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So Many Roads...

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Cezanne Abella
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PostPosted: Wed Oct 24, 2012 7:44 am Post subject: So Many Roads... Reply with quote

Author's Note: The following thread is a compilation of past posts and threads that paint a backdrop for the character as she lives and breathes today...

~*~


“What happens after?” The dark-haired child watched her father with wide, fearful pale green eyes.

“After what, Mi Vida?” The rough hand of her father stroked the girl’s hair gently as he sat next to her on a canvas cot in their tent.

The child’s voice didn’t quake with the shattering of her world, but it came softly now, nearly a whisper. “After the hurt.”

The wild-haired sailor looked up to the gypsy woman who stood in the doorway of the tent, arms folded tightly to cradle her aching soul within her bosom. The woman gave a shrug and pressed her lips together, ducking out of the tent to leave the two alone.

He turned again to look into the child’s imploring eyes. “After the hurt, Mi Vida, we take time to mend. And then we fling wide our soul’s song, and go in search of ourselves again.”

The child swallowed the dull ache in her throat and watched her father for a moment before nodding. “Could your soul’s song ever land here again?”

This time, he looked away and sighed heavily before returning his dark-eyed gaze to hers. “Your Papa loves you very much, Cezanne. Come. It is time. My ship is waiting.”

It wasn’t an answer to her question, but it was answer enough.


Last edited by Cezanne Abella on Wed Oct 24, 2012 7:49 am; edited 2 times in total
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PostPosted: Wed Oct 24, 2012 7:46 am Post subject: Reply with quote

The music of the universe was all around her. The song wove itself in and out of her senses for four days as she walked barefoot amidst the heady scent of leaffall and decay. Autumn’s tune fluttered with each rattling leaf and shook with the barren branches that reached desperately for the stars of moonless night. The rough-hewn rhythm clattered, sometimes frantically, through the forest and swirled in drafty upward spirals as leaves caught in the wind hit obstacles and mounted up to the sky. The music and voices left everything pure and nothing untouched.

Her soft green robes and dark loosed curls smelled of the earth. Scant birdsong punctuated waking hours, and the night was blissfully silent; the mockingbird had long retreated from the gnarled fingers of winter’s encroaching touch. Now and again the downy feet of an owl touched down lightly upon a branch, keeping nocturnal vigil over the fire and the slumbering human form below.

Here was where Cezanne’s heart found solace. Cradled to the bosom of the earth, she awoke and slept and partook of communion with the gods and goddesses who had resided here for millennia. Here, she was never alone.

Here, she would find her song.
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PostPosted: Thu Oct 25, 2012 7:25 am Post subject: Reply with quote

"It'll calm your spirit and help with the pain."

Cezanne had looked at the flask skeptically the first time the rootworker offered it. She didn't like the idea of her mind being dulled by foul substances, natural or otherwise.

"It's safe," Amdiriel assured in the familiar elvish lilt that belied very human eyes. Honest, caring eyes. "Just no more than two mouthfuls, Cezanne, lest the world be spun around on end for ye. This stuff can make ye see things better reserved for nightmares."

But those days were long past. Two mouthfuls were never enough anymore. The bones in her wrist ached and throbbed beneath the thin, taut, hateful skin that comprised the red scar that encircled the bones like a masochist's bracelet. Her heart no longer simply ached and whispered to her of her transgressions and misgivings in the dark of night. Instead it cried out and begged and raged for more, always more, like a hungry child who knew no limit, no boundary. And Cezanne had learned to give in to the desperate demands. Each time the girl with the elvish accent refilled the flask now, she did so with more trepidation in her eyes. And Cezanne began to feel the flush as her cheeks burned hotly with shame.
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PostPosted: Thu Oct 25, 2012 7:59 pm Post subject: Reply with quote



The wind tossed leaves playfully as they chased Adrian's heels. Every step carried him farther from Delucia - farther from civilization. At the side of the path, an orc crouched over a dead llama, the poor beast eviscerated. The white of its soft coat was matted and soaked with blood as the orc tore flesh from bone with his teeth. Adrian only slightly altered his gait to step around the spectacle and kept walking. The orc grumbled and hissed as Adrian passed by, but seemed to find nothing of interest in Adrian's shrouded form, as he continued his bloody meal.

