noitalsnarT

Some things get lost in translation.

Aphorisms and sayings, oblique expressions, puns, plays on words... They don't usually convert into other languages very well. Often the meaning is lost completely. Especially when the language being translated is one that has for centuries been dead.

He'd paid attention in all his lessons. He'd studied all the texts. He'd analyzed the riddles, he'd examined the ancient civilization and its architecture, its customs, its religions and beliefs. He knew the myths and legends like he knew the back of his own hand.

The back of his hand, scarred and torn from the countless battles he'd engaged in over the past few years. Old scars, showing only as sharp white lines angry against the flushed skin of his weathered hand. And the more recent ones, some still raw, some still painful, some still bleeding like the one between his thumb and forefinger, cutting right down to the center of his palm and so deep it almost went right through to the other side. A wound, in all retrospect, not really even worth mentioning. Because, of course, all things are relative.

And, he reflected numbly, lying on the cold stone floor in the deathly silent chamber, blood no longer seeping through his clothes but merely congealing in a disconnected manner around his head...

I should have known.

Some things get lost in translation.

- - -

Some things get lost in translation.

He stared at the door, wondering how, wondering why, wondering what had just happened, because he knew he’d missed something and he knew it was something big. He stared at the door but didn’t really see it, didn’t see the dark mahogany or the brass doorknob or the pale set of scars running down the lower half from the cat he’d taken in for a few days before it had gratefully run away. He saw auburn hair and a soft face and eyes puffy and glistening with tears that refused to run because she was too strong for that and she wouldn’t cry over a guy, even one whom she’d been with for three years now and whom she loved.

He saw this because he’d seen it, not five minutes before, and it kept playing itself over as he stared blankly at the door. He knew this because she’d told him, not five minutes before, and then she’d told him that she didn’t want to love him anymore because it hurt too much to continue this way. She’d told him many things, far too fast and far too fervently, and suddenly he couldn’t remember what she’d just told him or what she was telling him now, only that it was important and he wanted to understand, he really did, but suddenly she was gone and he was just sitting there, staring at the door. And all he could remember was that she hadn’t told him why her eyes were puffy and glistening with tears.

Or, he reflected numbly, as the emptiness settled in around him and for the first time the apartment seemed too big, too imposing, as though it, like his thoughts, would swallow him whole...

Perhaps she had.

But some things get lost in translation.