[P] dandelion wine for a year

[Nicnevin]

THE GREEN CANOPY'S NO SEA OR NET, BUT THAT'S ABSOLUTE --
confusion of thickets behind me; before me, open space.

I have discovered, through the kindness of some passing stranger, that an open, grassy space with “no or few trees” is called a field. I have also discovered that, although I suspect that I will always prefer the comfort of deep forests and amber leaves, there are certain virtues to fields.

My first night in Terrastella, I was so exhausted from – everything, to be honest – that I fell asleep without bothering to pay attention to the sky. That was, I am sure, a mistake. When travelers and priestesses told me stories of the sky, they also described the way that it changes throughout the day; sometimes, they even described the night. They told of a deep blue sky that is nearly black, punctuated with more little lights than you could ever possibly count and something that was supposedly large and round and white called a “moon.” I wasn’t sure how to imagine those little lights, so I thought of them like fireflies – like fireflies, lighting on the surface of some dark and deep lake.

On my second night in Terrastella, I am determined to see the sky at night. (When I tell this to the gentleman I ask for directions to a good place to look, he laughs, and he tells me that he hopes the weather is good for it; hard to see stars in a cloudy sky.) To my relief, today is not an especially cloudy day. (He tells me that storms are very common, near the sea, and I have to ask what a “see” was – only to find out that it is the same as an ocean, almost.)

With all that in mind – I pick my way through Terrastella, following his directions as best I can. (Seeing as how I don’t know what half of the landmarks he mentions are, the task is easier said than done.) It is fortunate that, when I am given a task that can be completed immediately, I tend to focus on it single-mindedly, for otherwise I fear that I would never have made it to the field before the sunset. This world is so utterly alien, so full of strange and fascinating things; I want to stop and examine each moss-covered stone and murky pool, each green-needled tree and dusky brown songbird. And the sea! The sea, the sea, the sea - I have been told that there are things that live in the sea that would devour me if I let them, but I am sure that I would not let them. (I would not let them easily, at least.) I want to go back down to the shore and explore more, soon. I am sure that there are plenty of wonderful things to find.

I haven’t forgotten my original task, of course. Find the heir. But it is so hard to focus! (I tell myself that I should get my bearings first, regardless; this is not, first and foremost, another symptom of childishness.)

I arrive at the fields at dusk, which is just as exciting as night; the sky becomes many strange colors when the sun (a concept I have only just become accustomed to) sets. It is peach-gold on the horizon, set against the darkness of clear, rolling hills, and, as night comes creeping in behind me, it grows deep, dark blue. The sky is almost entirely cloudless, save for a few wisps on the far horizon. I think that it is beautiful. I’ve seen the colors before, somewhat, filtered in a pastel orange onto the forest floor, but I could never see the sky itself for the leaves. (The more I see of the sky, the more I begin to understand the strange names of the nations on this island of “Novus.”) It’s enchanting, almost miraculous, and, for a moment, I find myself wondering what it looks like if you are well-accustomed to it. I wonder what the sky looks like to the heir - they must have grown up under it. I wonder if it is still miraculous. Surely it is, if they remember who they have been before.

The forest never changes, but it is always enchanting to me because I have been it. Understanding does not make something less wonderful; in any ways, it adds depths that others could only imagine. But perhaps our eternal autumn might feel like a trap, to someone who grew up in such an utterly temporal landscape. Perhaps they will not want to go home.

I settle in the grass atop a hill and look up, tucking my wings at my side as slight barriers against the chill. The wind is gentle tonight; it hums a melody against my ears, and it is familiar, but I can no longer mimic it. I don’t long for it, but it fills me with something warm.

Night comes. Night comes, and I don’t know how to describe it. I feel tears – wet and wind-chilled and sticky – dribbling from my eyes.

There are so many little lights, so many - some are brighter and some are darker, but they are all there, and they come in many more colors than I could ever imagine. They are not like fireflies at all; they are only like themselves. (Some things invite no comparison.) What I assume is the “moon” is a pale silver orb that hangs like a great face in the sky. I wonder what it is, what all the little lights are, why they are there, why they were made and why they exist. I wonder what it would feel like to be one of them.

Maybe I will be, in some lifetime.

---

@Maeve || what is this thing you call a "moon"? || "the cliff," gregory orr

"Speech!" 

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