silurica
All shall be well
- Pronouns
- They/Them
- Partners
-
How do you celebrate New Year's Eve? With wines and songs? With nostalgia for the past and promise for the future?
"Oh, Leo! Here, help me cut these papers into postcards."
Leonard stares at the sight before them: colourful papers are scattered on a coffee table, joyful and bright, and with them are scissors, glues, and bottles of ink and paint. There are feathers lying about as well – either from the ravens perching by the woman's side, or those patches of feathers growing between her hair. They turn around, muttering, "I'm leaving."
"Aw, Leo!" exclaims Meika again. "You tease! Did you get the potatoes?"
Once more, Leonard faces their friend and puts down the brown paper bag they brought among the papers and feathers. "What are you planning to do with these? Please don't tell me you are intending to…."
"I will make the most fabulous stamps," says Meika with a grin.
Are you a kid? As that question crosses Leonard's mind, they remember that yes, this woman is a kid inside her heart, excitable and reckless in her disposition. "At least," they say, knowing it's in vain, "organise your table. The ink and paint will get on the papers at this rate."
"It will be fine; it will be fine," she sings. "Say, don't you like crafts like this? Your work involves it, right?"
"I'm a scriptwriter, not a stagehand." Leonard sighs. "Never mind that… why don't you just buy the greeting cards? And will these cards even arrive before Christmas? It's now—"
Meika wags her finger. "No, no, these are New Year's cards! And it has to be handmade, else it won't be a surprise."
"A surprise?"
"Yes, something unique and special for the turn of the century. Store-bought won't do; oh, they won't do. I will have my darling ravens deliver these cards so they may arrive at midnight," she explains while inspecting the potatoes, a raven watching from her shoulder. She then places one of the vegetables on a postcard and nods to herself.
Satisfied, she flashes a smile to her friend and asks again, "So, help me cut the papers, please?"
"I have no time for this, Madam," says Leonard with a huff. Childlike, indeed. Even so, perhaps her excitement would fit with all the fireworks and revels, joyful and bright. Crossing their arms, they add, "…I admit it sounds interesting, however. I shall look forward to a card from you."
In a daze, Leonard separates themself from a group of revellers, taking a needed break from the jolly hubbub. They stop to look down on the river from Hood's Bridge, watching the Drownies bob their wet heads between the fragile ice and snow.
They, too, were covered in ice and snow at several points in their life. They walked through cold dreams, cast in black and white, and they emerged as a new person.
They squint and check their ears; the Drownies have yet to sing their alluring, terrible song, but they can't be careless or the cost would be their dress for the evening. Shaking their head, they throw a quick glance toward where they came from, clamorous with a different kind of song.
The truth is, even as they laughed in that festivity, they never gave much thought to New Year's before. Yes, yes, the year ends and another begins, and the revels are entertaining, but then what? Nothing changes in London. Year after year, the city remains a dark place under her thin veil of hospitality, with all of the vices and depravity to indulge in.
Perhaps that is why New Year's revels appeal for the moment but never more in their heart. "New" is to change, to be reborn, and doing the same thing every year, throwing revels like any other celebrations, is no change.
"North."
The chilling word – a word from a page of their life – slips away from their mouth. They close their eyes, recalling the vast black and white they saw in their youth. Should they embark on another voyage? They cannot change the city, but perhaps they can change and be reborn once more with the ice and snow.
"If we had cloves, we could make pomanders with these," says Aleksei while turning an orange over in his hand.
"Perhaps we could set some aside," replies Chizuru. "I would rather we eat them though; it's like back on the Surface again."
"Why so?"
"It's winter, the streets are snowed in, and we sit in someplace warm and eat oranges," he lists off, counting them on his rugged fingers. "Although back then we sat in a kotatsu instead of sitting by a fireplace like this."
Aleksei chuckles. "A typical winter over there, isn't it?"
