Post by Carbon Kiwi on Jul 30, 2011 14:20:47 GMT 10
Title: Growing Understanding
Rating: PG
Couple/Character: Dedicate Rosethorn, Mind-healer Dedicate Cicelysong
Event: (500) word dash
Words: 500
Warnings:
Summary: “It’s nothing I can explain,” Rosethorn finally stated.
Rosethorn watched Dedicate Cicelysong carefully: the arch of her narrow flaxen brows perched in subtle interest; the delicate appearance of her button nose; the clear line determining the separation of her creamy sun-kissed skin and the pink of her slightly-parched lips; the long waves of her golden hair; the shocking brown of her eyes against her light complexion. They stared back at Rosethorn, hard enough to demand and soft enough to encourage.
“It’s nothing I can explain,” Rosethorn finally stated.
Cicelysong offered her hand.
Rosethorn shook her head. “It can’t come from my head, either: it’s outside my mind.”
Cicelysong sat back in her seat with a fleeting look of disappointment. “Is there any way to express it?”
Rosethorn considered this for a moment, unselfconscious of how long she sat without words. At last she nodded. “Come to Discipline Cottage for next week’s session and I’ll see what I can do.”
Dedicate Cicelysong arrived precisely on time; Rosethorn was waiting, looking distracted as she leaned against the walking stick she used only at home. Her profile was striking.
“I’m here,” Cicelysong announced when Rosethorn did not look up.
“So you are. Well done.” Rosethorn turned at last, eyes tight; Cicelysong took no offence upon seeing them. “I did it.”
“Here?”
Rosethorn shook her head. “A garden a ways off.”
She stood and kept her cane in hand—a difficult day, then. Dedicate Cicelysong followed her past the loom-houses and down the path to one of the communal gardens. One of Rosethorn’s coins hung on a stake in the corner.
The hedge parted before Rosethorn; the two women stepped through. Dedicate Cicelysong gasped at what she saw there: she had never witnessed a garden with so much red present in one small area. Brown woody material created a clear architectural structure surrounded by enough red blooms to make it appear aflame. This was not a beautiful garden: it was a horror scene expressed through a living medium.
“I’m not an artist,” Rosethorn admitted, “so I had to draw it the way I could.”
Dedicate Cicelysong swallowed as she took in the plants. She caught some of the meaning by recalling what she had learned from Rosethorn or had previously known.
“I have the plants’ feeling now; that’s how I can express how I felt.” This time, Rosethorn was the one to offer her hand.
Cicelysong grasped the proffered hand firmly in her own; both their grips were hard. First images flashed behind Cicelysong’s eyes, yet the experience felt bodily rather than mental, as if the thoughts were not in her mind but flowing through her blood or magic. Sensation followed the images (which must have been mixed with Rosethorn’s thoughts); they were emotions wrapped up in the sensation of sunlight, rain and fire.
She screamed and dropped Rosethorn’s hand, the sound still ringing in her ears. Rosethorn gripped her shoulder.
That evening, Cicelysong couldn’t sleep without herbs. But in their next session, she understood everything Rosethorn mentioned. They understood each other.
Rating: PG
Couple/Character: Dedicate Rosethorn, Mind-healer Dedicate Cicelysong
Event: (500) word dash
Words: 500
Warnings:
Summary: “It’s nothing I can explain,” Rosethorn finally stated.
Rosethorn watched Dedicate Cicelysong carefully: the arch of her narrow flaxen brows perched in subtle interest; the delicate appearance of her button nose; the clear line determining the separation of her creamy sun-kissed skin and the pink of her slightly-parched lips; the long waves of her golden hair; the shocking brown of her eyes against her light complexion. They stared back at Rosethorn, hard enough to demand and soft enough to encourage.
“It’s nothing I can explain,” Rosethorn finally stated.
Cicelysong offered her hand.
Rosethorn shook her head. “It can’t come from my head, either: it’s outside my mind.”
Cicelysong sat back in her seat with a fleeting look of disappointment. “Is there any way to express it?”
Rosethorn considered this for a moment, unselfconscious of how long she sat without words. At last she nodded. “Come to Discipline Cottage for next week’s session and I’ll see what I can do.”
Dedicate Cicelysong arrived precisely on time; Rosethorn was waiting, looking distracted as she leaned against the walking stick she used only at home. Her profile was striking.
“I’m here,” Cicelysong announced when Rosethorn did not look up.
“So you are. Well done.” Rosethorn turned at last, eyes tight; Cicelysong took no offence upon seeing them. “I did it.”
“Here?”
Rosethorn shook her head. “A garden a ways off.”
She stood and kept her cane in hand—a difficult day, then. Dedicate Cicelysong followed her past the loom-houses and down the path to one of the communal gardens. One of Rosethorn’s coins hung on a stake in the corner.
The hedge parted before Rosethorn; the two women stepped through. Dedicate Cicelysong gasped at what she saw there: she had never witnessed a garden with so much red present in one small area. Brown woody material created a clear architectural structure surrounded by enough red blooms to make it appear aflame. This was not a beautiful garden: it was a horror scene expressed through a living medium.
“I’m not an artist,” Rosethorn admitted, “so I had to draw it the way I could.”
Dedicate Cicelysong swallowed as she took in the plants. She caught some of the meaning by recalling what she had learned from Rosethorn or had previously known.
“I have the plants’ feeling now; that’s how I can express how I felt.” This time, Rosethorn was the one to offer her hand.
Cicelysong grasped the proffered hand firmly in her own; both their grips were hard. First images flashed behind Cicelysong’s eyes, yet the experience felt bodily rather than mental, as if the thoughts were not in her mind but flowing through her blood or magic. Sensation followed the images (which must have been mixed with Rosethorn’s thoughts); they were emotions wrapped up in the sensation of sunlight, rain and fire.
She screamed and dropped Rosethorn’s hand, the sound still ringing in her ears. Rosethorn gripped her shoulder.
That evening, Cicelysong couldn’t sleep without herbs. But in their next session, she understood everything Rosethorn mentioned. They understood each other.