An Achroma of the Still Mind

Prologue Part I

Coma.

Crimson melted into a thick darkness as the final rivulets of sunlight poured into the meadowless patch of land under the pink-slowly-turning-grey field of clouds — betwixt the crops belonging to the farmer retired from his position as cavalryman from the northern isles of Eishun past the age of the hopeless illogia of the crossing of swords two, the art of scourge and strife; between the small wood, creating a lush canopy shade to sun, oak limbs creaking in the chime-ringing wind forming zephyrs readying for the advent of autumn and the call of dryads who rest in the damp leaves laying on the dirt; the red path toward the hills, old and worn away; and the moss growing on the old cairns, beside the river full of fish, to be caught by the fisherman by the streams near his quaint cabin all alone, separated from the world by the very wind drifting through the forest, secluded by a veil of air, to be caught by the bear of brown fur, his trail distinguished by great steps marking the terrain about him, the timeless wind brisk-becoming as it flows through the forest preceding the whitewood bridge over the river water clearer than glass to the road leading to the marina nearly as lively as raucous as it was eighty moons ago before the great Port Caighallad — where glimmers of the oilkind light kindled by a young maiden sitting on a flimsy chair built by the carpenter’s apprentice in the kitchen next to her mother, her gloves slipped carelessly on, handling the pans on which the meal of the night was currently melting away, the meats sizzling in fragrant oil and the soup cooling on the long table set next to a shelf stacked with specimens of special herbs reserved for feasts every equinox which was lit by glimmer of the oilkind light from the abode, blurry from a poor eyesight, faraway in the distance, signalled time to come home for dinner, to prepare for the next stretch of dawn to dusk — at once, children, youthful ones all dressed in plain clothes, scurried micelike doormatwards, cheeks scarlet with the heat of summer’s last day — while the alabaster clouds, each thin strips of pristine aether, glided across a vast ocean of ouranus into the mountainous background to the fields of wheat owned by the jaded villein, stalks losing golden shine with every sliver of sun dipping into the horizon; the place was wordlessly beautiful — painted in strong sweeps of violet tempera; a myriad of shades of viridian hue; and the quietude of cerulean of water, cooling, fresh water — and, like any painting, the scene aged not, just was; all who were in it had no knowledge of time, no tempo to their idyll of life: the tall grasses that swayed in the breeze, partner to the tree-cast shadows in an instant of dance, an instant of hours till the morrow approached, a moment only — in an eternity — a harmony to the wildgrass flowers which smiled pale pink, gentle in movement, scraping across her bare leg, had no care; the heron with her mate and child resting in the warm lullaby draft, watching the stars come into a faint existence, had no care.

She clenched her dagger, rough handletimber digging into her skin callous yet turning bright red, veins hastily sanguinating her fingers, sweat from her knuckles dripping to the earth, caught in a dance of elegant cascadewards motion, pierced asunder midair by the blunt edge of air, before finally shattering into a thousand beads of glass upon impact. She glanced away from the children towards the wilderness of the forest, then to the farmer’s land, wondering what creatures might be hidden within, before focusing once again on the house full of the welcome of familiar aroma of a meal simple in design and lacking decadence, but proper regardless, concentrating on the firefly illumination emanating from behind distorted by poorly crafted glass panes faded away into blankness, as she collapsed atop a tiny bed of flora — an achroma of the still mind.

The darkness flickered as a fire might, with as much appetite and will to consume as a sweeping blaze grazing villagelands. Her eyes opened, letting the previolet candlelight pour into her senses like ichor of a fallen god, like warm milk to a new life, an infant in her mother’s cradle. There stood a little girl, her age barely twelve, apparition of her face like petals, approached her with as much caution as curiosity. The lass’s eyes were dark, wine-coloured sea. In seeing her eyes for the first time, the girl flinched, pausing in midstep, witness of her glare by paralysis grasped. After glancing at her for one last time, but not the last, she ran outside into the forest alone, white skirt flowing behind her.