He knew these hills like he knew himself. If Cezanne was still here, he knew, too, where she would be. And as he approached, he knew he was right, as a wisp of smoke from beyond the next hill twisted languidly in the dying evening breeze. He stopped at the crest overlooking the camp and watched as Cezanne, bundled and shrouded herself, stirred the embers absently with a green switch, blackened by the repeated action.

"Cezanne." Adrian nearly choked on the word, but couldn't explain why.

Cezanne looked up to him, her expression seemingly unsurprised. In truth, so bereft of emotion was her visage that he found himself watching her narrowly to decide whether she was all right.

"Adrian. Come back to finish the job?" Cezanne lifted a silver flask to her lips and drank a few mouthfuls from it, then dabbed at her mouth with her sleeve, but her pale green eyes never left him.

"Finish the job?" Adrian blinked, trying to remember.

"Last time we spoke, you were threatening my life." Cezanne finally lowered her gaze to the fire and went back to stirring the coals.

"There's so much I should tell you. But there's time for that later. Where's the pendant?" Adrians shuffled down off the bluff toward the camp.

Cezanne looked back up to him and reached into a pocket of her robe. Without speaking, she pulled out a sturdy silver chain with a large black stone dangling from it. The stone seemed to swirl with a light that almost didn't exist. She held it up for him to see.

Adrian stopped where he stood, near trembling. "Don't put it on Ceza. Not unless you have to."

Cezanne peered into the stone and looked back to Adrian. "How will I know if I have to?"

Adrian shivered with seemingly something more than cold. "You'll know."

Cezanne nodded and took another mouthful from the flask, pocketing the pendant again.

"Go easy on that stuff, Cezanne. You'll lose your mind."

"That'd make two of us then, aye?" She smiled darkly. "Suppose you're just passing through? I have food if you're hungry."

"I don't need it. But thank you." Adrian looked up and off toward the east as twilight settled over the hills. "I need to be going."

Cezanne ceased stirring the coals to square her gaze up with his. "Where ye goin', Adrian? Ye can't run forever."

"I'm not running anymore, Ceza. I have some unfinished business in Umbra." His gaze lingered with hers only a moment before he averted his eyes. "If you see her, tell her--"

Cezanne shook her head and interrupted softly. "Sweetie, no..."

Adrian looked back to her, his eyes rimmed red, but no words came.

"She's gone, Adrian. There'll be no tellin' her anything. You have to be honest with yourself about that, if nothin' else."

"She bound our child to a vampire." Adrian swallowed with a shudder.

Cezanne looked at him, unsure of how to respond. She lifted the silver flask to him, a wordless offering. Adrian stared at it for a moment, then his eyes flashed to her angrily. He lifted his arm and backhanded the flask into the fire. "Go home, Cezanne, and for the Goddess' sake, stop pushing people away. You'll end up..." he trailed off softly.

He sighed heavily as Cezanne lifted her eyes back up to his. “I’ll go. It’s going to take a lot…”

Adrian nodded. “I’ve faith in ye.”

Cezanne smiled faintly but gave a resigned sigh. “You’re not coming back are you?”

“The undead have torn my heart out, Cezanne. Might as well let them have the rest. At least I’ll take a few down with me.”

“Adrian…”

“Cezanne.”

She hesitated a moment. “Give my regards to Doom.”

Adrian smiled faintly and winked. “Get back to that theatre and break a leg.”

Without further fanfare, Adrian turned and wrapped his hooded cloak about him. His lanky form disappeared quickly into the purple twilight of the wild lands as Cezanne used the switch to flip her flask out of the fire, then rose and kicked dust and ash over the embers, snuffing out their life completely.
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PostPosted: Fri Oct 26, 2012 8:47 pm Post subject: Reply with quote

“You’re not coming back either, are you?”

He hadn’t said it. But the question had hung in his eyes, even as she had asked it of him. And he was right. Oh, she’d make it back to the theatre. Her dark and hazy world would claim her again, punctuated on rare occasion by the glory of sun-splashed life. But she’d never come back. Not to what she once was, not to what she should have been. She had made far too many bad decisions, and each would beg its own place to haunt her.

