dirk rider (inatower) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-04-12 18:31:00 |
|
|||
As the fireworks died, the stars reclaimed the night sky stage. Araceli turned to the mage beside her, the guildmates around them dispersing into the city to rest and recover. Their work was finished for the night. “Cecilia!” the older mage called, giving the blonde a small nudge. Pleased with having accomplished another responsibility, the blonde turned to her friend. It was nice to have someone who was going through the same experience of getting to know Emillion, though - well, there were parts of Araceli that Cecilia didn’t understand. But she would not vocalize these things - they were kept in the small, secret parts of herself where the darkness lived and breathed. “I guess that concludes it for the night?” she asked. Her arms tingled with the exertion of all that magic pushing out of her. She reached next to her, retrieving two beverages she had gotten before they had been rushed to the fireworks site, bought from a friendly stallman. “Here, I got these for us,” she said, offering one to Araceli. “It’s some kind of cinnamon punch. The line was long, so I had to try it.” Araceli took the drink with a word of thanks. One hand clutching her can and the other moving to link arms with Cecilia, the arithmetician strolled down the darkened streets with her companion. “An Emillion drink, perhaps?” she asked with a sip, still unsure of the city’s customs despite settling well with the people. “Or a festival special. Either way, how curious this flavor is!” “Isn’t it?” Cecilia said, taking a sip. Drinks back home had been nothing like this - not so full of spice and sweetness. She had tasted and enjoyed many new things coming from Emillion; it was both a joy and overwhelming, especially when it distracted her from what she felt was more important. Though - she was always keen on an aimless walk through the bazaars, no matter what. “I think I saw nearly twenty different kinds of drink stalls today. I’ll have to try more tomorrow.” “Twenty,” the other woman repeated, the possibilities flashing through her mind’s eye. “So much to do and in only three days. Is this why Emillionites have so many festivals, to experience everything?” There was to celebrate where she was accustomed to living (less kings and nobles, more to small kindnesses, a simple gratitude for life even without drinks). “Or because they have little else to do,” Cecilia noted, eyeing a string of children screaming and whooping as they ran past with sparklers. Tarlev had had no festivals; Tarlev had been cold, and bare, and staid. They had worshipped faceless gods of religions past to give them their grain, but there had been no festival stalls, no fireworks. Just people accepting the darkness within themselves, as much a piece of them as the light - if not more so. She felt her soul shiver, remembering. “I don’t usually like festivals,” she continued, “it’s…” Difficult, to be but just one small face in such an enormous crowd. “Easy to get lost,” she finished. “And hard to be found, but is it such a terrible thing to be lost?” Araceli asked, almost to herself. She might still consider herself lost were the Disciples not her home. A decade’s worth of lonesome wandering, a seed in the wind tracing patterns like currents, brought her to unexpected people and places. This Disciple had returned with the others who called Emillion their home in hopes of helping the city in its time of toil and trouble. That they found cause to celebrate even now was admirable. Or naive. The crowd of sleepy festival goers swayed before her but the sight of Cecelia stood out clearer than anything or anyone else. “It is,” Cecilia said without hesitation, her voice uncharacteristically firm. Even just thinking of it struck something hard inside of her. The small dark monster that lived in her stomach churned, rousing itself from sleep. But - she took a sip of her drink, her dark eyes catching only what was important now. The night, Araceli, the way that festivals died off slowly, living long after their ends. “But it is not about not knowing where you are. It’s the not knowing where to go.” “Oh.” Araceli eyed the girl beside her and tighten her grip without realizing (as though she could play anchor to Cecelia, as though shadows could stay in place with a touch). “How is the journey if you do not know where to go?” She paused. Cecilia’s free hand rose and she gently pushed her hair behind one ear, an idle action while she carefully thought about how to answer that. She had revealed - too much. And so the conviction slipped back. The monster retreating into its cave. “Very bad, I imagine,” she said lightly, “or at the very least, confusing.” “Sí, confusing. Not bad necessarily,” Araceli countered, thinking back on her own time on the road. With a sigh, she tilted her head to the side and leaned into Cecelia. She yawned, a wave of dreaming washing over her with their talk of travelling. Sleepily, she drifted back into optimism: “Not alone at least.” The two mages turned back to conversation of food and drinks until exhaustion took over. With the sun nearing its time to wake, they split up into their respective paths, a temporary separation until they would meet again. |