Mesnyi

a light like ghost of silver on the sea

In all her wanderings across Delumine, Mesnyi didn’t make it a point to visit the library. She had gone once or twice before, but it had taken her some time to get a decent grasp on the written language of Novus, so there wasn’t much purpose to such outings. The Benevolent had little use for books; theirs was mostly an oral tradition, and only a select few dove into the literature of the lands they passed through. In some ways, it was a shame, as literature opened a doorway to new songs and stories, but the Benevolent had got along just fine without it. Mesnyi didn’t know how long she would stay for, or if anyone would come to get her before she turned old and gray. It was a sobering thought. She decided to dive into the myths and legends of Novus, if she could find them, instead of contemplating a potentially sedentary fate.

With a little help from the positively delightful foxes, she was directed to the section she sought. The library was grander than any she’d seen before, all trunks and roots bound up together, leaves dusting the floor like a carpet, and its shelves seemingly built into the trees that formed its walls. Mesnyi was no stranger to monumental architecture, but there was a different beauty in that which came from the natural world. It was almost enough to simply wander the endless corridors, until she spied a glimmer out of the corner of her eye. The book’s spine was slim and dusty lavender, with silver filigree swirling down it. It looked just like her, in a funny sort of way. Perhaps a thinner book would be better to start with, she thought. Just in front of the shelf stood another equine. ”Excuse me, could you pass me that book there? The lavender one.” 

"Tell me about despair, yours and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.”

Hugo,
You used to visit more--not much more, maybe once or twice every season. Your life used to be full of the simple desire to do, to create, and you would come to the library with wide eyes and your face cracked with a smile.

Of course, there was nothing here that you would not find at home. The Arkwright family had written or owned every book about smithing in all of Novus, but you liked to brush the dust off of shelves as you passed, to open a tome that creaked as the pages flipped and to see each carefully rendered instruction drawn in ink on bound parchment.

You liked the wood smell, the damp air of Delumine. You liked that it rained and that it did not smell like saltwater. There was not always the drone of the ocean in the background, or the clang of metal.

It was quiet. Unhurried. You felt at peace.

You do not stop to ask yourself where that went: the happiness, the peace, the open-armed need to come. At this point you have not been to Delumine in a year or so and all you can think is your shuttered windows, your locked door, your quiet forge that sits like a low-burning stove in the dim light of your lanterns.

You know where your mirth went, what happened, why you are gripped by this crushing weight that tells you to sleep, and sleep, and sleep or else drink so it is not quite as heavy--it is just that you don't want to know, so you say you do not.

Today, you are directionless. Around you are shelves stacked high with books you don't read. You know that, around the corner, down a dimly lit hall, your family's books are neatly tucked away with the rest of the artisans -- it feels fitting, somehow, in a way that you can't quite place. You might wonder if it ever had a place at all. You wonder this more than you care to admit, and you doubt it more often than that.

Your directionless wandering drags you to the back of the room, points your face at a wall of shelves made from clean, dark wood, and you are thinking to yourself: the shop could use some new ones because every second of your life circles back to the shop, to the glow of molten iron and the distinct clang of your hammer.

There is a girl behind you - she is not watching you examine the shelves and you barely hear her at all when she says could you pass me that book? You pull it gently from the shelf and hand it over your shoulder, like it never mattered, like nothing has ever mattered, and it worries you that when you see her, purple like the first blink of a sunset, like spring, like coming alive, that you are as you always are-- unstirred.

After a moment you force a smile. The part of you that hopes she notices is not nearly as large as the part that's begging her to turn a blind eye. "Are you color-coding, or...?" you ask, shuffling your wings over your back. "What's it about?"

It never occurs to you that anyone else might not know what they're doing, who they are. You have always felt alone in it. You have never quite noticed that you are all, collectively, at least a little lost.

Mesnyi

e is flashy, with a pumpkin-orange burst of feathers like an exotic cockerel, his wings black and white striped as some salamander saying danger danger danger. Do not eat. She finds it funny, then, when he hardly even acknowledges her to pass the book. He towers above the mare, so the lavender tome must drift down, down, down to Mesnyi before she can take it in her grasp. She’s about to say something to draw him in - she can’t take in anymore - when he finally speaks. 

”Are you color-coding, or…?” Mesnyi cracks a smile and dips her head coyly. A shrug wouldn’t have been her style. ”What’s it about?”

She looks down at the book thoughtfully. ”Metalworking for the Aspirant Jeweler. Not very exciting, is it?” She huffs. ”Truth be told, I was color-coding. I can’t read your language very well, so I thought I might pull something out and read it. I was rather looking for something on local song and dance. Perhaps the foxes led me astray.” The lavender mare lets her gaze travel up, up, up to where the stranger’s head is, and to the books beside it. The Blacksmith’s Encyclopedia. Alloys of the Worlds Over. Oriens’ Hammer.

”Are you a smith?”

"Tell me about despair, yours-- and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.”

You don't see her, when your back is turned and she looks at you like you are at the center of some great mystery. You do not see her draw a breath to speak before you turn to look at her. You do not see all the small thoughts that roll into the one big decision: that you are worth her time, little as she may give you.

Ever since you were young you've wanted to be some great mystery. You'd imagine yourself in your shop, sharpening blades as your uncle charmed the populace from the counter. Excuse me, sir, someone might say from beneath the canopy outside, as the forge chugged along in her endless patience, that young man, in the back-- I must take him on an adventure of grave importance. We need him. We need him desperately.

You think all you might want is to be needed-- and, barring that, just chosen--which is why it is so terribly, terribly sad that you do not see her until the moment has passed.

The book floats into her grasp, chased by another smile that creeps across your mouth at a snail's pace. She smiles, too, in one motion that takes her eyes from yours to the book between the two of you. Not very interesting, is it? She asked.

Your smile widens. You like girls that don't ask hard questions. You like girls that look like a dreamscape fog and girls that smile like a morning glory folding itself for the evening and girls that huff in libraries.

"I don't know," you start-- and shrugging is your style, so you do. "You might get points for having been literally color-coding. I say that's interesting." It is a welcome stroll away from the storm in you, the strong winds and the dark and the rain. You walk out of the cold into the bright meadow full of wildflowers and lilac trees that is--- anything else, honestly.

She asks you, are you a smith? And a cold breeze blows through before the sun breaks over your face again. Is it exhausting, to be this way? How long can you go on, worrying like this? How sustainable is it? You skirt over the question with a quick, "I am, but first, where are you from? I'm curious what you think of the language, in that case."

You smile, again, wide enough that it seems exactly as real as it is, which is to say not much. "If you'll indulge me, that is."

the goodbye look;