Travelling was, perhaps, the best remedy to soothe a broken heart. Lost, and entrenched in the unknown. Without worth or purpose, the open terra harbored a unique sense of abandon and recklessness. Opportunities flourished in some unseen, attainable horizon. Possibilities took root with each stroke of the wing, or rhythmic step forward. The boy – setting a pace for the ends of the earth – had become indifferent of falling off its edge or becoming consumed by its infinite possibilities. Unawares of the internal wounds, and how they had suffered without his intervention. There was nothing more to ruminate over. The winds would carry him forwards, and the slight hand of the sun – weak and starved – in these winter months, offered the physical reassurances of his existence.
When he touched down upon the Day court, within its outer regions, he was at once wary of the crowds and the people. The buildings, being both alien and marvelous, provided enough warning to the boy of its power and dominion in the land. Begrudgingly there was a caste he had yet to familiarize himself with, and a people he had to study and acclimate to. Not that he had any intention to amalgamate himself with them. There was no apparent reason for doing so, no straightforward desire to abide by loyalty fool-heartedly.
With his satchel strapped beside him, and wings tucked in just the right way - Saoirse traversed forwards into the sea of strangers. Passing through an entrance, he allowed himself to be taken away by the flow of people. Gaining an eye for their lifestyle behind the merchants, or the bartering and banter of their deals. There seemed to be some individuals lurking on their lonesome, their intentions unknown – and their purpose unclear in a casual climate. For such a grand structure, it was not remarkably decorated. Rough, and resolute in its design, gave the impression of practicality over aesthetics. He could respect that… having had very little experience in such things. But enough savvy out in the wild to realize its worth.
One thing remained on his mind. Propelling him further within its open halls, under the scrutiny of stationed guards or meandering locals. He gave them sideways glances instead - finding it difficult to find his voice, or enter their personal spaces.
He found himself instead, stopping beside a hanging tapestry. The figure of ‘Solis’ carved into the leather in intricate, bold lines and likewise colour. He was unprepared for the memories overwhelming his mind then. Transported elsewhere. His body remained still and vigilant, as his mind disembarked without protest. Buried far underneath the layers of flesh and sinew, and lost within that mysterious web of neurons sparking off in some forgotten corner of his brain.
Saoirse merely reflected a studious pupil taking note of the fabric. Without any remarkable affect, other than the intensity of his gaze and the ease for which his breathe rose and released.
The walls, cool in summer and warm in winter, still feel unnatural and claustrophobic to him. Raised by leagues of scrubby tundra beneath the vast grey sky, he cannot feel truly comfortable without the horizon in sight.
Still, he is no stranger to the court- he once walked these walls for days in a row. Some small but persistent, downright nagging voice in his head had told him there was some pattern to it all, and if he could understand the pattern-- if only he could understand the pattern, he would receive the message the builders left in the stone, the letters in each cut and placement of stone.
We get fantastical ideas, sometimes. They always take us places, in one way or another.
(-- remember the peregrine falcon flying alongside you, and the cracks in the earth that chased it, and the moon creeping silver-orange above the smoke-filled horizon.)
Eik, predictably, never found the mystical message in the stone, and his aversion to the structure grew- until the night he was lured to the library by midnight flames. Daily now he returns from the wilds and climbs the curved steps that elevate the courtyard from the rolling sands. Then down the open-air hallway and to the right, to a table with a book and a scroll and a small, well-worn pot of dark blue ink. And in the evenings he returns to here or there or wherever it was he came from, leaving the castle always with that slow but purposeful stride, lost in thought.
And so the story goes, but on this afternoon he's drawn from his thoughts by the sight of someone stopped to look at a picture on the wall. His attention rests on the youth for a moment but quickly slides over him to the tapestry that holds his attention so raptly. Solis is the first thing he sees; in fact it is one of the first words he learned to read, most likely from sheer exposure- the word is scattered across the court in scrolls and tapestries, even carved in the stone.
He looks at the body of the tapestry, and thinks briefly how impossible it is to depict a god, for who knows what they truly look like? He reckons you wouldn't know a god from a simpleton if they were standing right in front of you. For all he knows, he's Solis and doesn't know it, he and his ten thousand thoughts, spinning the sun round like a good boy now. A small smile plays at the edge of his lips.
