The violin sounds a single lonely note that sinks into his skin like teeth. (shadows whisper and laugh, you don't belong here) Its master steps forward, all delicate grace and poise. She reminds him of a strangely detailed dream he once had. In it, fairies stepped from the hearts of willow trees and cupped his face with warm (too warm) hands and breathed into his nostrils the scent of good soil and fresh life. Then they leaned back and laughed until tears gathered in their wise green eyes, and the dream swept him away down a dark river.
In a few months, the war would be all over him and there would be no more peaceful dreams. Famine would carve the excess from his body. The soot of funeral pyres would line his lungs. He would no longer be a Somebody and dancing would once again belong to a world that he did not. It would astound him to learn that his instructor lives on the fringe of these things, that violence could come and go and she would remain, untouched-- a bystander on the side of the river that he bobs up and down in, sometimes breathing, sometimes drowning,
always moving downstream.
The current idles lazily now, vaguely aware of the waterfalls that lie ahead but in no particular rush to get there. "Yes," Eik says with a step forward onto the clearing, and he feels his chest tighten with uncertainty. There are a whole lot of things that make him feel like he is not ready-- the music seems too fast, his instructor too small-- like he made a rather pathetic mistake in coming here at all. But here he stands.
"I'm ready."
"The color of god is a stain
shaped to you like a grief not yet to come"
art by Pherigo
@Mesnyi
Time makes fools of us all
