The Fall of House Ruman

18th Aught, 1122

My life has ended.

25th Aught, 1122

My room is cold. Although the weather cannot be called fierce, my high perch groans awfully with the whistling wind. It seems happy to find the small cracks and infest them. The glass on my windows is dirty; I have yet to draw the curtains since

5th Plenty, 1122

  Yes. I have been “advised”, which is to say ordered to record my thoughts in this journal I once so fastidiously curated. Somehow, my continuing grief offends people. Perhaps one day they will read this account and learn the error of their ways. I think not, but still, the spite is fuel.

It is midnight. Everyone else is asleep. My brother’s room across the hall is empty. Of course, the door is shut fast and I shall see it never opens again. Behind my curtains I’m sure Drubenow continues to march along, as if nothing has happened. Why should they care? Still, If I were to see the city again, with its rising waves of red brick and broken glass sky teetering on pillars of smog and smoke, I might wretch. Or worse yet, break something valuable.

I never liked the city, although our townhouse has always been an oasis in the chaos. No longer, I fear. The “sword” of living next to my studio is now pleased to cut me both ways.

7th Plenty, 1122

Father came to turf me out of my room today. He says my commissions will suffer, and of course he’s right. I wish I could imagine him concerned for me, but the more likely reality is that he fears Ruman’s reputation will suffer. Oh, you don’t know what that means? How could you, you’re just a journal. A cheap one at that. Was it some desert way-station where I bought you for a handful of war-glass?

Anyway, I’m only writing because I’m not working. I don’t want to. I can’t. So. I write. It’s not as if my studio was ever particularly hospitable. This old townhouse used to be a clocktower. Did you know that, diary? My studio is in the part that’s still old stone, with all my things pushed up against one wall and all the old cogs and levers up against the other. It’s all curved, too, and absolutely freezing, even now that the weather’s warming. It doesn’t help I was forced in here in my nightgown, but I have no intention of leaving today.

Father’s right. If only I could bring myself to care about the family reputation.

8th Plenty, 1122

There. I marked up a canvas. Taller and wider than usual, slashed across with a line of black pitch. It’s still drying. No, no water, no nothing. Just a line, dripping like blood into the mortar cracks on the floor.

Maybe I should sign it: Karia Ruman.

18th Plenty, 1122

A team of inspectors from the city watch visited today. Mother and father told their story. All I had to do was nod along. Do you think if I write something incriminating in here it will force some poor watch plodder to read all my ramblings?

THEY KILLED MY LITTLER BROTHER!!!

5th Panoply, 1122

I am confined to the townhouse. Let me explain, since you’re likely to be my only company for some time.

Ruman is a storied name. I don’t care why; my only associated memories are ignoring my history tutor. Some ancestor or other fought with Kyros and founded the city with him, but unlike the rest of them we’re not blessed with great wealth or power. Why is this? Who’s to say or care.

It only affects me because there are expectations. Some people consider it “prestigious” to have a Ruman artwork or Ruman invention in their homes. I have all these advantages, so I was in the process of seeking the recommendations necessary to apply for an internship at one of the Great houses.

I like Ludoni. Their factories are small. So’s their pay, but I don’t need that, and they have history. I penned the date today without really understanding. It’s Panoply already. I have nothing for the Halcyon Fair and no particular desire to attend any galas.

I think I’ll go and smash my head against the wall. Goodbye forever you horrible pieces of paper.

7th Panoply, 1122

I have painted three landscapes, one portrait and four still-life studies and I HATE them all.

I receive my orders in letters. I used to meet my patrons. Not anymore.

No new paints for me. Had to break out the old cans from the basement.

I broke out my old piece today. Black Slash, I call it. Did you know artists are supposed to have passion? All they wanted is “realism,” as if they can’t use their own eyes.

8th Panoply, 1122

Father says I must have something ready to show at the Halcyon Fair at the end of the year. I think I would like to stop painting. Or making things. Mother and Father keep advertising for me with their socialite friends. They say if I play my cards right my work might sit in the new palace. As if the King would ever see it. As if we are all aligned and whole.

