[Closed] I Never Dream of You
Posted: Mon Dec 16, 2019 6:05 pm
The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands
Very Early on the 27th of Yaris, 2719
L
ight sharp as a blade’s edge, hazy like through dirty windows; it’s early, and I see the world in fits and starts. A gull, blurry-black shape streaking across wide robin’s egg blue, a dash of ink spattering across parchment. The sea is ink, the sky a spread of paper, endless-empty. The sun bright on the twisting path.
I know where to find the grove. The sun’s warm on my skin, warm and fine as velvet, and my lungs fill up freely with air, and I can see over the fields. Nothing aches; nothing groans like a ship in the wind. It’s as easy as one foot in front of the other, and the path’s warm against the soles of my feet, and the world is full of gold. I can find him by it; I can follow him. I have to ask him the question.
I can’t remember the name — the vine — it’s a hair’s breadth from my fingertips —
The orchard is a forest, the trunks closer-placed than I remember, and I wade through shivering kofi leaves stained with gold. The canopy is lower; the top of my head brushes some branches, and others I have to duck underneath, weaving them aside gentle-like with my hands. They’re strong hands, calloused hands, tanned skin traced with scars, with thick dark hair, knuckles scuffed up and swollen. They ache; it’s the only pain, and it’s a good pain. They’ve ached since I was a boch.
The wind sweeps through my hair, tangles it in front of my face, long and thick and wild. I wonder if he would still like to braid it; I imagine him holding a band in place, one at a time — like crocheting — weaving band over band, slowly, his left hand as beautiful as it ever was, long-fingered — I can see it, all the lovelier for the care he takes —
And I see him now with his back to me, the shape of him nestled in a sea of dappled glow. The breeze ruffles his loose linen; it’s patterned with little dark spots, like the stars inverse, and they ripple, and they make shapes. He turns and he looks up at me, his eyes luminous dark.
My voice is deep and strange.
I look down. My hands are thin and pale and freckled.
I’m drawing a ward, painting the floorboards with deep red Nassalan. I won’t let it happen again; I have to be stronger. I find the words, I draw them out and trace them with my fingertips, glossy, glowing: I know the words, except for one. It won’t happen again. But I don’t know that the ward will hold; my hands are shaking.
I look up, and I see — the mirror’s been uncovered — I have to find my coat, or else the spell will break, but it’s too late — I can see him, and he’s looking back at me, flat grey eyes and curl of a sneer —
ight sharp as a blade’s edge, hazy like through dirty windows; it’s early, and I see the world in fits and starts. A gull, blurry-black shape streaking across wide robin’s egg blue, a dash of ink spattering across parchment. The sea is ink, the sky a spread of paper, endless-empty. The sun bright on the twisting path.
I know where to find the grove. The sun’s warm on my skin, warm and fine as velvet, and my lungs fill up freely with air, and I can see over the fields. Nothing aches; nothing groans like a ship in the wind. It’s as easy as one foot in front of the other, and the path’s warm against the soles of my feet, and the world is full of gold. I can find him by it; I can follow him. I have to ask him the question.
I can’t remember the name — the vine — it’s a hair’s breadth from my fingertips —
The orchard is a forest, the trunks closer-placed than I remember, and I wade through shivering kofi leaves stained with gold. The canopy is lower; the top of my head brushes some branches, and others I have to duck underneath, weaving them aside gentle-like with my hands. They’re strong hands, calloused hands, tanned skin traced with scars, with thick dark hair, knuckles scuffed up and swollen. They ache; it’s the only pain, and it’s a good pain. They’ve ached since I was a boch.
The wind sweeps through my hair, tangles it in front of my face, long and thick and wild. I wonder if he would still like to braid it; I imagine him holding a band in place, one at a time — like crocheting — weaving band over band, slowly, his left hand as beautiful as it ever was, long-fingered — I can see it, all the lovelier for the care he takes —
Does he know I died? Does he know how I died? Does he–?
I’m stained with it; everyone can see.
I’m stained with it; everyone can see.
And I see him now with his back to me, the shape of him nestled in a sea of dappled glow. The breeze ruffles his loose linen; it’s patterned with little dark spots, like the stars inverse, and they ripple, and they make shapes. He turns and he looks up at me, his eyes luminous dark.
Aremu.
My voice is deep and strange.
I can’t remember the name of the vine; I need your help —
You could’ve held both, sir.
You could’ve held both, sir.
I look down. My hands are thin and pale and freckled.
Please believe me.
I could smell it on your breath. Sir.
I had to drink at dinner.
You stood there, silently, knowing what you are. To sacrifice your life is nothing.
It should have been you, sir.
I wanted to tell you. I’m a monster.
Tom.
It should have been me.
I could smell it on your breath. Sir.
I had to drink at dinner.
You stood there, silently, knowing what you are. To sacrifice your life is nothing.
It should have been you, sir.
I wanted to tell you. I’m a monster.
Tom.
It should have been me.
I’m drawing a ward, painting the floorboards with deep red Nassalan. I won’t let it happen again; I have to be stronger. I find the words, I draw them out and trace them with my fingertips, glossy, glowing: I know the words, except for one. It won’t happen again. But I don’t know that the ward will hold; my hands are shaking.
I look up, and I see — the mirror’s been uncovered — I have to find my coat, or else the spell will break, but it’s too late — I can see him, and he’s looking back at me, flat grey eyes and curl of a sneer —