Two men sit facing each other in a parlour, one drinking tea from a stained mug, and one peeling an orange – not cheap, down here in this season. On the table between them, a novel sits untouched next to a second mug and the basket of oranges. Pops and crackles come from the fireplace nearby, faint yet reassuring. Bliss.
That warm atmosphere is cracked by the sound of a sharp cough, suppressed in vain.
"Lyosha," whispers Chizuru, "perhaps we should turn in for the night."
Aleksei takes a deep breath before he replies, "It's fine. I'm fine. Just a little longer." He glances at the clock on the wall; it ticks and tocks in a steady rhythm toward midnight.
"Just a little longer then," repeats Chizuru with a resigned smile.
Another cough, and Aleksei grabs his mug for a drink; he can feel it soothing his throat, just a little. As he wipes fog off his glasses, he begins grumbling, "I was too busy last year, remember? And this year I just had to fall into the river and catch a cold."
"At least you didn't become a Drownie."
"Not when I had planned a dinner at Dante's with you. I won't let them drag me down," he says, putting his glasses back on. He stares into his mug and sighs. "But I suppose it no longer matters now."
"Ah, don't say that. I like dinner at home too," says Chizuru, leaning forward with a languid sway. "We even managed to grab some oranges while shopping for ingredients."
Aleksei pushes himself back into the sofa, as if it would bury him. "I told you, Chizuru-han. Don't get too close; you might catch my cold."
"Fine, fine."
Although he said that, Aleksei is still glad to have his husband sitting before him. Last year, an unpredicted Blemmigan propagation caught him off-guard, leaving him damp and soggy in Bugsby's Marsh even as the bells tolled in the distance. In another year, he was still on the Surface, and Chizuru had lost the light in his eye when they met again, fixated on one destructive goal.
Now his eye reflects the orange glow of the fireplace, warm and gentle.
Aleksei takes another glance at the clock; soon it will be midnight. "I hope we can spend New Year's together again next time."
"Mmhm. We will."
A song envelopes one nameless forest, soft and serene, ringing from a lone piano amidst the trees. As the sable-clad pianist sings through the black and white keys on his fingers, he peers into the hand mirror sitting on the desk in place of a partiture.
In the world beyond the mirror, snow covers the rooftops where the urchins run, either from upset adults or from themselves. Fireworks bloom in the dark sky, filling it with colours that it would not have known otherwise. People laugh and dance in the streets, celebrating a moment to come.
These are things that he is not allowed to partake in, for no matter how he may try, he cannot touch that world.
It brought him sadness before, in a close yet distant past. He longed to be with people again, to find company and escape from solitude, but the forest only had silence and slumbering souls blind to his true face. Even so, he persevered, and fate smiled at him once more: an encounter with a certain silver woman, carrying a similar pale and cold touch. The woman, a traveller of boundaries, spoke to him.
The song keeps on flowing with no sign of stopping, not soon. The piano is his only company now, but when the festivity beyond the mirror ends, his silver friend will return with a new book or several, and they will discuss it together over tea and cake.
He still yearns for that unreachable world, but he is glad to be allowed to wait for someone again. A small promise treated with sanctity, as befitting the tradition of the land. Until it is fulfilled, he will keep singing his soft and serene song.
The end of the year comes approaching once more, and the Silver Lady, too, steps out of the mirror accordingly. Her white dress sweeps, blends with the so-called snow covering the city.
In this time of the year, she can come across those with the same cold touch as hers, delighting her with a particular sense of familiarity. Melancholy will slip into her mind when she dearly remembers only a miracle can overcome their transience, but in this time of the year, in this very moment when the city is embraced in tender coldness, she tries to forget that.
As she glides down the street, every now and then she steals upward glances toward the towering obsidian spires, bright with fireworks and blazing sigils – the same obsidian as the mask covering her pale complexion, lit up by a joyous revel. When the bells toll for an end and a beginning, a serene whisper escapes from her blue lips, "My sweet home…."
1. Joyful and Bright
"Oh, Leo! Here, help me cut these papers into postcards."
