The Fifth Science

by Exurb1a

A lifetime of almosts. Almost kissing Abigail Payne only to go back inside. Almost giving his father a piece of his mind just before the old man died. Almost pursuing his true dream of becoming a railway driver, only to go into academia instead out of a stupid sense of duty. Humans must be the only animals who build zoos for themselves.

I wouldn't say it was a world-class sexual performance on his part, but it wasn't terrible. They began rendezvousing in that disgusting traditional way,

There is an innate nature to each being, built into the very architecture of his mind, and Berkhamsted’s nature was predisposed to the blackest strand of worry. Here he was then, in love, loved, sharing a private mental plain with this divine human, his wife, with whom all anxieties and longings and deliberations might be freely shared. If he were to break down like a baby, even, she would no doubt coddle him until he slept and he'd wake rejuvenated and ready once again to do battle with the great injustices of the world. Instead he just lived in constant fear that she’d leave him.

On the surface, even to himself, he longed for clarity, to live in a universe that made sense. Beneath that was a self-congratulating element, priding himself on having made such fine progress so far. And beneath that was the will to dominate.

Youth breeds a certain self-preservation instinct. It is understood on some primal level that one's whole life is ahead, and death or disfigurement now will result in decades of life unlived. At my age another feeling sets in. One knows life will be over soon, that the body will revert to little more than dust and a story. Then only a story. Then an old story. Then a nothing. That tends to nip most fears in the bud.

I fear that on my last day, on my deathbed, that is when the meaning of things will enter the room and kiss my forehead and whisper into my ear what it was I should have done with my life, and how I should've conducted myself. Hell isn't a fire pit but a museum of regrets.

I knew I had arrived on Aerth by the smell of the air. It was not smoggy, but hardly clean either. Old. Yes, old. It tasted like ancient wars and empire.