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We're back in Ralquez today, featuring a song the "Tells" might sing.
Tells are the name given to a magically-created people, so named because they are used as wells of information which they will "tell" to anyone who asks for it. Born sentient and mature, with voracious interest in varied subjects, they tend to live in libraries, consuming everything. But their incredible creation and incurable obsessions come with the cost of naïveté: they find many of the basic facts of living and dying to be confusing beyond comprehension. If today it is not, tomorrow it shall never be.
Tells stay awake for as long as they can (and endure terrible hallucinations as a result) because their instinct tells them that going to sleep is the same as dying. The nonchalant treatment they receive from the naturally-born, insensitive as it must be, leaves them scandalized as a result. How can they be so casual? They whisper to one another, not daring to say so in front of their makers. Do they not care about this moment? The only moment? Over time, this pattern drills the self-perception deep inside a Tell: joy, of life and day, is not for me.
It should not be believed that Tells are truly joyless as a result; but it is joy piercing a constant fear—a rapture in the shadow of death. A Tell’s joy comes purely from discovery and the sharing of knowledge. Men who know Tells best know them as the friendliest and the happiest creatures in existence. The despair is not shared with those who bring joy. Only a few outsiders know the truth.
As a Tell wakes, they recall the former days as if another person lived them. The eyes that saw such memories have merely been donated. This body is the real one, and when it sleeps, it is over. So they must stay with it as long as they can. There is too much they don’t yet know. But would knowing it all sate the hunger?
The torture eventually becomes rhythm, and some find a way to get over it. Those who do will often sing a song of lamentation and satire, praising those who live without fear of sleep, acknowledging with frankness its finality for themselves: the Evensong of the Tells.
The Evensong of the Tells
Down, down, dear Sun, you go, down, leave us too,
you have more better people to shine on,
and better things than warmth give us from you,
and better eyes than ours with light to don!
Our tongues are tired and too destitute
to beg you stay, and what good is’t to lie?
and say that we deserve your still pursuit
before the days we die? Ever we Die!
Goodbye to all! We fall down to our knees!
To bed, to bed, we get ourselves to bed,
not thinking that on better days than these
we might as well—we might as well’ve been dead!
When wake, if wake we do, and think elseways,
we’ll cheer that there are that many less days!