Everything I make is colorless and dull as ash. As an act of rebellion I have made everything with the old paints: they stink to the heavens and will burst into flame at the gentlest lick of a candle. Serves them right.

But I have the face of an unremarkable, underachieving, ageing man to paint! Quick! To the palette!

10th Panoply, 1122

I was forced out yesterday. Forced into my costume. Some gentleman’s club or other. Has there ever been a more mortifying situation than being asked to perform some talent or other in public and refusing over and over again?

I can’t sing, or else I will cry. They should have known that, and yet they insisted. How could they not know? And worse was the lecture: how DARE I still be in mourning? Of course they don’t know that Tybalt would harmonize with me, or try to sing along, or that we would make up songs together. Why should music continue to exist without him? Why should anything? His absence exposes the hollowness of everything else. Contrast by omission. The world is negative space. Canvas unused and used up at the same time.

All my portraits are late. Father says I will be in trouble.

16th Panoply, 1122

Made a mess of Count Hulber’s portrait. Hand slipped, laughed too much. Tears got all in the paint and mixed it up.

Mother sat me down for a “talk.” She says she will fill the order and credit it to me. Felt like a traitor signing her canvas. Why?

I kept the ruined one. It’s only candlelight in here. Freezing too. Should be in bed, but can’t stop staring. I compared the ruined face to the Black Slash. This one is red. Foundation shade I was using for the cheek to give it an organic blush. Right through his mouth. His throat. His eyes.

I think I will keep working on it. All my paint stinks now.

28th Panoply, 1122

I have painted a great deal since we last spoke, diary. I finished Count Hulber’s portrait in a new style. I mixed salt and water for some new oils and made a few new pigments with the old paints. He looks as if someone has melted away all his blood to acid. I would like for the real count to see it some day. I called it Red Slash and put it next to Black Slash.

I had a half finished landscape, too, and I kept at work on that one, but I swapped out all my greens and blues. Something has gone wrong with me, I think, but I still have responsibilities. I have a reputation and the Halcyon display. Did all my feelings ooze out onto the ruined canvasses?

8th Sighing, 1122

Opened my curtains for the first time. The city has changed a lot. Our townhouse is not far from the new palace district. The King says only the highest minded may live near him; no-one mentioned us, but no-one has asked us to move, either. Streamers and bunting fly between the houses now, and all sorts of flowerbeds have been planted. Baskets hang from the lamps. How venomous it all is.

12th Sighing, 1122

Slashed all my canvasses to ribbons. No orders will be filled hahaha.

Father says my new paintings are horrible.

Mother gave me another talk. She says if this keeps up I will be banned from painting with only a few months to go until the fair and I must submit some invention or other instead. She doesn’t know all the canvasses are ripped up yet.

What time is it?

I smashed my clock open to look at the insides.

15th Sighing, 1122

Another talk from Mother. Did you know, Diary, that our common room here at Ruman House has a big window that was once the face of a clock?! Very prestigious. It’s more of a lounge for entertaining guests. Cracked leather coaches, filigree and glass cabinets, even a very old table on legs that retrieves wines. I oiled it last night when everyone else was asleep.

Anyway, mother says I must paint as I did. She says we must put our feelings aside to keep up appearances. I called the last one Ruins, and I thought it was quite good. She will never see it now.

18th Sighing, 1122

All my painting supplies have been removed. My studio is empty. I sit in here anyway because I have locked the door. Mother says it is normal to feel sad about Tybalt. She says ruining my work because of it I wrong. She says art is supposed to bring happy feelings.

I saved some of the old smelly paints in a secret place, but I have no more supplies. I am forbidden to leave the townhouse, which is alright with me. The tower is locked, and Mother says she will bring me food and maybe some company.

20th Sighing, 1122

I understand now. They have decided to do to me what they did to Tybalt. They were not there. They were not. He went under the wheels but he wasn’t gone. I could have pulled him out. I could have. They pulled me away and now he’s gone forever.

There isn’t much food. Father left me with his copy of Examples of The Ostrakoi. I never read far into it. My tutors could tell I wasn’t interested. Part of me wants to burn the pages for heat. The year is growing colder. Maybe I will burn some of the paints to stay warm, bubbling in their cans like little cauldrons.

