and undoubtedly is unaccustomed to late nights, such as he was given last.
       "But ah, such an evening it was!" I mutter into my coffee. (This is an exquisite aroma, I must discover where Luce obtained such a unique blend.)
       "Yes, sir," the boy replies, his voice low and a little dubious. Clearly he does not know if I desired a reply, and he should have preferred to let a yawn pass his lips in place of words. And I do suppose he found the night far more bewildering than enjoyable.
       I chuckle gently, savoring the novelty of his reactions. His innocence and uncertainty are obvious, and it will be a pleasure to watch his reponses to a world he has hardly guessed. And he is a lovely young thing, with soft golden curls and clear, almost luminescent skin. His eyes are so wide! Oh the little darling, it is almost a shame we will darken that brightness, we shall fog and tarnish that clarity of color and soul... but we cannot do otherwise, in this midnight existence of ours. Yet oh, you bring a momentary respite to these ashen eyes...
       "Do lay the tray on the table, there, and sit on the low wall of the pool," I instruct him gently, my voice low and soothing. His body visibly relaxes as he does so - he had been both discomfited and uncomfortable in standing at attention so. "Amuse yourself with the flowers and the pool." He hesitates, awkward, feeling quite self-conscious about playing on command, and I cannot help but smile (though it is sadly). "And," I murmur, "you may... try to imagine I do not sit so near you."
       He looks at me then, for the first time his eyes meeting mine, and oh how it tears my heart! There is an eternal depth to the mahogany, the highlights of youthful innocence set off by an intensity of passion, and made rich by the satins of sympathy and compassion. And I am enraged at the pity I see there and I am moved to tears at the gentle honesty in which it is given, and it is I who break the shared gaze.
       "Play," I mutter darkly, turning myself away until I can again regain control. That I should be undone so easily! It should not be so, I should have perfect dominion over such emotion, I--- but it was an exhaustive evening, I must still be tired, the wine must have lain too heavily within my aching veins, the coffee must not have the strength I am accustomed to...
       There is a slight splash and a surprised laugh, brief but of pure delight. I turn back to see the boy looking eagerly into the pool, his shining eyes following the flashes of gold and sunset as the fish dart between the roots of the lily pads. One must have leapt up from the water, as these sometimes do, and I am sure the boy is unused to such a thing. He is old enough that he may serve me gracefully, and will not be given to very unexpected lapses of attention, but young enough to retain the easy joys of childhood, and untainted wonder at all which surrounds him. Would that I could find my pleasures so easily! But I have seen all and tasted all, and what is there new in this world? Even the purity of this boy, I have seen so many times, and though his charms are a delight to my weariness, I know I shall tire of them, and find my diversion in other manners before much time has passed.
       But for now, I will find pleasure in his play, in the freshness of the air about him, in the soft morning light which he carries ever with him (as we carry the faint, reflected light of the moon).
       He has plucked a white daisy (however had it come here! I certainly did not ask it, and how should innocence come unbidden to such a place?), and is pulling the slim petals from it (are all children thus destructive in their gambols?), dropping them to land lightly atop the still water. The fish are at first startled, slipping away down into the shadows, but they grow curious and perhaps hungry, and soon flit upwards to see if they may eat what has been placed before them. The boy is smiling, pleased with his own ingenuity at thus controlling the beings below him... but no, I see no malice there, I only project my own motives onto him. He is merely delighting in the glimmering gold and the sparkling of the water, and the warmth of the sun and the sumptuousness of the gardens surrounding him.
       As I can only reflect light, so too can I only obtain such joys secondhand. I have lost the glow of Heaven, which once wrapped me as a child's blanket, and so too has the joy of sheer existence fallen from me. I have been here too long...
       I move slowly about the area near the pond, my slippered feet silent on the sun-warmed paving stones, drinking in the mingled perfumes and daubs of saturated color. The afternoon light is so rich here, bringing a fullness to everything, each leaf and petal cast in a thousand precious stones. My current gardener is a fine one - his own visual appearance is no asset to the surroundings, but he would be relegated to morning visits regardless, for I do not care to see the labor behind the beauty. But I have found that true experience, seasoned and mature, is rarely present in any but the aged among mankind. And I will certainly not leave my garden to chance care! So my gardeners must be artists as well as laborers, and this one manages quite well. I have not found a single blemish to even my most delicate roses, and there is scarcely an inch to be found now without some point of interest. The fresh cascades of honeysuckle, jasmine and trumpet flowers are splendid additions to the wisteria, roses and clematis, which had previously been the sole inhabitants of the many trellises and arches. I pluck a coral-colored honeysuckle from overhead, turning the tiny yet effusively fragrant blossom over between my fingers, my eyes seeking out the nuances of soft and rich color draping over each petal. The scent is truly intoxicating, I must have more of them about - but in few places mingling with the jasmine, for I fear it should overpower that more delicate scent.
       And I realise now there are notes of locust blossoms in the honeysuckle, which brings to mind such solemn thoughts - but no! I do not wish to tarry in that melancholy now, it is too soon in the day and I am already weary. Where has the boy gone to?
       "Boy!"
       There is only the briefest of pauses (this one was truly an excellent find!), and he stands before me. His cheeks are flushed a brilliant rose, his lush, too-sensual lips parted, a shining curl caught on his ivory brow, and I am overtaken by a fierce desire for him. I direct him to stand on the low bench beside me, so his face is opposite mine, and I move close, cupping his impossibly soft cheek in one pale hand. I can feel that he holds back a shiver, and though I tell myself it is only the chill of my fragile flesh, my heart sickens with the sense that it is rather repulsion at my touch. I do not show it, but I am sobered and made lachrymose, all passion gone from me as rapidly as it appeared. I sigh and brush my thumb lightly over his skin, lingering, as if in some way I hope to absorb just a little of that fullness of life he so easily possesses.
       "Do not grow weary, child, " I murmur in a faded tone. "Do not lose roses and ivory of such beauty, for you will not find them again, if once they are lost."
       I can feel the solemnity of his wise young gaze on my face, but I have not the strength to meet those eyes now. My hand drops - it takes such effort to keep it a motion of casual grace, instead of letting it simply fall as it desires. I turn away, and shift my unseeing gaze to the slender flax plants which line the stream flowing from the lotus pool, a juxtaposition crafted to conjure fleeting visions of grand, gem-filled tombs.
       "Tell me of your play, child."
       He pauses a moment, considering, then begins, his words at first shy and slow, but soon growing confident and light-hearted. I listen only partially, letting the sound rather than the content of his cheery, pure-toned voice, the innocent selfishness of his young being pushing aside my own tired thoughts, as the gentle blue of the flax petals pass between my fingers and caress my exhausted eyes.
       After a time I sense that he has moved toward me, cautiously and quietly, his birdsong stilled, though I had not noticed when. "Shall I continue to speak, sir?"
       I smile faintly, and rest my hand (almost tenderly) among the halo of curls, taking comfort in their infant-like softness, as if the harsh air of this world had hardly touched them. "Sing for me, child, sing as you go about in your play. I shall need no more service than that from you for today."
       For I can think of no greater comfort for this melancholic heart than to spend the warm, golden hours among the myriad delicate blossoms, catching elusive snatches of pure, bell-like melody, and glimpses of a beauty unsullied by my proximity. Time enough for the darker pleasures of the night, the depths of sensuousness which I will wrap this body in. The warm tones will be all the richer for the contrast with such shimmering light as this, the sheen on velvet, the shimmer upon burgundy silk.