Leonard stares at the sight before them: colourful papers are scattered on a coffee table, joyful and bright, and with them are scissors, glues, and bottles of ink and paint. There are feathers lying about as well – either from the ravens perching by the woman's side, or those patches of feathers growing between her hair. They turn around, muttering, "I'm leaving."
"Aw, Leo!" exclaims Meika again. "You tease! Did you get the potatoes?"
Once more, Leonard faces their friend and puts down the brown paper bag they brought among the papers and feathers. "What are you planning to do with these? Please don't tell me you are intending to…."
"I will make the most fabulous stamps," says Meika with a grin.
Are you a kid? As that question crosses Leonard's mind, they remember that yes, this woman is a kid inside her heart, excitable and reckless in her disposition. "At least," they say, knowing it's in vain, "organise your table. The ink and paint will get on the papers at this rate."
"It will be fine; it will be fine," she sings. "Say, don't you like crafts like this? Your work involves it, right?"
"I'm a scriptwriter, not a stagehand." Leonard sighs. "Never mind that… why don't you just buy the greeting cards? And will these cards even arrive before Christmas? It's now—"
Meika wags her finger. "No, no, these are New Year's cards! And it has to be handmade, else it won't be a surprise."
"A surprise?"
"Yes, something unique and special for the turn of the century. Store-bought won't do; oh, they won't do. I will have my darling ravens deliver these cards so they may arrive at midnight," she explains while inspecting the potatoes, a raven watching from her shoulder. She then places one of the vegetables on a postcard and nods to herself.
Satisfied, she flashes a smile to her friend and asks again, "So, help me cut the papers, please?"
"I have no time for this, Madam," says Leonard with a huff. Childlike, indeed. Even so, perhaps her excitement would fit with all the fireworks and revels, joyful and bright. Crossing their arms, they add, "…I admit it sounds interesting, however. I shall look forward to a card from you."
2. Ice and Snow
In a daze, Leonard separates themself from a group of revellers, taking a needed break from the jolly hubbub. They stop to look down on the river from Hood's Bridge, watching the Drownies bob their wet heads between the fragile ice and snow.
They, too, were covered in ice and snow at several points in their life. They walked through cold dreams, cast in black and white, and they emerged as a new person.
They squint and check their ears; the Drownies have yet to sing their alluring, terrible song, but they can't be careless or the cost would be their dress for the evening. Shaking their head, they throw a quick glance toward where they came from, clamorous with a different kind of song.
The truth is, even as they laughed in that festivity, they never gave much thought to New Year's before. Yes, yes, the year ends and another begins, and the revels are entertaining, but then what? Nothing changes in London. Year after year, the city remains a dark place under her thin veil of hospitality, with all of the vices and depravity to indulge in.
Perhaps that is why New Year's revels appeal for the moment but never more in their heart. "New" is to change, to be reborn, and doing the same thing every year, throwing revels like any other celebrations, is no change.
"North."
The chilling word – a word from a page of their life – slips away from their mouth. They close their eyes, recalling the vast black and white they saw in their youth. Should they embark on another voyage? They cannot change the city, but perhaps they can change and be reborn once more with the ice and snow.
3. Warm and Gentle
"If we had cloves, we could make pomanders with these," says Aleksei while turning an orange over in his hand.
"Perhaps we could set some aside," replies Chizuru. "I would rather we eat them though; it's like back on the Surface again."
"Why so?"
"It's winter, the streets are snowed in, and we sit in someplace warm and eat oranges," he lists off, counting them on his rugged fingers. "Although back then we sat in a kotatsu instead of sitting by a fireplace like this."
Aleksei chuckles. "A typical winter over there, isn't it?"
Two men sit facing each other in a parlour, one drinking tea from a stained mug, and one peeling an orange – not cheap, down here in this season. On the table between them, a novel sits untouched next to a second mug and the basket of oranges. Pops and crackles come from the fireplace nearby, faint yet reassuring. Bliss.
