ummer had come to Novus, and with it, the days grew longer with light stretching far into what would usually be night. The air was warm and rich with fragrant scents of sweet fruits and sweeter wine. All around, there is noise and energy. Along the shoreline, beach combers gathered treasures which had washed ashore throughout the day, each wave bringing new surprises to their waiting hands. Children laughed and ran playfully through the surf, chasing away scuttling crabs and seagulls who perched upon rocky surfaces, vying for a treat of their own.
As he walked along the shore, Nightwish passed extravagant sand sculptures. Some had chosen to build traditional castles, but others forged scenes at whim. He passed a pirate ship, being overtaken by an impressively large sea kraken. A bit further down, an artisan put the finishing touches on a great eagle, wings spread against a brilliant sun, each feather detailed in fine craftsmanship. Further still, he found a brilliant bouquet of sand flowers, adorned with seashells and bits of sea glass to bring color to their blooms.
The stallion had always appreciated the art, humming a jaunty sea shanty as he found a small outcropping near the activity, settling to write in his journal as he watched. The longer he sat, the more he saw. His storyteller shorthand was brief on the page, but his memory was sharp enough to add in the details later. Brow furrowed in concentration, he lost himself in the words, as dozens passed by and the sun turned westward to begin its journey toward the sea. Only once shadows began to fall over his pages did he finally blink at the sun and realize the hour.
He stands once more, shaking off the tingling in his limbs, grown stiff from sitting in one position too long. Stretching thoroughly, he began to leave this place, but something holds him back. Turning to see what had set off his intuition, the painted stallion’s purple gaze falls on a stranger, holding back from joining in the din but obviously paying attention in the same way as he. Curiosity piqued, he makes his way forward, nodding to the stallion and taking in the peculiar sheen of his eyes – cloudy and sightless (he presumed).
"Quiet a show, eh?” He keeps his voice light and jovial, allowing Tenebrae a moment to adjust to his presence. "Certainly seems a change of pace from the usual scenery here…” Not that he knew it well, for Nightwish hadn’t been here long, but the laughter and play of the strangers here was far more activity than he’d seen in a while.
The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
~Rilke
He hears the tide as it pushes itself upon the shore.
He hears the laughter of children and their delighted gasps as they find the sea’s secrets hidden amidst the sand.
He hears the sounds of craftsmen working at their stalls. The clack of a button, the clink of a shell, the heavy fall of a hammer and the sound of pears running like a train over loose rails.
The monk stands and listens to them all. These are just the flavours he grows aware of, but sound, he is fast learning, is a feast of vibrant noise. Where once he found silence, now he knows there is no such thing. There is always something to be heard, some existence playing itself out for his ears to see. Tenebrae is learning of the vanity of his eyes. They lie, he thinks and not for the first time either. There is a truth in sound that he has never paid heed to before.
The sand whispers of the approach of another. The monk’s ear, a long and fluted thing, twists to capture his approach. Footsteps, he is learning, are so much like a voice. It can be easy to identify another from their shuffle, the weight of their feet, a toe drag, an uneven cadence… But upon sand their voices are muffled, the fine pale grains muffle them, turn them all the same.
But he hears their breath, the way their bodies move. Morrighan moves with quiet, fierce precision. Maeve like feathers and sparks through the air. Moira like the crackle of light, the sigh of first dawn. But this stranger is none of them. His steps rustle, maybe with feathers adorning his ankles, but maybe not. The Regent has not heard this stranger before. He turns toward them, unseeing, but hearing. His hear tilts, as it is accustomed to do since his Blinding. Ears twist and a lock of hair falls across his black, sightless eyes. He blinks and the wind comes, tugging the silver strand free from his black lashes.
Darkness creeps in toward the strange. It presses upon their skin like fingers to learn the curve of his lips, his cheek, the shape of his eyes. They wonder if he is good or if he means harm and smother him in darkness until they might know. But their darkness passes like clouds across the moon, the monk will not have another drowned in the darkness like he.
Quite a show, eh?
Tenebrae grins, it is a slow, amused thing., lazily tipping the corners of his lips, up, up, up.
“I would not know.” He says, lightly and does not say more. Not when his predicament is so clear - his head not positioned properly, his ears turning in the way his eyes should have too. “It is nice for the shore to be busy, to come and celebrate the sea.” And all that lives in it. His thoughts sink down beneath the waves to wonder where Boudika is this night. Has she come to the beach too or is she lost somewhere in the deep, letting the sea mold her body to the shape it demands of her in that moment.
here is much to see, yes… but there is more than just that. The beach was alive with a flurry of activity, with sound, with scents, with tastes. He could hear the bustle and feel the energy around him, thrumming and alive. It was evident in the way that children bustled about, their parents watching carefully but relaxedly, while lazy clouds rolled over the golden sun. Spiced scents lick at the air, hinting at the mouth-watering treats which roasted over open fires, peddled from the carts of eager merchants. So when Tenebrae wallows in self-pity, the stranger laughs and hurries to correct him.
“You’ll know if you try. You don’t need eyes to see… not when you have ears to hear, lips to taste, and…” He trails off as Tenebrae’s shadows brush against him, chilling to the touch. “and whatever magic these are… Curious things…” He reaches to stroke one, and the shadow creature balks and hisses at the touch, retreating to his master even as Nightwish laughs a bit more heartily now, reaching out to clap Tenebrae on the shoulder. “Come now… let’s go and see what else there is to see.”
He walks easily beside the stranger, never really letting strangeness dictate his decorum. The stallion is warm and friendly as he walks beside the blind monk, knowing nothing of his past and caring even less about it. For each creature was given his own chances for redemption, and the bard was far from the judgmental type. “When were you blinded?” He asks the question casually, as if it wasn’t awkward to do so, his tone matter-of-fact and curious. While it could be said he was overstepping polite conversation, there is no malice or spite to the question, simply inquisitiveness.
“We all have our demons and our limitations… but we are given the choice in how we live with them.” He shrugs, looking out to sea and watching the waves part for a dolphin to leap toward the sun, followed by a second one. There is a stillness now, the sun beginning to dip lower toward the water, casting a warm glow that seemed to paint the scene in a wash of gold. It is a peaceful place, he decided, the perfect summer day. He itches for his journal, to make note of the beauty with words, but instead files the memory in his mind, a place where he could visit later and relive the moment again and again.
“What do they call you?” He breaks the easy silence between them, turning to gaze upon Tenebrae with curiosity in his purple gaze. “I am Nightwish – fairly newly arrived, though I’m sure that much is obvious. Have you been here long?”
