c e y l o n
T
he sun rises slow and cool, greeting the dewdrops and frost-licked leaves of Delumine as a lost lover eager to come home. When it alights on the world, the eyes of Delumine's people are groggy and full of dreams, they are not yet ready for autumn's morning light, for another day of work. Some, workers who must ready for the day, make their way to the markets. Others hide in their beds, tucked tightly to a lover's side. More yet are still awake, not having slept from the night before. It is in a den of vines and leaves and branches all woven together, inching deeper and deeper into a wooded area with a single light mounted on a table, that you'll find Ceylon with his nose leaning closer and closer to the scrolls on the table. Tome after tome he flipped through the night before, looking at the history of Delumine. Still, there is more to be learned, more to be known. He hardly realizes morning has come until one of the keepers of the library comes to light more scones on the walls and lanterns hanging above. All are protected by magics that allow them to burn without fear of harming the parchment they show.
After hours, he finds his way into a chamber with a cot. Only once his body is satisfied and his eyes are clear once more, just before the sun sets, does the architect rise to leave the library.
The journey is winding and quiet, the winds howl as a moon creeps higher into the sky. He does not count the hours, nor the miles, not the stars that pass him by. Only the sway of the trees as they twine together, dancing and laughing as he does not know how to do, and the distant mountains that grow further away yet. At last, at last!, the world opens up and all sense of structure is gone. For a moment, just one, Ceylon pauses at the edge of the meadows to watch the skyline meet the horizon. Only grass and wilting red waits for him.
It looks like home. That is, if home ever had grasses like these. But the sea of gold and red droplets - blood, sand, sorrow - it looked like this once, too.
To his periphery, a body slices through the grass like a scythe. Parting it easily enough with his own large form. The glaze of their eyes is enough to tell Ceylon that they are not here presently.
He does not interrupt, he watches, looking at the stones overturned, following the great depressions left in dry ground, picking flowers crushed beautifully to press between pages and seal in amber.
He does not interrupt, just follows like a ghost.
—
I want to be happy
but
something inside me screams that I do not deserve it.
I want to be happy
but
something inside me screams that I do not deserve it.