That warm atmosphere is cracked by the sound of a sharp cough, suppressed in vain.
"Lyosha," whispers Chizuru, "perhaps we should turn in for the night."
Aleksei takes a deep breath before he replies, "It's fine. I'm fine. Just a little longer." He glances at the clock on the wall; it ticks and tocks in a steady rhythm toward midnight.
"Just a little longer then," repeats Chizuru with a resigned smile.
Another cough, and Aleksei grabs his mug for a drink; he can feel it soothing his throat, just a little. As he wipes fog off his glasses, he begins grumbling, "I was too busy last year, remember? And this year I just had to fall into the river and catch a cold."
"At least you didn't become a Drownie."
"Not when I had planned a dinner at Dante's with you. I won't let them drag me down," he says, putting his glasses back on. He stares into his mug and sighs. "But I suppose it no longer matters now."
"Ah, don't say that. I like dinner at home too," says Chizuru, leaning forward with a languid sway. "We even managed to grab some oranges while shopping for ingredients."
Aleksei pushes himself back into the sofa, as if it would bury him. "I told you, Chizuru-han. Don't get too close; you might catch my cold."
"Fine, fine."
Although he said that, Aleksei is still glad to have his husband sitting before him. Last year, an unpredicted Blemmigan propagation caught him off-guard, leaving him damp and soggy in Bugsby's Marsh even as the bells tolled in the distance. In another year, he was still on the Surface, and Chizuru had lost the light in his eye when they met again, fixated on one destructive goal.
Now his eye reflects the orange glow of the fireplace, warm and gentle.
Aleksei takes another glance at the clock; soon it will be midnight. "I hope we can spend New Year's together again next time."
"Mmhm. We will."
4. Soft and Serene
A song envelopes one nameless forest, soft and serene, ringing from a lone piano amidst the trees. As the sable-clad pianist sings through the black and white keys on his fingers, he peers into the hand mirror sitting on the desk in place of a partiture.
In the world beyond the mirror, snow covers the rooftops where the urchins run, either from upset adults or from themselves. Fireworks bloom in the dark sky, filling it with colours that it would not have known otherwise. People laugh and dance in the streets, celebrating a moment to come.
These are things that he is not allowed to partake in, for no matter how he may try, he cannot touch that world.
It brought him sadness before, in a close yet distant past. He longed to be with people again, to find company and escape from solitude, but the forest only had silence and slumbering souls blind to his true face. Even so, he persevered, and fate smiled at him once more: an encounter with a certain silver woman, carrying a similar pale and cold touch. The woman, a traveller of boundaries, spoke to him.
The song keeps on flowing with no sign of stopping, not soon. The piano is his only company now, but when the festivity beyond the mirror ends, his silver friend will return with a new book or several, and they will discuss it together over tea and cake.
He still yearns for that unreachable world, but he is glad to be allowed to wait for someone again. A small promise treated with sanctity, as befitting the tradition of the land. Until it is fulfilled, he will keep singing his soft and serene song.
5. In this time of the year, in this very moment
The end of the year comes approaching once more, and the Silver Lady, too, steps out of the mirror accordingly. Her white dress sweeps, blends with the so-called snow covering the city.
In this time of the year, she can come across those with the same cold touch as hers, delighting her with a particular sense of familiarity. Melancholy will slip into her mind when she dearly remembers only a miracle can overcome their transience, but in this time of the year, in this very moment when the city is embraced in tender coldness, she tries to forget that.
As she glides down the street, every now and then she steals upward glances toward the towering obsidian spires, bright with fireworks and blazing sigils – the same obsidian as the mask covering her pale complexion, lit up by a joyous revel. When the bells toll for an end and a beginning, a serene whisper escapes from her blue lips, "My sweet home…."
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Wholesome new year's eve scenes!!! What a precision strike timing to publish them. I love all of them, but especially the last two. Those are so tranquil and melancholic without being sad. And such good choice of words. Like a song, almost.
