mars in the arboretum — scarlet circle v. blisserwhelps
Jul 18, 2022 17:46:34 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jul 18, 2022 17:46:34 GMT -5
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The arena is a funny landscape, so much wilderness and yet he finds the plants crafted with a hand of care, gems of flowers still bright in the off-season, coaxed into bloom for a painter – a gamemaker.
Will looks at the tall oaks, the petals curling along the spine of the river, listens to the rush of the river. Nehalennia glimmers in the dimming light of dusk as she stretches her wings.
Yes, someone made this place very beautiful.
At home, the seasons would change and it'd be just him and his flowers. He'd watch the pansies come and go in their sweetness, asphodels speaking of another world from their soil, the goldenrods blooming in encouragement, and frail little snowdrops, heralding spring. And on the table, he'd set a new vase of flowers.
And maybe this is the same thing. Something to pass the time, something to do with his hands and feel like himself. He fills the wooden raft with flowers because there is nothing else he has here.
Primrose and anemone and bluebells and thistle. He twines them together with cordgrass and a burning piece of wood.
It catches.
He wonders what burial is like for Lux.
And then he remembers she can't tell him anymore.
Chest clenching, unclenching, time and tide heals everything his father would say. But not this.
Some things you just live with.
He drops the burning bouquet on the raft spilling with petals. It's like watching Inta's ship burn out at sea again, the ochres and saffrons at sunset in puffs of smoke. Her ship then carried no body, and neither does Lux's raft now. It was memory alone, glowing on the water, the ocean swallowing the ashes.
But there was a ceremony then, there was a black suit he wore, and a boat with sweeping masts and coffers of her things.
There's just him and Nehalennia here.
It doesn't seem like it's enough.
It goes down the river, lit with a trail of embers that blow softly in the wind. He feels the heat on his face, orange and blue in the darkness, the cool waves at his ankles.
The raft drifts further and further away.
And then there's nothing, gone around the riverbend, and he doesn't see it again.
Freyr is gone in the morning.
He brings a hand to his eyes, the sunlight streaming through his fingers. He remembers falling asleep and seeing him there, crouched in the darkness, lavender shadows in the lines of his face, eyes orange, sea glass, and gunmetal blue in firelight.
There is no cannon.
And they wait.
The sun moves west until it's almost noon, and Freyr doesn't come back. Will extinguishes the fire. He checks his traps. He plays with the stems of Lux's flowers in his hands, knotting and unknotting, and the silence is becoming unbearable because he knows what he wants to say and can't say it.
One part of him wonders if Freyr's caught in danger, injured, and if they should go and find him. He thinks of sickles and blades, claws and teeth, a boy bleeding in the woods.
But another part knows what he really thinks, and it's an ugly feeling.
It makes sense to be honest, Lux is gone and she was the one that brought them all together. Maybe this is as much as anyone can ask for – that Freyr cared enough not to slit their throats in their sleep.
He looks at Charlie.
He's not coming back, and that's what he wants to say, words lying hot in his chest in the heat of the midday. But instead he hands Charlie the wreath knotted in his hands, bluebells and woodland sunflowers, swallowing his words and swallowing a feeling that beats like an organ. He smiles, "For you."
And then – "Let's go find him." A lie.
There's a sound in the distance and the little part of him hopes it's Freyr.
The big, sinking part knows it's not.
The trees rustle around them – his hand goes to the hilt of his sword and it's become nature now, the way he unsheathes it every noise.
A spiny wyvern darts out from the treetops, and this time he doesn't hesitate.
Will looks at the tall oaks, the petals curling along the spine of the river, listens to the rush of the river. Nehalennia glimmers in the dimming light of dusk as she stretches her wings.
Yes, someone made this place very beautiful.
At home, the seasons would change and it'd be just him and his flowers. He'd watch the pansies come and go in their sweetness, asphodels speaking of another world from their soil, the goldenrods blooming in encouragement, and frail little snowdrops, heralding spring. And on the table, he'd set a new vase of flowers.
And maybe this is the same thing. Something to pass the time, something to do with his hands and feel like himself. He fills the wooden raft with flowers because there is nothing else he has here.
Primrose and anemone and bluebells and thistle. He twines them together with cordgrass and a burning piece of wood.
It catches.
He wonders what burial is like for Lux.
And then he remembers she can't tell him anymore.
Chest clenching, unclenching, time and tide heals everything his father would say. But not this.
Some things you just live with.
He drops the burning bouquet on the raft spilling with petals. It's like watching Inta's ship burn out at sea again, the ochres and saffrons at sunset in puffs of smoke. Her ship then carried no body, and neither does Lux's raft now. It was memory alone, glowing on the water, the ocean swallowing the ashes.
But there was a ceremony then, there was a black suit he wore, and a boat with sweeping masts and coffers of her things.
There's just him and Nehalennia here.
It doesn't seem like it's enough.
It goes down the river, lit with a trail of embers that blow softly in the wind. He feels the heat on his face, orange and blue in the darkness, the cool waves at his ankles.
The raft drifts further and further away.
And then there's nothing, gone around the riverbend, and he doesn't see it again.
❀
Freyr is gone in the morning.
He brings a hand to his eyes, the sunlight streaming through his fingers. He remembers falling asleep and seeing him there, crouched in the darkness, lavender shadows in the lines of his face, eyes orange, sea glass, and gunmetal blue in firelight.
There is no cannon.
And they wait.
The sun moves west until it's almost noon, and Freyr doesn't come back. Will extinguishes the fire. He checks his traps. He plays with the stems of Lux's flowers in his hands, knotting and unknotting, and the silence is becoming unbearable because he knows what he wants to say and can't say it.
One part of him wonders if Freyr's caught in danger, injured, and if they should go and find him. He thinks of sickles and blades, claws and teeth, a boy bleeding in the woods.
But another part knows what he really thinks, and it's an ugly feeling.
It makes sense to be honest, Lux is gone and she was the one that brought them all together. Maybe this is as much as anyone can ask for – that Freyr cared enough not to slit their throats in their sleep.
He looks at Charlie.
He's not coming back, and that's what he wants to say, words lying hot in his chest in the heat of the midday. But instead he hands Charlie the wreath knotted in his hands, bluebells and woodland sunflowers, swallowing his words and swallowing a feeling that beats like an organ. He smiles, "For you."
And then – "Let's go find him." A lie.
There's a sound in the distance and the little part of him hopes it's Freyr.
The big, sinking part knows it's not.
The trees rustle around them – his hand goes to the hilt of his sword and it's become nature now, the way he unsheathes it every noise.
A spiny wyvern darts out from the treetops, and this time he doesn't hesitate.
willem attacks blisserwhelps | Bancroft Saber (Sword)
Me|VYH_119sword
1035 -- Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage (Sword)
sword
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