"I don't think they got his chin right..." He murmurs, soft enough that the youth beside him could easily be deep enough in thought to not hear him at all.
Saoirse’s memories assaulted him with images. Fragmented, backwards and forwards, reciting no known order and depicting minute details: The smell of the earth when he hits the ground, and the settle scent of blossoms in the airs – purple buds in the mud. The coarse, fierce force of waves against rock, and hooves kicking off the edge – the brine strong, bitter, it had stung his eyes.
Tumbling back to the depiction of Solis. A beacon of hope and faith, of retribution, reminded Saoirse of that bitter salt. The boy’s mouth twitched downward for a moment. Uncertain of the emotions fueled by the image ahead of him. He had thought himself hollowed out by the journeys made, the hours lost, the people forgotten and buried underneath his spirit. And yet they continued to grapple for his mind in these inconvenient moments. Spiriting him away into a world that no longer thrived, or towards the people he had mourned for – the people he had hoped to deliver him, as promised.
The voice is louder than it seems when it murmurs beside him. Embodied by a voice that allows the youth some reprieve from the dead. The young stallion tilts his head just so to find the unlikely fellow. Drawn to the scars that line his body, peppered far more frequently than the dapples that begin to shroud his form. “Oh?” He manages to offer the other a curious reply, casting his gaze back to Solis.
“Are you an acquaintance of Solis?” It wasn’t impossible, was it? Or had the gods abandoned their people as well? The boy was hopeful for more answers, whether they would be clues or legends. He wasn’t expecting any jest from the stallion then – didn’t recognize it – having overhead the zeal and devotion other equines expressed for their deities. Wasn’t it a crime to mock Solis in his own land?
“I saw one, once,” the boy muses. He doesn’t care if the stranger believes him or not. And offers a crooked grin against his lips. “A god I mean.”
He turns his head to face the ragged beast. Facing the consequence of his light hearted tongue, searching patiently for the stallion’s response. Perhaps he would paint himself with a delusional appearance, young hearted and naïve – crazy? Or would his words border on blasphemy? Was it wrong to offer an alternative existence of celestials? He let out a brief chuckle to hide the brief wave of anxiety that hit him, and the nervous chill setting against his skin.
He was never sarcastic before. Before, in the grey-sky days, with the people that did not write, or name their land, or lift objects with their mind. Sarcasm is a new development-- the sandpaper people here have sharpened his tongue, pricked him where he was once smooth, blue-grey, endlessly calm. As the young man responds serious and straightforward to his poor jab at the artist's interpretation, Eik snorts softly, a sound that is somehow amused and self-deprecating and apologetic all at once.
"No, I am just a blasphemer. I figure he isn't listening anyway." Blasphemy is a word he only learned recently- it is a word that he is drawn to, one of those rare words that you can say over and over again and it doesn't devolve into odd meaningless sounds mushed together.
A casual roll of his shoulder;
(careful now)
it would almost seem as though he is trying to provoke the god, and why not? He isn't afraid of god's wrath, if it would help him know what to believe in... There might be something like desperation in his soul, but it is hard to tell- he hides it well.
I saw one, once... A god, I mean
Serious and still, he looks to the young man, to the uncertainty that runs across his features, and he grasps at a sense of genuinity he has not felt in some time. For so long he has looked at the world through a lens dirtied by the soot and filth of misfortune and mania. But when he looks at Saoirse now, the man's nervous uncertainty seems to him like the first real thing he has seen in a very long time. There is something pure here, some element of youth that is impossible to remember, because it can never live in memories.
Eik softens, somewhat, but maintains an almost eerie seriousness. "How did you know it was a god?" He asks, with curiosity and not disbelief- he knows well enough that even the things people call madness, and the things that cannot be explained, those are just as true as the sunrise each morning. Dreams, belief, psychosis, all of it is real in one way or another. He has never denied or discarded the experience of another.
Only trust the story.
- E I K
@Saoirse is so cute :3 sorry this post is all over the place!