23rd Sighing, 1122

I have smashed all the clocks I can find. Sometimes I think I still hear them ticking. Maybe because I am inside a big clock haha.

Read a lot more about the Revelation from Father’s book. I think about the people, how they must not have known. Do you think they felt it, diary? Just a bright white flash. Was there heat? Was there wind? Was there a terrible sound?

If I was still allowed, I might paint it. A big ugly grey city. The splash it all with the brightest, whitest paint I have. Maybe wax, so it will glow in the dark.

It was so unkind. Desperation? They say that Terminus Termon was the greatest Ostrakon, and it produced the Revelation. Who decided that? A single God, acting on their own? Do Gods ask permission? Maybe not.

My studio is full of broken pieces. I wonder if I can put the clocks back together?

1st Rationing, 1122

I have been reading a lot. Many of my old projects have come up from the basement, from when I aimed to be apprenticed at Merche for my inventions. Novelty lamps, mostly. Even then I spent most of my time engraving.

There are also a lot of old pictures in father’s book. Pencil sketches.

Oh, I almost forgot! I have discovered that paper makes an excellent canvas! I tried some of my ideas out in smaller form, but alas, I feel my creative spirit has moved on. I have engraved an image of Terminus Termon on a small brass motivator contact plate. I’m not sure why, but somehow Examples of The Ostrakoi has inspired something in me. Could I make the Halcyon fair? My hand tremble wiring this, restless.

Maybe I can yet persuade father to pay for heating the tower. It has become too cold to work in the studio for long.       

5th Rationing, 1122

I’ve been hosting visitors, diary! Mother had me dressed and Father made me some appointments and I have had some very stimulating conversations. I have been showing off my new project and there is some excitement! I have promised not to reveal its function yet, but I am assured many influential people will be eager to see its debut. Of course, I will have to be judged worthy for pride of place at the fair, but Mother says she knows very many people who will see it to its rightful place. Every time I would sit down with someone new, check my tea set and arrange my skirts, I would ask them about Tybalt. None of them knew who I meant.

My old paints have gone into the project; as it turns out they have very many unusual chemical properties! I hope they will not smell them through the brass.

7th Rationing, 1122

Not long until the fair. I hope my little project is ready. I spent a lot of time pondering what I was taught as a tinker and sculptor. I must express myself, but leave room for technique. My technique must impress, but not stifle my uniqueness. My style must be unique, but still palatable to my audience. I must keep my audience and the market in mind without suffocating my passions.

Well my “self” is not palatable and neither is whatever excuse for “passion” I have left in me. So I have made “art” for them. It’s complete. It sits in my nice, warm, newly furbished studio. Mother and Father must feel awful; they’ve spared no expense, in fact, if things go well I expect the entire townhouse to be given over to me and for mother and father to retire to a manor just beyond the city. Somewhere coastal.

Do you think the ancient people of Origin Monad worried about Terminus Termon? Did they even know one of their Gods had become part machine? That it had the power to destroy them all, and in a flash, it would judge them all unworthy to live?

My project is sitting on my desk in the studio. It smells awfully; I had to filter and mix the paints just right to get the most out of the chemicals. It’s waiting to be sealed up, but I left the timer unconnected. Ticking. I made it from the broken clocks!

I will seal it up at the end of the week and decide if I want to attend the fair in person. I hope Mother and Father will get a front row seat to the grand unveiling of House Ruman’s new Mystery Device!

8th Rationing, 1122

I can’t wait to express myself! I hope everyone loves my invention!

9th Rationing, 1122

I saw the flash from here. A second later, the rumble, even the screaming. I think the city watch will work out what happened pretty quickly.

You know, diary, I never deserved to be shown at the fair; if I had to go through the same process as everyone else, I wonder what would have happened?

Oh well, this is probably where we part. I enjoyed our talks. I folded a piece of Black Slash into your unused pages. Maybe the detectives from the watch will enjoy it, but it’s okay, they don’t have to like my art to understand how I really feel.