Covenant was a grey ghost, his ebon coat covered in a layer of dust from the trail. He was unbridled, untethered. Yet he kept pace with her as she walked the familiar trail home. Occasionally, she turned and lifted her hand to cup his chin as they walked, or stroked his muzzle.

“I hate bats too, you know.” She broke the silence as they walked. She knew the look of dread as Covenant cut his black eyes toward the darkness each time the bats of Malas approached the theatre. She knew the white crescent rimming the pupil that dilated in the direction of the malicious twitter just beyond the stable gates. It was an innate fear, something born within a creature, serving to protect him from danger. Without that fear, a creature would be caught helpless, unaware, unprotected.

Cezanne, too, had that fear. It wasn’t the bats of Malas that frightened her, but it waited at the theatre, all the same. There, the light that filtered through the haze was filthy. The fire of candlelight could only do so much to cleanse her world. But foreboding only works to protect when heeded.

She slipped the silver flask from her dress pocket and drank from it. Two mouthfuls, followed by two more, before she wiped her lips on her sleeve and capped the flask. She looked at it for a moment, sloshing the contents to gauge the amount, then mentally calculated how much longer till she was home. Just enough, if she didn’t stop to rest.
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PostPosted: Sun Oct 28, 2012 11:27 am Post subject: Reply with quote

"I'm not asking you to lie down and let life trample you, Ceza. Just let go and stop pushing everyone away. And stop struggling for control. You gotta lay it all down."

Cezanne sat wrapped in a blue velvet cloak before the fire. Her curls, still damp from bathing, hung in soft, dark waves as they spilled over her shoulders. She did not answer immediately, but seemed to gnaw at the kernel of advice that Corvus had given her. She lifted her hand from the velvet folds, uncapped the silver flask and drank from it.

"Let go of what, Corvus? Do I have anything left to hold onto?" She capped the flask again.

"'Course you do. That flask, for one."

Cezanne looked down at the flask and back up to the fire. "I water it down now till there's hardly anything left that you'd find objectionable."

Corvus looked at the flask dubiously. "Then why bother with it at all, Ceza?"

"It's something to hold onto."

Corvus sighed and sank down onto a stool across the table from her. He raked his fingers through his long black hair, still tangled by winter's breath, and rested his elbow on the table, his brow cradled against his palm. His dark eyes closed, and he shook his head slowly.

Cezanne finally tore her green-eyed gaze from the fire and watched Corvus, her expression softening. "Corv, you'd think I was dying. You worry too much. This is something I've got under control. I'm not a child, you know." She smiled warmly.

"You've gotta let it all go. Everything that keeps you returning that flask to your lips. That cursed doll, Valentein, the handsaw..." He paused, his voice nearly breaking, and he looked down to the mangled red scar around her wrist. He continued, more softly-spoken as he trailed off. "The handsaw..."

"That's what the elixir is for, Corvus. These things take time to heal."

She was circling the subject again, and it was making him dizzy. "Comes a time, Ceza, you gotta recognize your strengths and your weaknesses. Sometimes they look a lot alike."

"I'm fine, Corvus. You gotta trust me to know--"

"Lay it down, Ceza."

"--what's right."

"What's right?" Corvus leveled his gaze intently upon her.

Cezanne paused, but did not answer. She looked back into the fire, the flames dancing in her glazed, pale green eyes.

"Lay it down, Ceza." He rose and held out his hand for the flask. "Sword and shield."
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PostPosted: Tue Oct 30, 2012 12:38 am Post subject: Reply with quote

Darkness broke with a shudder.

Pale eyes wide in the night searched the room to find the source of movement. Without warning, the world shook again. But it wasn’t the world. Something was the matter. What’s the matter? What’s….the matter? Cezanne threw the bed linens aside, but wasn’t sure if she was hot or cold.

Her stomach was sour and ached with nameless need. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Cezanne still felt absorbed in sleep, and her mind could not let go of…..what? What was the dream? Her head was spinning. Her hands trembled as she pushed off to stand, and she stumbled forward before she caught herself again.

“Cezanne?”

Corvus’ voice was muffled, but not muffled enough. His bed – his room – was downstairs. She didn’t answer, and the door to her chamber flew open. An empty chair sat in the hallway just outside the door. Corvus’ hair was tangled, his demeanour sallow and sleepless.

