It was under the restless eyes of the apprentice by the sea shore that the sky had changed thousands of colours, all softer shades of three. First came midnight blue, as bright dots of starlight were scattered on the endless canvas of the cosmos, offering but a promise of what lay at the other side of the veil separating the mortal world from infinity; the Great Dark Beyond cared little for their wars and concerns. Chaos and order clashed to balance the scale, where one side held harmony and the other mania. Once creation's brush painted over the former colour to bring forth a new one, it was that of juicy plums, but it took with it the bright stars looking from above. Slowly but surely, the horizon was filled with stripes of amber, though the lines where the two colours were blurred. As the stripes took over though, they prepared the land below for yet another rise of the sun.
What else could the spires below do but adjust? A dark world would gradually know light, let shadows be formed under the surface to which they belonged. Spires with gems that had known soft lunar light in the night had not yet greeted the first rays of the sun, for it was still absent, even if its radiance was already poured into the world. The balance of light and shadow made all look as if were made of clay, shaped into the hands of an artisan. The soft grass and the trees, the hillsides and the bridges. They could have been but a false image, a painted portrait. But it was all real.
No one would know the beauty unraveled with the coming dawn of course, not a single soul in the world. What they would always anticipate was the rise of the sun, that moment when the horizon was touched by rose and peach colours and the burning sphere, bare without its rays still, tentatively ascends to grace those below. No, they would not know that the best moment of the dawn is just before it comes to be. Only one soul could know.
The breeze brought with it the scent of grass washed by morning dew and wild petals of white peacebloom as it embraced the lone figure. Having no cloak to hold onto, she would have to bear those light vestiges of cold that shook the slender figure of the sickly girl. It remained what she had asked for though. That little sting of the temperature to remind her that she was alive. To send the desire for rest away, since it had for two days been denied.
Soft grass danced at the tune of the winds as they were preparing, with the rest of the world, to welcome a new day. Who could otherwise be walking on it? Lovers, young and foolish, finding beauty in the promise of a new sunrise, believing that in small moments, happiness can be found. But the dawn was nothing more but a repetitive sight; they would just never stop to look at it. Girls, still not of age, though it is that day they dream, savouring their freedom. Running and laughing in the silence as all lay in slumber, with mischief in their hearts. It was neither of the above that was there though. Just the apprentice, alone.
Rare as it would usually be for her to observe these changes on the sky, just before it would greet the flaming orb of the sun, such moments had become more and more common for Celysiel the last few weeks. Sleep offered a vulnerability that she could not trust. No matter how much her body desired it, her mind feared it. The awful sensation of being in two places, that dreaded limbo that made her head spin and her stomach burst was sometimes so awful, leaving her convinced that each night would be the last. But in truth, none would be. The girl knew that, no matter how unpleasant, what she experienced was harmless under the circumstances of rest, while she was placed in a safe environment. And still, she wished to deny it. And more.
She wished to deny the home, the walls of which were rising protectively around her, filling her with security no more, but a sense of futility. To breathe within that prison was sometimes becoming more difficult, while others it was the only place where to inhale was easy and fear died. Away from the mirror, near the mirror. Away from the water, near the water. Control had the tendency of slipping the more rest was denied, but one more night would not hurt. The white-haired elf promised herself that the next, she would sleep.
Sitting among blooms and wild weeds, the young one was ready to bathe in the light of another sunrise, before fulfilling the promise of a new contract, tend a second garden. However, even if she was bereft of company, she refused to let this dawn be one of solitude.
In each hand was held a piece of paper. Both folded, though they held their differences. The one held in the right hand was more yellowed, bigger. They brought a peculiar memory to the surface, one of a night before the longest dream. A dream that was not a dream. A dream that had been the beginning of it all. Just like the night before, it was to the left that the other paper was held, the letter. It must have been over a dozen times that the girl had read it just to make sure she had understood every word well, that no detail was unveiled. There at some point came though the moment that going through it again became tiring. Which was when she had turned to the other piece of paper.
It had been found just into a pocket of her robe, grazing against her hip as she ascended the ramp of the Sanctum earlier that night. Never could she have guessed what lay inside. It was not another letter, or even an ominous word, several of which had been collected that evening. Even under the promise of a new day, Celysiel's tumb pushed the folded paper to unravel its secrets, revealing the sketch of a young woman.
Herself.
Though the sketch was not detailed, the hand which had drawn it must have belonged to someone with patience. Details were mostly stressing on Celysiel's features and long mane, as it rested on her back like a woolen blanket. The expression was convincing, one that pleased her. Neutral and somewhat stern, just in the way it had been practiced. To know that the artist had seen it on her face offered a sense of accomplishment, even if it was over nothing significant. What surprised her though was not the accuracy of her person put in paper, but the way that she was seen.
In spite of all the similarities, the girl on the paper seemed too weary. Something the apprentice truly felt for herself, but hoped others would fail to note. There she was though, dropped shoulders and blank eyes looking ahead, rather than into the viewer, since the artist was clearly sitting to her left when the piece of work was made. That alone could be a hint for their identity. A suspicion was all that Celysiel would allow herself.
Why alchemist Shadewind would produce a sketch of her when he most of the times refused to even address her was a mystery to the girl, one that she would not dwell on for long. He was the only one sitting to her left the entire night, as opposed to everyone else, positioned in front of her, or to the right, and had also been seen working on something in his notebook. He had also been the only one to have come close enough, with the exception of apprentice Oathforge, the message of which would have to trouble her and make her wonder another time.
Mysteries mattered too little when it came to the sketch of the apprentice, something she became certain of the more she stared at it. What mattered was the sketch itself, for it betrayed the way she was perceived. Something which needed to be subjected to change. Weakness not simply veiled, but banished. For how much longer could the fear of rest prevail? The caging of herself persist? Alas, paranoia would only allow just a few compromises, or it could have simply been the fact that Celysiel could no longer find the energy to even stand and find her way home. A night of absence would make her guilt rise, for after the events of the previous night, home was where she needed to be at all times. Nor did it sit well with her that to work with the first light of dawn she had promised, a promise that would not be kept.
The grass was soft. The breeze soothing. The white-haired elf slowly let her body descend on nature's gentle mattress. And once the rays of the rising sun would caress her, they would find her blind to their beauty, deep into the slumber she had so persistently denied. With a letter at her left hand and a sketch at the right.
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