(no subject)
In a recent thread, Kieran offered to show Francescu the desert that's his home. I said I'd see if I couldn't write that, so I have.
Kieran walks among dreams like a ghost, searching, his attention passing over pattern after pattern. Some of them sense his presence, dimly, and the next morning campers wake from dreams of storms, of forgotten secrets, of bright eyes. These dreams are not his business; he ignores them with a mental shrug. Guess I still got to work on my control, he thinks, and moves on.
He comes to a place in the world where threads of power lie wrapped and waiting, a defensive pattern worked into the warp and weft of a cabin. It stirs at his approach, but it is not meant to deter such as him, and something in it recognizes him and opens through dimensions he can barely recognize. He pauses to watch it for a moment, tracing impossibly intricate threads of power, then slips through. It does not bar his passage, but when he is inside he feels it, a constant pulse of safe/secure/comfort/warm. Faceless, his lips twitch; Kieran remembers who used to live here, months ago. As if it weren't obvious.
Despite the power of the ward, there is little of comfort or security about his teacher's dreams. Francescu is young, less than ten and dressed in robes, and he stands frozen in a long, stone hall that stretches beyond sight in the way of dreams. The air is thick with oppressive hate, and red-black radiance skitters at the edge of vision, and somewhere in the distance there are terrible sounds that defy description.
The child turns to him, and his eyes are incongruously old in his young face. "Apologies," he murmurs. "This was not a dream I would have welcomed you with."
Kieran snorts, shaping a physical body for himself between one breath and the next. "What? You want me to walk in on you and your boyfriend instead?"
Francescu blushes, but the terrible weight in the air seems to lessen as his lips twitch. "Hardly."
"Thought so." Kieran grins. "Come on, grow up. You want to be your normal age when I show you."
The boy closes his eyes, and opens them as a young man of twenty years. "Better?"
Kieran chooses not to respond. He looks within himself to the ancient patterns that once made up a god called Ka'an; he draws on them, lets them guide him in an act of shaping. Dimly he feels the other man releasing his control of the dream, offering it up to him freely. And then the spectral radiance is replaced by the clean light of the sun, and the stone beneath their feet is warm and orange, bathed in endless summer.
They stand on a high cliff above sun-baked sand that seems endless. Rivers flow through it, weaving like threads of blue in a loom of red and gold and tan, the land beneath echoing the sun above. The sky is clear and cloudless and blue, and the sun is warm brightness against their skin.
Kieran breathes deep of the desert air, and looks over to see his companion doing the same. Francescu seems to relax even as he watches, and a genuine smile spreads over his face as he takes in the view. Hell, Kieran thinks, maybe this wasn't a bad idea after all.
"It suits you," Francescu says quietly.
"Your sister said the same. Guess you've got something else in common."
The other man laughs softly but does not respond. The light burns around him clear and thick, and he reaches out, wrapping its pattern around his cupped hand, brightness flowing through his fingers like honey. "It is beautiful here."
Kieran rolls his eyes, hiding a grin. "Let me guess, you don't sunburn."
"I choose not to." Francescu's smile is wider, and he gathers a handful of red-gold light, tosses it to Kieran. The congealed pattern is silk-warm and slips from his grasp even as he tries to capture it; he lets it go with a bark of laughter.
"Should've known you'd show off here."
Some memory flickers in the sorcerer's eyes, but his response is easy, teasing gently. "I would think you would know that by now, at least."
"Guess I know you pretty well." Kieran gathers a shaky handful of light and tosses it back. Instead of catching it, Francescu raises his hand and lets it pass, scattering over the land below as a shower of scintillating droplets. On a whim, Kieran bends a fragment of his power to the dream, and a soft rain begins to fall, seeming to multiply the handful of light a thousandfold.
Yeah, he thinks as the light rains down across the sand and Francescu laughs. Definitely not a bad idea.
Kieran walks among dreams like a ghost, searching, his attention passing over pattern after pattern. Some of them sense his presence, dimly, and the next morning campers wake from dreams of storms, of forgotten secrets, of bright eyes. These dreams are not his business; he ignores them with a mental shrug. Guess I still got to work on my control, he thinks, and moves on.
He comes to a place in the world where threads of power lie wrapped and waiting, a defensive pattern worked into the warp and weft of a cabin. It stirs at his approach, but it is not meant to deter such as him, and something in it recognizes him and opens through dimensions he can barely recognize. He pauses to watch it for a moment, tracing impossibly intricate threads of power, then slips through. It does not bar his passage, but when he is inside he feels it, a constant pulse of safe/secure/comfort/warm. Faceless, his lips twitch; Kieran remembers who used to live here, months ago. As if it weren't obvious.
Despite the power of the ward, there is little of comfort or security about his teacher's dreams. Francescu is young, less than ten and dressed in robes, and he stands frozen in a long, stone hall that stretches beyond sight in the way of dreams. The air is thick with oppressive hate, and red-black radiance skitters at the edge of vision, and somewhere in the distance there are terrible sounds that defy description.
The child turns to him, and his eyes are incongruously old in his young face. "Apologies," he murmurs. "This was not a dream I would have welcomed you with."
Kieran snorts, shaping a physical body for himself between one breath and the next. "What? You want me to walk in on you and your boyfriend instead?"
Francescu blushes, but the terrible weight in the air seems to lessen as his lips twitch. "Hardly."
"Thought so." Kieran grins. "Come on, grow up. You want to be your normal age when I show you."
The boy closes his eyes, and opens them as a young man of twenty years. "Better?"
Kieran chooses not to respond. He looks within himself to the ancient patterns that once made up a god called Ka'an; he draws on them, lets them guide him in an act of shaping. Dimly he feels the other man releasing his control of the dream, offering it up to him freely. And then the spectral radiance is replaced by the clean light of the sun, and the stone beneath their feet is warm and orange, bathed in endless summer.
They stand on a high cliff above sun-baked sand that seems endless. Rivers flow through it, weaving like threads of blue in a loom of red and gold and tan, the land beneath echoing the sun above. The sky is clear and cloudless and blue, and the sun is warm brightness against their skin.
Kieran breathes deep of the desert air, and looks over to see his companion doing the same. Francescu seems to relax even as he watches, and a genuine smile spreads over his face as he takes in the view. Hell, Kieran thinks, maybe this wasn't a bad idea after all.
"It suits you," Francescu says quietly.
"Your sister said the same. Guess you've got something else in common."
The other man laughs softly but does not respond. The light burns around him clear and thick, and he reaches out, wrapping its pattern around his cupped hand, brightness flowing through his fingers like honey. "It is beautiful here."
Kieran rolls his eyes, hiding a grin. "Let me guess, you don't sunburn."
"I choose not to." Francescu's smile is wider, and he gathers a handful of red-gold light, tosses it to Kieran. The congealed pattern is silk-warm and slips from his grasp even as he tries to capture it; he lets it go with a bark of laughter.
"Should've known you'd show off here."
Some memory flickers in the sorcerer's eyes, but his response is easy, teasing gently. "I would think you would know that by now, at least."
"Guess I know you pretty well." Kieran gathers a shaky handful of light and tosses it back. Instead of catching it, Francescu raises his hand and lets it pass, scattering over the land below as a shower of scintillating droplets. On a whim, Kieran bends a fragment of his power to the dream, and a soft rain begins to fall, seeming to multiply the handful of light a thousandfold.
Yeah, he thinks as the light rains down across the sand and Francescu laughs. Definitely not a bad idea.