stagnation, pt. i

A thick fog settled over the city one night, and didn't lift. It blew in from the ocean, according to those who happened to be awake and watching the ocean at the time. And while the city was no stranger to fog, especially in the winter, it was seldom so thick--when I first walked out, I could not see my companion walking next to me in the mists. Nor did it usually linger; either the winds would drive it out or the sun would burn it off after a few days at most. But linger it did. Days passed, then weeks, and we were starting to wonder if it would be months. The fog had rendered travel all but impossible, closing the ports and the old imperial highways, and the city thrived on trade; and if the fog covered the entirety of the coastal lowlands, as my court scholar insisted, there would be no crops in spring (and, of course, no gardens).

The city--my city--was dying, and all I could do was climb to the top of the tower, where the fog did not reach, and watch. From such heights it was almost beautiful. And, I'm told, the people hidden by that shimmering blanket of clouds found some new sense of normal, navigating the suddenly labyrinthine streets to deliver messages and parcels. The system they had developed, my scholar told me, was actually quite clever. She always did find the wrong things exciting. 

But she was the only one of the court who did not insist that it would clear by spring. And she was the one who spent her days (and her nights; I'm not convinced she ever slept) researching, hoping to understand the fog, to find a way to make it lift, if she could. But until her efforts bore fruit, there were no signs of change, and every day as I watched the fog from the safety of my spire I wondered how long we could last, how long before the stagnation finally claimed us and we were truly, finally, lost in the mists.