She had lay in the arms of the gods as the world shattered about her.
Llewelyn saw daylight in snatches and glimpses, careful to never see or be seen by any others that may approach the sprawling temple. Fear of the unknown had shifted the femme’s interpretation of others, had taken the world view that she had cultured from days spent in luxury and shook it out to the dregs. Gone were the morning tea sessions with her beloved Matteo; gone were hours spent lingering in corridors, pretending to admire some tapestry or flower while listening in on the servant’s gossip; gone were the endless hours of practicing calligraphy by lantern light in Dawn’s sprawling libraries. Indeed, her days had been both narrowed and stretched in the seasons since she had taken refuge with the restful dead; narrowed by the singular purpose of survival and stretched by the constant curiosity-tinged anxiety that worried at the edges of her psyche.
Cradled in the long-vacated chambers of monks and looked after by those holy enough to have been laid to rest beneath the cathedral, the damsel supposed she was not lacking for company; though at times she would have preferred more talkative peers.
Sighing into the distorted reflection offered by a polished brass serving tray, Llewelyn gave herself a few seconds to blink away tears before dipping the brush into the last of her golden body paint. The pigment at the bottom of the little jar was thick and unwieldy, resisting the press of the mink bristles and causing the maiden to grunt in frustration. The paint pot, its accompanying brush, and her favored emerald cloak were all the courtier had given herself time to grab before she fled Delumine, and the finality of reaching the end of the pigment struck the mare with a grief that she hadn’t expected.
Since the day that she had fled from the sundering of the earth - that hateful mountain spewing ash and hellfire from crumbling lips of brimstone - at the side of a silver mare with a voice like iron, Llewelyn had found herself running to the only true safety she could think of; religion. How silly it had made her feel at first, to supplicate herself at the stony feet of the once-palace and pray for asylum from invisible gods. Yet, as the days shifted to weeks and the weeks to seasons, the maiden found herself relaxing amid the comforting presence of a creed, recreating her lifestyle amid tombs and relics.
And though she supposed it should have been something to prepare for, that last sticky droplet of paint, Llewelyn hadn’t ever given thought to the notion that it simply could just run out. Another shuddering sigh escaped plump lips as the mare stared into the empty confines of that little jar, the full reality of her situation reaching down to press it’s weight to her thin shoulders. Carefully, so carefully, she had rationed out her stores of food, of water, of that golden pigment; but now, over two seasons later and deep into the grasp of Autumn, the understanding at her lack of permanence in this place struck at what semblance of security she had mustered.
It was time to leave the cloisters, to venture out of the world that she had shrunk to the size of a cathedral and to see just what had occurred while she hid atop the god’s mountain.
So the mare braided her mane back, the ebon and ivory locks hanging thick and heavy along her left shoulder, a comforting weight. Donning her emerald cloak, the familiar garment draping over a body thinner than when it had last been worn, the Dawn Court Scholar breathed in deep the scent of dust and crumbling rot. The scent, she had learned, was the perfume of Time; the aroma that all things eventually succumbed to as their bones dried and fell to ash.
In a way, she would miss it, but she also hoped that she would never be forced to return to this life of tombs and shifting mortar. With pursed lips and squinting eyes, Llewelyn stood at the doorway of the chapel, muscles tense beneath the plush fabric of her cloak. Questions battered themselves against her skull, none of which she had the answers to. “Well,” she murmured, voice hoarse from disuse, “Farewell to what I’ve known, salutations to whatever befell the world in my absence.”
The words were wry, dry, and rather tremulous, but the courtier stepped out into the chill mountain air despite herself. Unexpectedly, Llewelyn felt bliss; at the crisp autumn sunlight cascading over the precipice to perch upon her back, at the birdsong twining through the foliage, at the impossibly fresh air flowing into her lungs - cool and pure as spring water. The scholar lifted her face toward the noonday sun, full lashes glinting with unshed tears as she sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had sheltered her despite her questioning faith.
The only thing left now was everything.
Figuring out this writing thing again
