Rains and Smiles
Date: Sunday, 18 February 2000
Time: Ten Thirty-Seven in the morn
Location: Myron's flat - Deirdre's flat - Da Grove
Characters Involved: Deirdre and Myron
Rating: PG-13 at most
Myron had been drawing. (In his White Room, that is.) To him it seemed as if though the rain outside would never stop. Pickity-pock it went across the slated roof and the windows were all drippity-drop. Myron smiled lop-sidedly. It was time for some daydreaming, he thought. There would stand his coquettish French horn, and there the ruby-oak cello, and the Persian carpet, and the lyre. Myron cupped his chin, deep in thought-- for where the Chinese lamp would go? It was richly ornamented, all carmine gold and silk. Myron really loved it. The farthest corner of the circle seemed to be the perfect point.
The grove itself was a beautiful place. The Musician could not believe his own eyes when he had come across it during one of his aimless rovings. It was an early frosty morning in late January, with the sun just yawning lazily behind the nearest hill. Young and tall trees were all around, slender, silver in the winter rime. But what took his breath away was the colouring of the grove - all red and gold and dark-brown and even lilac! "How could the trees retain their autumn tinge?" and "What about the biting cold?" - were the questions he never asked, instead, enjoying the rare finding and frolicking about on a lonely morning, while all others were sleeping. It was, indeed, a very strange scene - an impossibly tall and slender man, jumping.
Then there was a small conversation with his-- {Muse?}{Goddess?}{Comrade On the Road to Hell and Heaven?}-- friend (!), and the sudden thought to bring her there. Was there not? And how long was it since Myron had promised that to her? She sounded so grave, or perhaps it was just Myron's own slight paranoia-- but she did really sound depressed. If slightly. Slightly. Hmmm. Myron looked around, dropping his pencil to the carpeted floor. He did not like the sound of silence. Kir had not been around lately (or perhaps he was, just not in the visible areas of the house), making Myron wonder if he were still alive. But he should have been, for weren't they best friends? And best friends did not die without letting each other know beforehand. (Death was such a bureaucratic process!)
"Lalala," he singsonged monotonously, obviously bored. How the rain drove him mad with its impatience! Could it not wait just another day? What was wrong with tomorrow's Monday for this rain? Or Tuesday, for that matter? Why Sunday - Sunday of all days? Myron sighed grievously. Just the day when he wanted to take Deirdre out to his hidden haven. Then, a sudden thought hit him (very much predictively, as it must have been lurking in his subconsciousness) - he could, still, take her there!
In the next few minutes he was already gone, apparating over to the grove, working madly, excitedly - erecting a see-through awning above the trees, drying up the soil beneath, and placing the French horn, and the lyre, and the Chinese red lamp - all on their respective places. Oh, and the carpet he had forgotten (Accio!). Now all was ready, and he was too!
"Knock-knock!" Myron accompanied himself, as he knocked on Deirdre's door, wet but happy.
Time: Ten Thirty-Seven in the morn
Location: Myron's flat - Deirdre's flat - Da Grove
Characters Involved: Deirdre and Myron
Rating: PG-13 at most
Myron had been drawing. (In his White Room, that is.) To him it seemed as if though the rain outside would never stop. Pickity-pock it went across the slated roof and the windows were all drippity-drop. Myron smiled lop-sidedly. It was time for some daydreaming, he thought. There would stand his coquettish French horn, and there the ruby-oak cello, and the Persian carpet, and the lyre. Myron cupped his chin, deep in thought-- for where the Chinese lamp would go? It was richly ornamented, all carmine gold and silk. Myron really loved it. The farthest corner of the circle seemed to be the perfect point.
The grove itself was a beautiful place. The Musician could not believe his own eyes when he had come across it during one of his aimless rovings. It was an early frosty morning in late January, with the sun just yawning lazily behind the nearest hill. Young and tall trees were all around, slender, silver in the winter rime. But what took his breath away was the colouring of the grove - all red and gold and dark-brown and even lilac! "How could the trees retain their autumn tinge?" and "What about the biting cold?" - were the questions he never asked, instead, enjoying the rare finding and frolicking about on a lonely morning, while all others were sleeping. It was, indeed, a very strange scene - an impossibly tall and slender man, jumping.
Then there was a small conversation with his-- {Muse?}{Goddess?}{Comrade On the Road to Hell and Heaven?}-- friend (!), and the sudden thought to bring her there. Was there not? And how long was it since Myron had promised that to her? She sounded so grave, or perhaps it was just Myron's own slight paranoia-- but she did really sound depressed. If slightly. Slightly. Hmmm. Myron looked around, dropping his pencil to the carpeted floor. He did not like the sound of silence. Kir had not been around lately (or perhaps he was, just not in the visible areas of the house), making Myron wonder if he were still alive. But he should have been, for weren't they best friends? And best friends did not die without letting each other know beforehand. (Death was such a bureaucratic process!)
"Lalala," he singsonged monotonously, obviously bored. How the rain drove him mad with its impatience! Could it not wait just another day? What was wrong with tomorrow's Monday for this rain? Or Tuesday, for that matter? Why Sunday - Sunday of all days? Myron sighed grievously. Just the day when he wanted to take Deirdre out to his hidden haven. Then, a sudden thought hit him (very much predictively, as it must have been lurking in his subconsciousness) - he could, still, take her there!
In the next few minutes he was already gone, apparating over to the grove, working madly, excitedly - erecting a see-through awning above the trees, drying up the soil beneath, and placing the French horn, and the lyre, and the Chinese red lamp - all on their respective places. Oh, and the carpet he had forgotten (Accio!). Now all was ready, and he was too!
"Knock-knock!" Myron accompanied himself, as he knocked on Deirdre's door, wet but happy.