Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: Set during an undisclosed period of time in Ancient Lost Jerusalem, this was partly inspired by Ki Longfellow's The Secret Magdalene and my seemingly never-ending curiosity of Yeshua and Mary's past. So yeah, this is pretentious as shit and could probably use more editing (where is a beta-reader when you need 'em?) but this would have to do for now.
Warning: As I haven't read the whole of the Perfect Guide, some plot inconsistencies might be unavoidable.
Scents of Memories
This tale begins with a boy and a girl. That is how stories have always started ever since time immemorial; sagas of fateful meetings and tragic ends, and of never-ending parables where slowness and memories convene.
We embark with the humid air of summer in the long days of lore, the boy first meets her under the gaze of the Aegean sun; a vivid gold that almost blinds and with heat that stifles the senses. Amidst the waving fields of petunias and daffodils lies a sleeping girl of a dark recognizable coloring and with a face that looks right out of one of his cousin's sketches, ethereal, ephemeral and achingly familiar. Upon further observations, he notices the girl's unique garb that he swears he has seen people don back when he and his kin visited a town on the western shore of the Sea of Galilee - Magdala, if his faulty memory serves him correct. He sits there, hunched up on his sandals, for what seems like hours observing the girl's consistent breathing – inhaling, exhaling – wondering how she, how anyone, can possibly sleep (comfortably even!) under such torturous temperature. He thinks for a moment that he might be seeing one of the messengers of Eloi, a hallucination caused by the unbearable heat.
With shaking fingers, a touch to the girl's face grips him back to reality like the freezing pull of the ocean waves; the feel of her warm skin and the constant flow of her breathe keeps him tied down to the ground – she feels nothing short of life, very much human. He shakes his head at his foolish thoughts, such tales of that cruel yet merciful Yahweh is something he never was able to comprehend despite all the insistent teachings and warnings of the rabbis and shamans, and here now, with the sight of this girl, he feels something – a change in the scent of the air and a different vividness to the sunlight pouring down onto the earth- something timeless. Ceaseless. Eternal.
The girl awakens at last, and he is forced to curb his surprise at the sight of eyes the color of the sky in its most glorious of days. He suddenly remembers news of a group of travelers that settled in his city a couple of days ago that which makes him feel even more ridiculously inane at his self-indulgent thoughts of the unearthly. A foreigner, perhaps an Assyrian or Persian was his next thought, setting aside the outlandish notion of the impossible despite the desperate buzz beating in his temples.
As a gust of breeze sweeps down from the valley into the fields, he waits for the girl to recollect herself, reins in his hands to his robe, and clings to some semblance of control as a strange hum pulsates from the life and air that surrounds him and from the earthly pedestal he stands on - soil, rocks and weeds. After what seems like hours of tranquility with only the girl's contented breathing, whilst all is still and all is fruitful under the western sun, she finally fixes her eyes on him, a long penetrating stare that shakes the very tower of his being. Oh Eloi! I know her I know her I know her.
In this field of wild flowers, this field which, for him and most likely for the other villagers as well, is as customary as the tithes the people disburse and as natural as the yearly floods that plagues the land of Galilee, this field which for some unfathomable reason or another his memories is unable to grasp clearly, all he can hold onto is the overbearing scents of
wildflowers and herbs, the erratic (yet oddly beautiful, in a way) music carried by the winds, and eyes that mirrors his dreams, of what has been and what could be.
He laughs to himself suddenly, wild and free; he looks at her again and catches her mirthful smile, warm and inviting of someone whom he is certain he has known for a long, long time. With his hand held out towards the girl, under the oppressive heat of the sun, he whispers, "Walk with me, Mariamne
-End-