Fiona startles at the sound of Asterion’s nicker, too buried beneath the sensation of her pen moving across the paper. Too buried beneath the smell of ash and smoke, as it clung desperately to her skin, drowning her. Her lashes flutter and she drops the pen, losing her grasp on it as it rolls down the page and onto the floor. The sound of it is like a bullet, too loud and booming and ricocheting off the stone. She doesn’t look up, even as he stands over her, even as he reaches out and gently touches her shoulder. She is afraid that if she looks up and meets his eyes she will wish she could speak and she cannot wish that she could speak.
She cannot wish for things that are not meant to be hers, because they will just be like wind through her fingers. Unable to take a hold of them.
For a moment there is nothing but silence between them, and then she looks down at the picture on the page and it steals her breath away. The bottom half of the picture is comprised of sharp, straight lines, hard and heavy. Near the top those same lines clash against wild lines of curves and cuts and waves, sprawling, consuming. It is a house, with fire lashing across the roof, claiming everything in its path. It is not her house, the details are wrong, but the image itself sits heavily on her heart.
When Asterion asks his question she gladly turns the page, pushing away the drawing. Pushing away the truth, the ache, the pain. With shaking hands, she grasps at her pen again. Her scrawling penmanship is not as neat as it should be, not as soft and flowing. It says, No, but my father gave me my first set of art supplies. There is a fleeting, wistful smile to her face, fading away with thoughts of burned furniture and memories. He thought I needed to do something else with my time other than study.
She cannot wish for things that are not meant to be hers, because they will just be like wind through her fingers. Unable to take a hold of them.
For a moment there is nothing but silence between them, and then she looks down at the picture on the page and it steals her breath away. The bottom half of the picture is comprised of sharp, straight lines, hard and heavy. Near the top those same lines clash against wild lines of curves and cuts and waves, sprawling, consuming. It is a house, with fire lashing across the roof, claiming everything in its path. It is not her house, the details are wrong, but the image itself sits heavily on her heart.
When Asterion asks his question she gladly turns the page, pushing away the drawing. Pushing away the truth, the ache, the pain. With shaking hands, she grasps at her pen again. Her scrawling penmanship is not as neat as it should be, not as soft and flowing. It says, No, but my father gave me my first set of art supplies. There is a fleeting, wistful smile to her face, fading away with thoughts of burned furniture and memories. He thought I needed to do something else with my time other than study.
@Asterion
