SPINDLY FLOWERS AND WAIST-HIGH GRASS AND THE SHADOW OF CLOUDS ACROSS THAT BRIGHTNESS, SHIFTING, LIKE SO MANY SHIPS IN THE SKY-
☙❧
As I stare at the paints and the jewels and breathe in the colorful smoke, I find myself thinking of just how much my older sister would have loved this festival.
She would never have become a priestess, I think, if she’d had the choice. (She would always say, with a laugh and a look over her shoulder, that she was simply paying a due in one lifetime; in her next, she’d be sure to have all the fun that she wanted.) My sister was clever as a dancing flame, long-haired and beautiful (though, she lamented, never in a way that was useful – priestesses were not allowed lovers, but in exceptional circumstances), and she moved like the wind through the trees. She would have run all the fire-races, and she would have won them, too; and she would have come back unburned to braid jewels into my hair.
As I stand alone, in my mind’s eye I see my father, speaking bashfully to an oomancer; I can see my mother, laughing and hardy, weaving branches into crowns to feed the flames; and then there is me, lifetimes ago, at the side, as I always should be, of my king, the fire-light glinting off the golden laurels strung into his hair. I can almost imagine our useless small talk, and the way that he would surely seem brighter than all the fires that the festival would provide-
(There is a reason why we called him the light of the Gold.)
But I am not to be alone with my imaginings for long. There is a cry of Nic!, and I find myself whirling to make eye contact with the bright, familiar shape of Maeve, making her way to me through the crowd. I am grinning at her broadly, when she reaches me, and I find myself accosted almost immediately with question after question.
She asks of her letter, and I am quick to say, “I did.” Here is where my stare turns bashful, and a little bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry that I haven’t responded, yet – the language here is a little bit different from the one at home, and I’m still figuring it out…and I haven’t found the heir, either.” I shake my head, a half-troubled look settling across my brow, but I look back and Maeve and add, a smile tentatively perking up my lips again, “I thought I’d look around here…and, ah, take a look at what the festival has to offer. I’m glad to see you again.”
(I was starting to feel lonely. It is never good to dwell on the past for too long – but now Maeve is here, so I brush all other thoughts aside in favor of her.)
She picks up a paintbrush, dipping it in red paint, and she asks if there is paint in my homeland…and she tells me that she can show me how to use it. I nod eagerly, grinning. “Sure!” I settle down at her side, going down on my knees in the grass so that she can reach me more easily, and then I address the rest of her question. “We have paints at home, but we don’t normally use them on ourselves – I’ve never seen anything like this before.” I don’t ask what she’ll paint. I’m more interested in seeing what she chooses – and once she’s done, I wonder if I might be able to paint her in kind.
(I remember how she spoke of a dream of being a bird, in her letter, and I think of all the ways that I could give her wings with only a few slashes of paint.)
@Maeve || <3 || naomi shihab nye, "what's here"
Speech
☙❧
As I stare at the paints and the jewels and breathe in the colorful smoke, I find myself thinking of just how much my older sister would have loved this festival.
She would never have become a priestess, I think, if she’d had the choice. (She would always say, with a laugh and a look over her shoulder, that she was simply paying a due in one lifetime; in her next, she’d be sure to have all the fun that she wanted.) My sister was clever as a dancing flame, long-haired and beautiful (though, she lamented, never in a way that was useful – priestesses were not allowed lovers, but in exceptional circumstances), and she moved like the wind through the trees. She would have run all the fire-races, and she would have won them, too; and she would have come back unburned to braid jewels into my hair.
As I stand alone, in my mind’s eye I see my father, speaking bashfully to an oomancer; I can see my mother, laughing and hardy, weaving branches into crowns to feed the flames; and then there is me, lifetimes ago, at the side, as I always should be, of my king, the fire-light glinting off the golden laurels strung into his hair. I can almost imagine our useless small talk, and the way that he would surely seem brighter than all the fires that the festival would provide-
(There is a reason why we called him the light of the Gold.)
But I am not to be alone with my imaginings for long. There is a cry of Nic!, and I find myself whirling to make eye contact with the bright, familiar shape of Maeve, making her way to me through the crowd. I am grinning at her broadly, when she reaches me, and I find myself accosted almost immediately with question after question.
She asks of her letter, and I am quick to say, “I did.” Here is where my stare turns bashful, and a little bit embarrassed. “I’m sorry that I haven’t responded, yet – the language here is a little bit different from the one at home, and I’m still figuring it out…and I haven’t found the heir, either.” I shake my head, a half-troubled look settling across my brow, but I look back and Maeve and add, a smile tentatively perking up my lips again, “I thought I’d look around here…and, ah, take a look at what the festival has to offer. I’m glad to see you again.”
(I was starting to feel lonely. It is never good to dwell on the past for too long – but now Maeve is here, so I brush all other thoughts aside in favor of her.)
She picks up a paintbrush, dipping it in red paint, and she asks if there is paint in my homeland…and she tells me that she can show me how to use it. I nod eagerly, grinning. “Sure!” I settle down at her side, going down on my knees in the grass so that she can reach me more easily, and then I address the rest of her question. “We have paints at home, but we don’t normally use them on ourselves – I’ve never seen anything like this before.” I don’t ask what she’ll paint. I’m more interested in seeing what she chooses – and once she’s done, I wonder if I might be able to paint her in kind.
(I remember how she spoke of a dream of being a bird, in her letter, and I think of all the ways that I could give her wings with only a few slashes of paint.)
@Maeve || <3 || naomi shihab nye, "what's here"
Speech
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
