Yesterday, & days before, sun is cold & rain is hard/I know; Been that way for all my time (OTA)
The rain had been falling for days it seemed, and while Kit hadn't really noticed too much at first (too caught up in his writing), he was noticing today. The dreariness seemed to seep into his soul. Rain was supposed to wash away the past, wasn't it? Leave you with a clear and bright day. But when it just kept going on and on...
He couldn't stay cooped up, couldn't find the words he needed, the play he was working on, now school was out, seeming to mock him. He'd been doing well, actually, the last few months, using Draco for a muse and this place and the people he met here for further inspiration, but lately it...wasn't working.
So, he decided he didn't much care about the rain, grabbed his patchwork cloak of colors and his viola and headed for the park. The open expanse of green wasn't quite far enough, though, so he moved farther on, out into the forest, until he found a clearing. There, he sheltered under a tall oak tree, leaning against its trunk in an act of near defiance, the old rhyme running through his head. Ellum do grieve, Oak he do hate; Willow do walk, if you travel late. He snorted softly, and looked at the tree, not expecting an answer in this place and time, but speaking anyway.
"I've had my differences with thy kin, but for today, let's go with the other, aye, and I'll tell the tale true?" For poets tell how wounded Oaks have bled; denouncing terrors from their awful head.
He hadn't come for the trees this time, though, but for himself. Mayhap he ought have found an elm, but their branches were not so thick to provide such shelter from the rain, light as it was. It wasn't Hallow's Eve, but the memory of Murchaud was haunting him today. The play, he thought, running a hand through his hair before pulling his viola from it's case, making certain of the sheltering branches before lifting it to tune, remembering Cairbre with a tug of sadness, as well.
Then, he lifted the viola and began Greensleeves, slow and steady and mournful. He'd scandalized Faerie to the point the Mebd could no longer tolerate hearing it, but he'd won his Prince that way. Mayhap that grief was something he needed an outlet for, as his heart tried to heal itself, or mayhap he needed absolution, or reminder, some part of him feeling he'd veered toward inconstancy, which was ridiculous given all their wandering ways for their four centuries together, but the words had stopped flowing. He knew not why.
He played anyway.
Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity.
But did it?
He couldn't stay cooped up, couldn't find the words he needed, the play he was working on, now school was out, seeming to mock him. He'd been doing well, actually, the last few months, using Draco for a muse and this place and the people he met here for further inspiration, but lately it...wasn't working.
So, he decided he didn't much care about the rain, grabbed his patchwork cloak of colors and his viola and headed for the park. The open expanse of green wasn't quite far enough, though, so he moved farther on, out into the forest, until he found a clearing. There, he sheltered under a tall oak tree, leaning against its trunk in an act of near defiance, the old rhyme running through his head. Ellum do grieve, Oak he do hate; Willow do walk, if you travel late. He snorted softly, and looked at the tree, not expecting an answer in this place and time, but speaking anyway.
"I've had my differences with thy kin, but for today, let's go with the other, aye, and I'll tell the tale true?" For poets tell how wounded Oaks have bled; denouncing terrors from their awful head.
He hadn't come for the trees this time, though, but for himself. Mayhap he ought have found an elm, but their branches were not so thick to provide such shelter from the rain, light as it was. It wasn't Hallow's Eve, but the memory of Murchaud was haunting him today. The play, he thought, running a hand through his hair before pulling his viola from it's case, making certain of the sheltering branches before lifting it to tune, remembering Cairbre with a tug of sadness, as well.
Then, he lifted the viola and began Greensleeves, slow and steady and mournful. He'd scandalized Faerie to the point the Mebd could no longer tolerate hearing it, but he'd won his Prince that way. Mayhap that grief was something he needed an outlet for, as his heart tried to heal itself, or mayhap he needed absolution, or reminder, some part of him feeling he'd veered toward inconstancy, which was ridiculous given all their wandering ways for their four centuries together, but the words had stopped flowing. He knew not why.
He played anyway.
Your vows you've broken, like my heart,
Oh, why did you so enrapture me?
Now I remain in a world apart
But my heart remains in captivity.
But did it?