Fiona had gone to Susurro Fields that morning to draw, something that she had not done in a long time. So much had happened in recent months, recent weeks, that her habit, her little pleasures, had been pushed aside. It was still difficult for her to flip through the pages of a sketchbook that was not worn at the edges, broken in at the spine. It was difficult for her to flip through the pages of this sketchbook, because it was new. But it was new because all her others had burned, not because she had simply filled the pages of a previous one.
Still, she felt some comfort in this tradition, of coming to draw the sky and the fields and treeline behind. To listen to the symphony of the birds and the breeze and the scratch of her pencil across the paper. The sketch started to take shape when she heard a sound. A voice, she thought, as she listened more closely. Curious, Fiona closed the book and stood, pressing through the tall grasses toward what she could only imagine was supposed to be singing. It did not take her long to find the source: a boy, it seemed, frolicking through the field and merrily crooning at the top of his lungs.
As she stepped, a twig snapped under her hoof and she paused, feeling sheepish when the boy stopped. When he turned and held out an apple in her general direction, gently speaking about not being any harm to her, a chuckle might have escaped her if it could. He must not have been able to see her, and she decided she would save him the trouble of thinking her a woodland creature by stepping out into the open. She smiled at him as she did so, and then thought of her book. Normally it was how she introduced herself, but she was hesitant.
She had never seen this boy before, and she did not think he was from Terrastella; was he an orphan? Would he even be able to read her scrawling script? She supposed there was only one way to find out, but if so, the lavender woman wasn’t sure how she would proceed. She’d never had to consider such a thing before, as most of who she used her book to communicate with were adults of the court; other champions or members of the regime. So, what did she do about this boy, who sang so happily and danced through the field?
Writing.
Still, she felt some comfort in this tradition, of coming to draw the sky and the fields and treeline behind. To listen to the symphony of the birds and the breeze and the scratch of her pencil across the paper. The sketch started to take shape when she heard a sound. A voice, she thought, as she listened more closely. Curious, Fiona closed the book and stood, pressing through the tall grasses toward what she could only imagine was supposed to be singing. It did not take her long to find the source: a boy, it seemed, frolicking through the field and merrily crooning at the top of his lungs.
As she stepped, a twig snapped under her hoof and she paused, feeling sheepish when the boy stopped. When he turned and held out an apple in her general direction, gently speaking about not being any harm to her, a chuckle might have escaped her if it could. He must not have been able to see her, and she decided she would save him the trouble of thinking her a woodland creature by stepping out into the open. She smiled at him as she did so, and then thought of her book. Normally it was how she introduced herself, but she was hesitant.
She had never seen this boy before, and she did not think he was from Terrastella; was he an orphan? Would he even be able to read her scrawling script? She supposed there was only one way to find out, but if so, the lavender woman wasn’t sure how she would proceed. She’d never had to consider such a thing before, as most of who she used her book to communicate with were adults of the court; other champions or members of the regime. So, what did she do about this boy, who sang so happily and danced through the field?
@Pan
