57th Winter, 512AV
By the twilight, Alhaes Park grew dusky, and the colours seemed to merge, like a rainbow disturbed into a smorgasbord of colours. Johanne stared out across the pool, watching the fadeong plants sway and swirl over the reflecting waters, their overhanging leaves trailing in the pond and leaving ripples spreading outward. The light in the park had begun to darken to the shades of night, and Johanne took advantage of the last daylight hours before Syna fell beyond the horizon.
The skyglass bench below her began to glow slightly while the sun set, illuminating the area around the pond. She heard a rustling in the leaves behind her: a bobcat she assumed, or some squirrel. Johanne had come to the Alhaes Park many times before, but she always tried to come just before or just after a rest. The park could get crowded sometimes, and it always seemed to beautiful to Johanne to be disturbed by shouting children and arguing adults. The glittering skyglass cast crystal reflections across the pools, and a rainbow of reds and blues and purples shone within the air. The prismflies lit up the air like dangling lanterns. It was a wholly colourful, wholly beautiful scene.
Johanne held within her fragile fingers an ink-stick; a remarkable invention that allowed her to take her ink and pen with her, instead of carrying around a quill and pot. Resting her parchment on the skyglass bench, bent over so that she lay her elbows on the crystal and could write with ease, Johanne paused.
The Winter was a terrible time for her writing. Her birthday was in this season (gone uncelebrated again, as always), as was the anniversary of her leaving her home, seemingly forever: though it was a comfort to know that home would always lay behind. The cold froze her joints and made it painful for her to move. Even now, she shivered beneath her warm cloak and her earth-coloured scarf, her fingers exposed to the winter air, colder with the oncoming night. She had not written anything worthwhile in weeks. She had nothing to say, and no words to say it with.
But the Alhaes Park was truly beautiful, and there was nothing Johanne was inspired by if not beauty. She rolled the ink stick in her fingers and stared out over the gleaming pond once more, thinking. In a flurry of movement and an intake of breath, Johanne brought the ink to the page and began to write.
If I could fill my birdcage chest
with prismflies that burned and fluttered,
would the night be afraid? Would Winter melt
in terror?
If within my wrists there lay a secret flame,
as small as scars and hope,
and your lips were as kindle when pressed
to my skin, what then would follow
but a forest fire and sacred laughter?
Together we will warm the frozen wastelands
of the human heart. Together we will watch the Gods weep
when their puppet-strings are set afire, and we are truly
free.
Johanne lifted the ink stick from the page. The parchment was filled with the quick, strange poem she had written. Quickly, her heart beating, she read over the odd verses, written to an unknown man, longing for something that her conscious mind did not understand. Sighing, she straightened up, sitting with stiff back on the skyglass bench, leaving the parchment and ink stick lying beside her. She looked out over the illuminated pond, still clinging to the colours of the day.
Her words were not as beautiful as Alhaes. It was pitiful for her to try.
By the twilight, Alhaes Park grew dusky, and the colours seemed to merge, like a rainbow disturbed into a smorgasbord of colours. Johanne stared out across the pool, watching the fadeong plants sway and swirl over the reflecting waters, their overhanging leaves trailing in the pond and leaving ripples spreading outward. The light in the park had begun to darken to the shades of night, and Johanne took advantage of the last daylight hours before Syna fell beyond the horizon.
The skyglass bench below her began to glow slightly while the sun set, illuminating the area around the pond. She heard a rustling in the leaves behind her: a bobcat she assumed, or some squirrel. Johanne had come to the Alhaes Park many times before, but she always tried to come just before or just after a rest. The park could get crowded sometimes, and it always seemed to beautiful to Johanne to be disturbed by shouting children and arguing adults. The glittering skyglass cast crystal reflections across the pools, and a rainbow of reds and blues and purples shone within the air. The prismflies lit up the air like dangling lanterns. It was a wholly colourful, wholly beautiful scene.
Johanne held within her fragile fingers an ink-stick; a remarkable invention that allowed her to take her ink and pen with her, instead of carrying around a quill and pot. Resting her parchment on the skyglass bench, bent over so that she lay her elbows on the crystal and could write with ease, Johanne paused.
The Winter was a terrible time for her writing. Her birthday was in this season (gone uncelebrated again, as always), as was the anniversary of her leaving her home, seemingly forever: though it was a comfort to know that home would always lay behind. The cold froze her joints and made it painful for her to move. Even now, she shivered beneath her warm cloak and her earth-coloured scarf, her fingers exposed to the winter air, colder with the oncoming night. She had not written anything worthwhile in weeks. She had nothing to say, and no words to say it with.
But the Alhaes Park was truly beautiful, and there was nothing Johanne was inspired by if not beauty. She rolled the ink stick in her fingers and stared out over the gleaming pond once more, thinking. In a flurry of movement and an intake of breath, Johanne brought the ink to the page and began to write.
If I could fill my birdcage chest
with prismflies that burned and fluttered,
would the night be afraid? Would Winter melt
in terror?
If within my wrists there lay a secret flame,
as small as scars and hope,
and your lips were as kindle when pressed
to my skin, what then would follow
but a forest fire and sacred laughter?
Together we will warm the frozen wastelands
of the human heart. Together we will watch the Gods weep
when their puppet-strings are set afire, and we are truly
free.
Johanne lifted the ink stick from the page. The parchment was filled with the quick, strange poem she had written. Quickly, her heart beating, she read over the odd verses, written to an unknown man, longing for something that her conscious mind did not understand. Sighing, she straightened up, sitting with stiff back on the skyglass bench, leaving the parchment and ink stick lying beside her. She looked out over the illuminated pond, still clinging to the colours of the day.
Her words were not as beautiful as Alhaes. It was pitiful for her to try.
