The next morning had held little promise. Sleep was her nepenthe, hence the following day it was all she did. Hours spent with a pillow in her embrace, not daring to confront the empty side of the bed. After several hours though, even sleep was fleeting. A hope of escape fading, just like so many others. When she finally opened her eyes, the sunlight mocked her. So warm and beautiful as the rays broke through the drapes. How could there still be any beauty in the world?
The dirty night gown that had been clinging on her form since that terrible night was on her still. Noraiel and Leyloriel's wishes of cleaner clothes and care, as well as seeking some peace had been defied, for all Celysiel could do was let her grief consume her. There was no desire to drink, eat, sink into the warm water of the tub, or even move. The latter was quite likely also linked to her legs that had suffered from her idea to jump from the window, otherwise she would still have been trapped in her old bedroom. Running in the city and the woods alike had not helped either. And what had she achieved? Absolutely nothing.
With the pillow still in her embrace, the apprentice rolled on the bed to lock her eyes on the ceiling, sinking into thoughts. She had no doubt that word would reach her the moment the swordsman were found, so the lack of it could only mean that he had escaped. Where would he be now? The Plaguelands, where else? Could the Collector be expecting him there? Was this the end?
"No more." she whispered to herself, shaking her head. What good was there in these thoughts? But if they were the truth? From her chest the weight of a heart on top of her own was maddening. So much fear, anguish, pain. She wished to taste it. She wished to succumb to the cold and numb it. She wished to experience it all. She wished to escape from it.
But there was only meant to be more. Her gaze fell to the package of flowers, the one and only thing that the swordsman had managed to give her the day of her birthday. They had not been placed in a vase, but kept in the container that had accompanied them instead. How could it inspire her in a moment like this? Gently did she collect the package, before finally moving to stand. Unsteady, aching legs carried her as if she had forgotten how to walk, but no one was there to watch her, to listen to her grunt.
She did not have to walk very far. Just across the hallway, her old bedroom awaited. It now served as a storage, where the residents of the house placed items that they did not know where else to set. Most of it was not hers. Only the mirror. Even its call though had been silenced. There was only the mirror, but it meant absolutely nothing to her at that moment.
Still, it was against that mirror that she took a seat, using it to support her back. Trembling a little, her fingers reached into the package that she had carried, now set aside on the floor, in order to collect the floral treasures from within and bring them to her features. Petals caressed skin irritated by tears, but to shed more was not something she could find in her. She owed it to herself not to. The flowers were soon set on her knees. How beautiful, how ideal. Long stems, almost begging to be used. Celysiel lifted one of them, caring not for its best part, but testing its flexibility. The results could only make her smile. Ever since she was a child, there was just one way for her to cope with the sadness of not being allowed to step outside.
Once a task was given, patience was something that the apprentice possessed aplenty. No task could be rushed, for the result would not be optimal. Perfection took time. Perfection was what she desired. Carefully would she begin to bend the stem of each of the flowers in order to weave them together. The blooms mattered little in this task. Soon enough, the green bodies began to coil around each other, forming a crown. It was not the first time Celysiel was creating one and, as she wished to believe, it would not be the last.
Flowers spoke of hope, but hope had long abandoned her. All that remained in her actions was a result pleasant to the eye. Not all of the flowers contained in the bouquette were used, for the creation would then be overwhelming. It was almost noon when the apprentice finally lifted a crown of flowers, presenting it under sunlight.
Yes, it was wonderful. A soft smile was offered to the innocent blooms in spite of the circumstances. The Collector could take her beloved away, but not his gift. He could not take the very essence of beauty, as he could not take the fact that she still had the courage to smile, an act of defiance. He could simply take Thaelen. He could simply take her hope. But even if he had left her less, he had not completely emptied her. For there were simply some things that no one could remove. Small, silly, fundamental truths. And that was good enough.
As Celysiel observed the crown of flowers, she could not help but recall her own garden festering in Theradrim's estate so long ago, a secret hidden even from the very Lord of the house. She could not help but remember her fears as she turned away most offers of work as a gardener and dared not touch a single flower out of fear of destroying it. Had she not been warned after all? Her destiny would be to sink into darkness and take all near her down that path. What chance did flowers like those have to survive? What did anyone else?
But if nothing was done, they would die... Perish, just like the roses she once cursed would have. Her last gift from Thaelen would remain pretty just for a while, before succumbing to decay and then... What would be left of him then? She lowered the crown to bring it close to her chest and the locket resting under her sleeping gown, wondering if her hesitation was truly because she did not wish to bring destruction to the blooms. She could not deny however that their moment of glory was ephemeral. Celysiel could make it everlasting.
Eraevin had once asked her how she would feel if her precious flowers were killed and she had assured such thing would never come to happen by her hand. It was from her fingers however that the whisper of shadow escaped. It had so much to be fueled by. Lightly did her ears flicker at the sound, the sensation of its essence. It was just one of the several things the Collector could not take from her. Slivers of shadow clinged to the healthy, verdant stems that weaved together formed the crown, festering and spreading like a plague. Veins of amethyst and black carved their path on the flowers. The stems dried. The petals blackened. The flowers were as good as dead now, but they would not be taken by time. Shadows faded, leaving behind their kiss of destruction. What was once a wreath of healthy blooms, like those that had not been used from the bouquette, was now a circle of black flora locked in stasis.
It carefully came to sit on tangled, snow-white locks, their contrast stark. Darkness sat on the apprentice's head, as it also hung from her neck. Pushing the rest of the flowers aside, Celysiel pushed herself up to stand on aching feet. She did not wince this time. Twirling, the girl turned around, white fabrics and alabaster strands dancing with her as she extended her hand, digits stopping curled just an inch away from the white sheet that seperated her and the mirror.
Her expectations failed to be met. For when the moment would come, hesitation was meant to have a meaning, a conversation at her mind at the very least, an awful dilemma. Further proof that life was no fairytale could only be found in the fact that her mind was numb instead, as if she could not comprehend why it was forbidden for her to remove the sheet, unveil the mirror. Her fingers snatched the while cloth and pulled it aside. Sliding over silver metal, it fell on the ground, revealing what it was meant to.
The woman at the other side mimicked Celysiel's every action. Tentatively did her hand move on the glass for her palm to lay against its cold surface, slowly did she tilt her head. She had hair of snow and skin just as pale, wearing a dress white and dirty and a crown of black flowers on the top of her head. It was no twisted fantasy and figure born of shadow and paranoia, for there was nothing more a mirror could show than one's own reflection.
And Celysiel laughed, a sound mirthless and awful. She laughed in the misery that embraced her for the blame she turned towards herself about the darkness that had drowned another and the fact that flowers had perished by her hand. She laughed at for all the things that could not be taken from her and the very fact that she could look at no other, but this foolish girl with the rosy lips - she could look at herself in the mirror.
Kommentarer