Messages that will never reach their homes.

[morilthesinger]

Old paper makes a certain kind of noise when it burns. Dry to begin with, any remaining hint of moisture is sucked out of it all at once with a crack, and then there is a fragile, crispy sort of sound as the edge begin to curl in and finally the whole thing is consumed into little bits of ash

Comments

[inariver]

Curiosity had always been Ophelia's undoing.

From her doorstep she could see stretches of beach in both directions, watch were the sky kissed the waves and the trees rushed up to meet sand. Some days she likes to simply watch, waiting for something different to urge her to change. That is how she has come upon the bonfire. It had been burning in a way that it caught her attention, long before she had been near enough to sneeze at the smoke in the air.

Stopping on the far side of the fire, she stares at the flames for a moment before staring at the person on the other side.

"I always miss things after they've burned," she says almost absently as she watches paper curl and catch in the flames.

[morilthesinger]

Moril looks up at her, a little dazed, as if surprised by her sudden appearance that had not really been so sudden at all.

"You won't miss these," he points out. "I don't even know what most of them say."

[inariver]

"Do you not planning on reading them?"

Ophelia had burned her letters. Set fire to them and wished she had never read them to start with. This doesn't mean that she does not remember what they said.

"Were they not meant for you?"

[morilthesinger]

Moril shakes his head, reaching out to hand her a crinkled piece of wadded-up paper. It had said Come to the corn when he had read it.

"No. And I can't give them to the people they're for, now, it's much too late."

[inariver]

"Oh. Then I am sorry."

Indeed she is, for both him and the fact that there is nothing she can do. Letters are all fine and well, but if they cannot go where tehy are meant to then there is very little for them.

"I got letters such as those once. I burned them too."

[morilthesinger]

He stares at her as if not quite seeing her, head cocked, his bright blue eyes a little glassy. "Do you want to help me burn these?"

[inariver]

For a moment she simply stares, caught by the offer and the sadness she feels for reasons she doesn't know.

It's gone as quickly as it starts and she walks to the other side of the fire. Pulling her blonde hair back, she twists it and knots it to keep it from getting in the way. "Aye sir. I can you help."

[morilthesinger]

The smile he flashes her is heartbreaking, really, so it is probably good that it only lasts a moment. He reaches into the wine jug and pulls out a handful of the little strips of paper, and holds them out to her.

"The thing is," he says, "there are plenty of secrets without carrying around other people's. They're heavy."

[inariver]

Ophelia notices it, but doesn't say anything on it. She bears her own heartbreak deep inside, keeps calm and carries her head high. Taking a papers, she looks at them briefly before pulling one free and holding it out to the flame.

"Aye, they are. They are more of a burden then our own."

[morilthesinger]

Moril unfolds one of the scraps, glaring fiercely at it as he reads the nonsensical message, and crumples it again to toss it into the flames. "Do you have them? Secrets, not papers."

[inariver]

"Doesn't everyone?" she asks turning her head away from the fire to look at him.

The fire is almost too warm as she stands so close to it, letting go of the papers in her hands one by one.

"Less so now than before, but yes."

[morilthesinger]

"I suppose so," Moril agrees, thrusting another handful of papers into her hands. There is something a little mad about the firelight, the way the flames reach up in hot, demanding tentacles toward the sky and the way the air ripples in the smoke above it. There is something a little mad about the look on Moril's face, too, as he casts each of the messages into the fire, one by one, reading them aloud before he does in a brittle but echoing voice--nonsense words spoken like a prophet with nothing to say.

"Nothing but cabbages," he finishes, his voice turning to disgust as the last of the bits of paper curls to a brown, frayed crisp. The glint in his eyes dims a little. "Thank you. I'm sorry for that."

[inariver]

That makes Ophelia laugh. It sounds a bit too bright, too out of context that as soon as she realises that it is her making such a noise, she falls quiet. It had occurred out of turn and she regrets it, but something such as that needed a bit of reliefe.

"It's alright and I am sorry in turn for laughing," she offers wiggling her fingers as she releases the last of the papers in her hands. "Nothing but cabbages indeed."

[morilthesinger]

Moril turns rather pink in the cheek and ducks his head. "No, I meant it said cabbages," he stammers hastily, but when he looks up at her again, he looks barely a breath from laughing himself. "It was funny."

[inariver]

"I did not think that you attached to cabbages in the least." The idea of preferring certain vegetables to others is the work of children who never had to want. She had always been told to not mind them and even now she cares very little.

A smile still on her face, she looks at him. "I think it is alright to laugh at funny things."

[morilthesinger]

"Of course it is," Moril says, a little sheepish now that the mania has dimmed. "I'm Moril," he adds, sticking out a hand.