SPINDLY FLOWERS AND WAIST-HIGH GRASS AND THE SHADOW OF CLOUDS ACROSS THAT BRIGHTNESS, SHIFTING, LIKE SO MANY SHIPS IN THE SKY- ☙❧
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, the taste of smoke and ash on my lips and a faint but persistent warmth lingering in my bones.
The one tragedy, I think, of the fires is that they block out the stars. Even if they weren’t so bright, the smoke – which is so colorful and lovely near the ground – left to trail up into the night sky has the effect of blocking out most any sign of what lies above, like cloud cover. The little, bright embers have to take the place of stars, orange-gold sparks drifting on the wind like sprites until they disappear or go out forever.
I wonder, as I drift through the smoky, dreamlike landscape, what it might be like to be one of those sparks.
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, but it has not begun to thin. I am in no real rush to reach the treeline, though it does beckon towards me with skeleton-touches, half-bare branches extended out as though they, in their slow, creeping way, would like to swallow all the rest of the landscape. I’ve never been a tree, so I don’t much know what it would feel like to be one, but I do know what trees have always felt like to me. Ancient, and persistent, and towering, quiet and slow conquerors.
We had our festivals around the trees, back home, because there was nothing else. There were trees upon trees upon trees, and they composed our sky; they composed our entire world, swept over it like the upper atmosphere, kept us tethered down like gravity. This festival is out in the field, mostly, which is probably wise. The trees here burn. At home, save for in moments of war and tragedy, our sovereigns would never allow such a thing to come to pass.
(It would be irresponsible to admit to it, but I am only half-searching for the heir in this crowd. Of course I thought that they might be here, drawn by the crowd and the festive allure just like me, but that was never really my ambition in coming here, and, besides, my sleepy eyes have long grown too tired to be much use in searching.)
The night has grown late when I move towards the edges of the crowd, but there are still those colorful paints and bright jewels, turned to reflect the firelight; and those are what I approach, a tired smile tugging at the edge of my lips, as I wonder if I can find someone to paint me again (if my encounter with the so-called prince at the other party was mere luck, or if there are really many eager artists in Novus), or if I can, this time, try at it myself.
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
It's a new world, it's a new start
It's alive with the beating of young hearts
The smell of smoke and burning herbs fills my lungs the longer I stay here. It's not exactly a bad smell, but the smoke is just strong enough to set my mind back into that dark place. Where I remember seeing sparks and being terrified. It was the realization that I have inherited something that I never thought or wanted to inherit. It's something that feels like a burden or a curse. I don't want it, I don't want it, I don't --
I keep telling myself that I can't keep letting my mind wander like this. I can already feel my legs trembling and my feet feel warm. It might happen again if I don't keep my emotions in check. I need to stop thinking about it. Besides, this is the festival at one of my favorite places, so there's no time to be sad or scared.
So I'm at the paints, but not too far from Momma so she can keep an eye on me. Maybe I should feel like I can handle myself after wandering off the last time I was in Dellymean. I'm also a little older now and should feel like I can be more independent. Maybe I'll feel that way once I figure out this magic thing.
No, stop, stop thinking about it.
Painting, that's what I'm doing. There is someone who has just come over to another pile of supplies that seems familiar. It doesn't take me long to realize that it's Nicnevin, my friend who loved the night sky.
"Nic!" I call out to her, my eyes bright and maybe even glowing like the fires around us. I'm just happy to see another familiar face in the crowd. "Did you get my letter? Did you find the hair guy?" I ask, finding it hard to stick to just one question and wait for a response.
Then I realize maybe she's never done painting before? I remember all the lives she told me she's lived and how her homeland had been kind of secluded. It would make sense if she's never done this before.
"Have you painted before? I think we're supposed to paint each other, but whatever you feel like! I can show you," I say, picking up a paintbrush and dipping it into some red paint. I wait until she can respond before I put any color on either one of us. Really I'm just happy to see her and it feels like all my fears from before have disappeared.
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.)
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
It's a new world, it's a new start
It's alive with the beating of young hearts
I'm actually feeling a lot happier now that there's a familiar face here at the festival. It's been fun so far and being able to spend time with Momma, but there are just so many people. All their faces are strange to me or there might be someone I think I kind of know, but it turns out they're someone else.
Even when Nic feels bad for not sending me a letter back, it doesn't bother me. I'm just happy to be spending time with her again. I shake my head and nudge her shoulder playfully. "It's okay! It is kind of weird, but I'm sure you'll get used to it soon. I can help you too, if you need. I mean… I'm still getting used to writing but I can give it a try," I offer, although maybe it's not that helpful of an offer. Still, I mean it.
"I'm glad to see you too! Sorry they're not here though." I feel bad for her since I know how important it is for her to find the heir. She must be looking all over Novus at this rate, so he must be really good at hide and seek.
Thankfully, we don't have to dwell on that too much since she offers for me to paint her after all. My smile returns, bigger this time, and I start to draw swirls on her skin. "Yeah this is new to me too, but I think it's pretty cool! We had a festival at home in the fall where we all dressed in costume so it feels kind of like that. I just don't have to worry about wearing anything over me," I say through my painting, but then I'm silent as I try to focus. I'm thinking about the waves of the sea and some of the spirals I've seen people draw of the sun. Art is still new to me, but I try my best to paint what I can see in my mind. I think about how the sun shines down onto the water. I don't let it cover her too much in case she doesn't like it, but it's at least a little scene across her shoulder and part of her spine. It brings me back to the lady named Mercy I met by the lake who was painting the mountains. She would be really good at this.
When I think I'm done, I take a step back to admire my work. I'm not feeling super confident and my ears fall back a little. "Well, there's a puddle over there you might be able to use to see how it looks in the firelight. If you don't like it I can change it?" I really hope she likes it though.
I set my paintbrush back down with the other supplies and then get down on my knees next. "My turn!" I wonder what sort of things she might paint on me.
« r ; art » | @Nicnevin not sure what made me think of the ocean on a sunny day but it seemed pretty haha
