futile devices. lux & will
Jul 6, 2022 22:52:39 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 6, 2022 22:52:39 GMT -5
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The glass dragon rumbles as a cat would in her sleep, wings folded and lit like a candle in fire light. And it's a small comfort, the gentle creature wrapped around him. She looks like pure ocean waves, rippling with every breath.
Nehalennia, he named her. She who is at the sea. A little god, a fortune bringer, curled by him.
And still, it's hard to sleep tonight.
He traces the letters of the names of flowers in a notebook all the way past sundown. A P and an H and the loops of his handwriting look ugly and strange, holding an emptiness where fingers once were. L and O and Will goes around them, over and over again, sitting cross-legged in lantern light. His hand shakes. The page is speckled with blood dripping down his palm through the gauze.
It's like his bones have become slender branches of aspen, noisy little leaves, always trembling in the wind no matter how hard he tries to be still. He writes phlox again, and his muscles ache with repetition.
But if he stops, he might cry.
And if he starts crying, he might not stop.
Writing becomes sketches. Parts of the arena first. And then, figs in a wooden bowl at breakfast, tin roofs on yellow houses, the sand and wind clattering like pennies on them. There's a hazy shore in the summer heat, a spray of peach snapdragons, purple shadows crouched under twilight. It doesn't look like the way it used to, District Four in his memory. It will never look the way it used to.
There's blood on every memory.
It's frustrating and then it's mourning and then it's nothing.
He buries his head in his arms, resting against his knees. The cool night air plays over the back of his neck.
A hand on his shoulder – Lux.
It takes a second for him to swallow his grief. It fills his stomach with blue shells and feathers and a nebulous pain, eyes burning with a wetness he blinks away when he turns towards her.
Lux is illuminated in the warm glow, eyes blue and gold, a tendril of hair falling from her braid and catching the light. He wonders when he began to recognize her by touch.
"Hi." He tries to smile, patting the ground beside him. "Come sit."
Will looks down at the pages folded in his lap. He picks one up, handing it to her, edges slightly creased. "Here. For your book." He's got a sketch of scenery from the mouth of the cave, creeping phlox on the ground, cordgrass and trees fading to dirt where they had slept. And from here, he can still picture the pale indigo of the sky through Nehalennia's wings, the colour of seafoam and mist. "It's day two."
Then, he thinks of her drawing of the bloodbath again, and looks back at the cave in his hands, so still and quiet. He thinks of the bodies of the dragons that had come just a moment later, peeled open like fruit to the sun on the grass, his blade dripping.
The bandages around her arm are fraying, knot unravelling, and he reaches over to fix them because if he doesn't have something to do with his hands he might really cry now. "How-how does your arm feel?"
Nehalennia, he named her. She who is at the sea. A little god, a fortune bringer, curled by him.
And still, it's hard to sleep tonight.
He traces the letters of the names of flowers in a notebook all the way past sundown. A P and an H and the loops of his handwriting look ugly and strange, holding an emptiness where fingers once were. L and O and Will goes around them, over and over again, sitting cross-legged in lantern light. His hand shakes. The page is speckled with blood dripping down his palm through the gauze.
It's like his bones have become slender branches of aspen, noisy little leaves, always trembling in the wind no matter how hard he tries to be still. He writes phlox again, and his muscles ache with repetition.
But if he stops, he might cry.
And if he starts crying, he might not stop.
Writing becomes sketches. Parts of the arena first. And then, figs in a wooden bowl at breakfast, tin roofs on yellow houses, the sand and wind clattering like pennies on them. There's a hazy shore in the summer heat, a spray of peach snapdragons, purple shadows crouched under twilight. It doesn't look like the way it used to, District Four in his memory. It will never look the way it used to.
There's blood on every memory.
It's frustrating and then it's mourning and then it's nothing.
He buries his head in his arms, resting against his knees. The cool night air plays over the back of his neck.
A hand on his shoulder – Lux.
It takes a second for him to swallow his grief. It fills his stomach with blue shells and feathers and a nebulous pain, eyes burning with a wetness he blinks away when he turns towards her.
Lux is illuminated in the warm glow, eyes blue and gold, a tendril of hair falling from her braid and catching the light. He wonders when he began to recognize her by touch.
"Hi." He tries to smile, patting the ground beside him. "Come sit."
Will looks down at the pages folded in his lap. He picks one up, handing it to her, edges slightly creased. "Here. For your book." He's got a sketch of scenery from the mouth of the cave, creeping phlox on the ground, cordgrass and trees fading to dirt where they had slept. And from here, he can still picture the pale indigo of the sky through Nehalennia's wings, the colour of seafoam and mist. "It's day two."
Then, he thinks of her drawing of the bloodbath again, and looks back at the cave in his hands, so still and quiet. He thinks of the bodies of the dragons that had come just a moment later, peeled open like fruit to the sun on the grass, his blade dripping.
The bandages around her arm are fraying, knot unravelling, and he reaches over to fix them because if he doesn't have something to do with his hands he might really cry now. "How-how does your arm feel?"
