The Pearls Within the Sands of Time by WikedFae
Summary: Each brush stroke a blessing, each glance a gem in the cold of an artists' paradise. The unspoken thoughts that filled moments of two souls living in a world of color.
Disclaimer: The only thing I can claim rights to is the collection of snippets you are about to read. No more, no less.
Instance: Mortar and Pestle
The muller's gravelly tones whispered throughout the small attic as he watched her force its weight down upon the ebony shards littering the cluttered slab. Her fingers were streaked with black, the sooty powder clashing violently with her natural pallor and intensifying the angry blisters that peppered the backs of her hands. Wearily, she reached up and straightened her collar leaving a dusting of grey speckles behind before her hands and attention sank back to her task. He looked down at his own hands, the skin unblemished save the splashes of malachite near the fingertips as swells of stained linseed oil flowed out from beneath the pointed trowel. The occasional callous scarred his palms and the skin of his right thumb had roughened from years of supporting wooden handles, but the damage was nowhere as severe as those reddened cracks sprawling across her knuckles. Glancing at her with hooded eyes though, the determination shining from her pale brown orbs told him she did not mind. This startled him for it glimmered like a blazing beacon from the murky depths of a resigned lower caste. She was unique, an enigma only serving to distract him. But for all the distraction she provided, he realized her mystery sparked all manner of inspiration within him.
He did not care to examine his muse's whispers too closely lest they dissipate in silence, but as he gazed upon her bent figure with her worn hands clutching the smooth stone, he felt reassured this artistic chase would not end with his departure in the evening. The next dawn would break in through the frosted windows of his studio and he would steal away to the attic before the rest of the household woke. Her wide eyes would greet him, brimming with veiled, frightened anticipation and, unbeknownst to her, he would gratefully tumble into the chasm of questions she offered. It would be too easy to keep falling though, and he abruptly turned his thoughts back to the present.
Steadily, he rose and abandoned the green-streaked trowel, crossing to the workbench to retrieve his mortar and pestle. The slight slowing of her muller's tempo was hardly noticeable as he approached; a sidelong glance in her direction however, revealed her wandering attention as her eyes keenly pursued his hands and the instruments now cradled in them. Retreating to his seat, a twitch of his lips fought its way to the surface as he remained under the intense scrutiny of her gaze. It was curious how her silent observations spoke to him, he realized as a chorus of joy and sadness resonated within him. Her eagerness was evident and was made all the more painful as it churned forth from beneath the masking layers of subservience she valiantly tried to wear. Perhaps it was out of pity, or respect, or merely due to the balm her curiosity was on his starved creativity, but he would teach her—against his better judgment and in defiance of stark boundaries. She would not be ignored, as precious as she was.
He watched the small lumps of ore break beneath the merciless onslaught of his pestle, a fine cloud of cinnabar powder settling into the grooves and hollows of the mortar. A draft of silence swept through the cramped room and he paused, risking yet another glance in her direction. Pale eyes drank all color from the room as her gaze bored into him, stealing even his breath as he watched her mind quench its thirst. The flame had ignited those orbs once again and he saw the new path before him. Her unspoken pleas to learn would no longer go unanswered and he slowly raised his cradled hands, humbly offering the mortar nestled within. Only when her startled expression had faded into one of unsure gratitude did a minute smile grace his lips.