I have been, honest to God, writing this since 2016. Literal years and I'm still not done. This is a single page of currently 30 and counting. But I know what's going on and what's missing. Depending on how long it takes to lay the rest out, it should be done...soonish? But I need to finish this. For years, it has been my fondest wish and dearest nightmare to get this monster out of my head, off my desktop, and into your hands. There are a couple of things I've written that I see as my plateaus. The bits that pushed me into growing as a writer. And this would have to be the highest mountain I've attempted so far.
Somebody told me once that I wrote poetry in excess. This is the most painfully excessive thing I have ever attempted. Be patient with me, please enjoy.
All I own is my wrung out soul.
One of the monks sees first.
Raven remembers being small and feeling smaller, hurried through those huge marble archways by nervous adults. The quiet murmurs of concern around her. A firm grip on her shoulders steering her through hallways. Finally coming to stop and being surrounded by the same solemn group of adults as always. The exact appearance of their faces has been blurred by time but she can certainly remember the expressions. The emotions. Always concern, fear, and confusion.
Only this time they weren't staring at her. No, this time they were fixated on a spot just above her left elbow. They asked her where the colors came from, how long they had they been there.
She doesn't know, can't remember. They weren't there yesterday or even this morning. Yes, she knows not to play with the inks used by the scribes. The pastel colors just appeared. She doesn't understand why they are so upset, why colors should cause such a fuss. But she knows now. They thought the pale splashes of blue and green were something dangerous, something impossible that needed to be stopped.
Except for Arella. No, when Arella sees the spots dappling her arm, she begins to cry. Which isn't too out of character for the tall, somber woman. Except Raven could tell the difference. Could feel it like the edges of fingernails pressed tight into her palm. Like the weight of her blankets when she hides from the voiceless whispers. These tears aren't just made of resignation, of shame and sadness. There's also something small and bright within.
Hope.
The colors aren't bad. Even though they were baby new, she could already feel that the watercolor on her arm was something good. Like sunshine through storm clouds, like the breeze that playfully ruffles the pages of her books. The splotches reminded her of the pictures she's seen of a planet called Earth. Wide open skies and vast plains, unexplored forests and quiet beaches. Something wildly different and unabashedly insubordinate to the cool greys and whites of the temples. Something that could grow into something special.
As she grows older, she learns.
Fervently, Raven is taught about destiny. Terrible promises written into her blood. The words fate, tragedy, disaster, and blame. How the world will burn and she will light the match. Memorizes the end of the world like a spelling test. Reading about Earth slowly loses that sense of comfort. Now her books become a practice of penance. Look at all these beautiful things that you will someday destroy.
Secretly, she learns about choices. The clarity and completion love is supposed to bring. Understanding. Learns what green and blue are meant to mean. Somehow her arm is dappled in shades of renewal and peace. Hope. Ideas and concepts that should have no home in her person, and yet.
When they start insisting on long sleeves, she doesn't argue. Partly to remain in control. Even if the splashed hues have remained unsettled, they still send a flash of that small, bright feeling racing through her blood. The rest of her complies to protect her blurred colors from the judging eyes of everyone around her.
But she can't blame those that glare at her small watercolors. After all, what kind of person could be her soulmate?