Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-02 22:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Viewing
Warning, this memory contains: Old rituals. Mentions of public sex - not graphic.
You stand there and know that the day has been filled with activity. It is the beginning of the year, and you are surrounded by people. They are simple people, farmers, and though many will be in church come Sunday, today is something different. Today the priest will look aside as his flock parades to each field, giving thanks, asking for bounty when the recently planted will be harvested. The priest will add his holy water to the mix, ignoring that there are others that say older words over the earth and ask older things for their help as well. A successful harvest is vital to everyone's survival.
The crowd has grown smaller since sunset, a number of the more devout families returning to their homes. They've done what they feel comfortable with, and now the rest of the town gathers at the edge of the forest to light the bonfire. There is enough left in people's root cellars to augment the newest spring green, and there is meat enough for a feast. Give thanks to the animal that died to feed you. Give thanks for its sacrifice.
The bonfire only grows as the night darkens, reaching almost twice the height of the tallest man at the celebration. Music is played, drums beat while people dance. Everyone wears their brightest colors, mimicking the color of the fire before you. Even you - you have worn your best and brightest. And there is a yellow spring flower tucked behind your ear. Everyone has at least one, some people have more. But there is one girl, lingering close to the fire, that has more than anyone else. They've been strung together, draped around her shoulders, woven into her hair. She looks subdued. Not as caught up in the celebration as the others.
The crowd continues to dwindle, but there are still about a dozen when an older woman gathers everyone's attention. There are words then, thanking the earth, asking for its generosity. There are words that you can't understand, words that might be in a different, older language, and you're reminded of the murmurs of people over their fields. When she's done, she turns to the girl and helps remove the simple shift she's been wearing under the strands of flowers. You can see now, though petals still help to cover her, that she really is just barely a young woman, with only enough curve to her thin form to betray that she's reached that moment of womanhood.
And then, as she stands naked in front of the dozen of you, a man approaches. He's as naked as the girl, though he looks to be older, his form broad across the shoulders and lean through his hips. There is a darkness of hair across his chest and down his stomach, and he's (apparently unashamedly) erect as he walks toward the girl. Once they stand before each other, they turn to a place that has been prepared with blankets upon the ground, the firelight making their skin as gold as the petals of the flowers. The girl's hands are uncertain, but his touch her with the experience needed to keep pain away from her expression throughout their coupling.
Do you look away to offer them the illusion of privacy? Do you continue to watch? Is it even up to you as the bonfire flares and crackles and pushes the forest away?