and when the time comes that i am reduced to fragile bones,
know that my soul will always search
know that my soul will always search
It is warm and it is cool, Spring fresh on the horizon with flowers unfurling as the weather does. They open their petals to a distant sun, and the skies open themselves to nothing but blue. Blue. Endless. Vast. Beautiful like the eyes that look up to it from between hedges and untrod walkways.
It must have been months since another came into this part of the maze. Overgrown, untended. Wild.
Ceylon, for all of his few years, has never been anything near wild like this place. Primitive instincts should beg to take over, pushing him to hurry into another turn and then another until he is hopelessly lost like a castle to time.
Those instincts are extinct within him. And even were they not, they must be so deeply buried under frost and ice and desert sand that it is impossible for them to be roused from an eternal slumber and damnation.
Instead, he turns again. First right then left and right again. Straight down a corridor. Through a flowered arch.
Green opens into a small meadow more well-known it would seem. Ipomoea’s flowers walk along the grounds too. Ivy covers stone benches and statues, disguising the artistry of the architect beneath. From grey faces he pulls weeping vines, returning them to the ground until he can see the strokes lovingly taken, pressed into immortality what they could not express in life.
If Ceylon knew how to smile, perhaps he would have then.
At the moment he would try, a voice calls, weeping and weary. Slowly, golden head turns, nebulous skin stretched tight as his neck cranes and arches, and those blue eyes learn the curves of another face. Solstice is the sky and sun, but she is unremarkable in every other way. Another troubled living thing praying for the mercy of another.
Blowing air through his nose, his plans to see if the map of the maze he’d found in the bowels of the library were entirely accurate or up-to-date ruined, Ceylon decides to approach. ”No,” he answers simply, close enough now to lean down and press himself to her side to help her up.
Ceylon does not help her up.
Staring down to the winged girl, his brow raises infinitesimally. ”Is it frightening?”
ceylon.
