Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-02 20:04:00 |
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Entry tags: | newt penhaligon, ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing.
Warning, this memory contains: Nothing bad.
It is the towers I notice.
I am weary as I tread upon a road marked with handhewn stone upon sand, and there are towers in the distance. They are towers with spheres upon their heads and with spires upon their spheres. The spheres mean something. In this world, everything means something. There is no construct here that is thoughtless. Nowhere has man looked upon a turret and decided to add another tooth of stone for vanity. Everything has meaning. The number of spheres is worship, as are the spires, as are the stones themselves. It is the towers I notice as I walk to this place. They shine. They are painted with vibrant colors that bring remembrance of the daytime sky in all its phases. These skies will fade, just as the lives of the painters will fade into dark night. But the beauty is there now, and I soak it in and do not name the brilliant shades with my foreigner's tongue. I do not own this place, and it is not mine to name.
The rocks are markers, and I walk between them and think on the hands that placed them here in the unforgiving sands. Here, where each kiss of wind stings with miniature projectiles against the skin. Here, beauty hurts, but this does not concern me as I walk with long step. I have been walking many days, and I am covered in sweat and sand. My thighs burn. My steps are slow.
I see the tents when I near. The sun is bidding farewell to the day, and my feet are sore. I am tired, but I do not think of stopping. The tents flap, and their colors are not the colors of the tall, bulbous towers. These are warm colors. These tents are not meant to remind the ones beneath that they will become dust. These tents are browns and golds and red. These are the colors of life, which I do not refrain from naming in my head. The tents do not have openings. they have fabric on their tops and sides, but the fronts are propped by wood poles, and they allow all to come and enter without exception. Here, no one bars doors or pretends they are not at home.
The music grows louder as I near. It is poetry set to high notes. The women sing as they prepare meals and nurse their young, and their voices tangle and twine like the scents of sweet spice on the desert air. There is pain in the words of the song, but the singers are not sad. Death comes here, and it is not feared. It is beautiful, as is the singing, and there are men playing drum, oud, and rebab. There is respect in the playing, but there is life here, even as they await the one with the scales.
They light the fires as the night falls, and finally my feet have come to the edge of the gathering. I look, and I see the multitude of thousands. Their tents sing with flaps of fabric, and families sit in circles and partake, and the skins rage in darkness from tan to the deepest and darkest ebony. Lovers embrace behind tents, and children tell stories from their cots and blankets. The hum of speaking is constant. Never is there silence. This place is quiet, but it is not still.
I walk to where a group is collected around flame, and I join them. One of the others here smiles at me, and his eyes flash a beautiful red that overflows from his eyelids. He looks at me with a face belonging to the people gathered here, but he is not of them. I look around, and I see flame overreaching everywhere, at every gathering and in every gathered group, and it is good. I smile and duck my head, and I regard the handhewn bowl someone has placed in my hands. The spices rise from it with heady thickness, and the scent slithers up my nose as I inhale deeply. I look for the food giver to offer my thanks, but they are gone. This is the way here. What is for one, it is for all, and I eat without hesitation. There is respect in the consuming, and there would be insult in crumbs left behind. I leave no crumbs to suffer alone in the bowl when it is set aside.
The fires flicker, fade, and die, and I have rejected the respectful offers of three to join their slumber, though I have accepted the offer of a kind woman to use her water for washing. Water is precious here, and I am thankful. The city, it is here because there is water here. The desert does not offer up the cool liquid in many places, but here it trickles and is shared by all. I sit and watch the embers, and I glance to tents as they flicker with fireflame as lovers embrace in worship. I bend my knees and rest my elbows upon them. There is peace here. When metal jangles here, it is not from shackles. It is not my home, but it is beautiful. I stretch out, and I close my eyes. I do not know when someone slips a roll of fabric beneath my neck, but it is a comfort I appreciate.
In the morning, I leave to well wishes and the low bowing of heads. This is a good place, and I am no longer weary.