“I’m fine, Corv. Just shaking off sleep. ”

“Just shaking...” He raked fingers through his hair absently, watching her hands.

“Why were you in the hall?”

He glanced back toward the chair, then again to Cezanne.

“I’m fine, Corv…”

“Your sleep was restless. I was just keeping an eye….well, an ear--”

Cezanne’s expression darkened. “I told you I don’t even have any more. I haven’t had a sip.”

Corvus watched her hands trembling and lifted a white cloth to blot the perspiration that beaded on her brow. “I can see that.”

“Go to bed, Corv.”

He stood for a moment watching her, wrapping the cloth idly around the palm of his hand before turning to retreat into the darkness of the hall.

“BED!” She shouted after him as he disappeared. “Not chair.”

The door slammed behind him, followed shortly by the fainter slam of his own chamber door.

Cezanne brushed her hair back and sniffled, resting her hands on the dressing table and leaning in to examine her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were sunken, rimmed in red. With a shaky sigh, she pulled out a drawer and extracted a small glass flask. Without hesitation, she uncorked it and drank three mouthfuls directly from the decanter.
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 01, 2012 7:28 am Post subject: Reply with quote

Snow always brought a far-reaching quiet to cities. Even Britain, Cezanne couldn’t help thinking as she made her way through the western outskirts of the city. It covered what was filthy and raw and bare. It hid the rust and wear caused by years of misuse and neglect, and made everything new.

“So be it,” Cezanne whispered to herself as she pushed open the door to the blacksmith guild. “If all else fails.”

“Sorry Miss?” The blacksmith turned at the sound of her hushed declaration. “Ahh, of course! I was just completing your order!”

“Thank you, Burton. You’re a paragon of dedication and a shining example for others of your trade.” Cezanne smiled cheerfully as she shut the door behind her, the cold draft catching her dark curls and tossing them carelessly.

“Yer mos’ kind, Miss Abella.” The blustering blacksmith stammered a moment, clearly humbled, and turned back to lift his project up for her inspection. He held up two blades for her approval. Each curved slightly at one end, though not nearly as much as a katana or any other blade she’d ever seen. “This work for ye? I still don’ know why ye won’t let me sharpen ‘em up or attach ‘em to handles for ye. They’re naught but useless as they are. I feel ashamed chargin’ ye for such work.”

She took one of the blades in her hand, examining his craftsmanship. It gleamed brightly in the radiant light from the forge. “Fine work, Burton. Excellent. It’s exactly what I needed!”

Burton looked at her, clearly confused, but smiled slightly. “Well yer the customer, Miss. Who am I to argue?”

Cezanne smiled warmly and handed Burton the blade. He busied himself wrapping the two in a soft piece of leather and binding the package with twine, as Cezanne slid a crinkled and worn note from her pack. Carefully she smoothed the wrinkled parchment and folded it in half.

“Here ye are, Miss Abella.” Burton turned and slid the parcel across the counter to her.

“This should cover it, Burton, thank you.” She handed him the folded note and turned, slipping out of the forge house before he could even respond.

Burton unfolded the slip of parchment. “I tol’ ye one thousand, not ten!” he shouted at the door as it shut behind her. Then, more quietly, “Gypsies. Weird folk, anyhow.” A boyish grin spread across his soot-smudged face as he folded the note and slid it into his shirt pocket.
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PostPosted: Fri Nov 02, 2012 7:23 am Post subject: Reply with quote

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here.” Cezanne slowly paced the length of the workshop, fingering the two curved blades. The two men sitting side by side on stools before her looked at one another, then back to her.

The first man eyed the two blades in Cezanne’s hand narrowly, his brow furrowed, then looked back up to her face as her gaze drifted to him. She paused in her pacing, watching him expectantly for some response.

“You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?”

Cezanne froze, the two metal blades falling to the floor in a loud clatter. Her mouth hung open for a second before she stumbled over her words. “No! NO!! I’m just…” she scrambled to retrieve the blades from the floor as the men sat in silence watching her.

“I just…NO!”

The two men couldn’t contain themselves any longer as they burst into laughter, and Cezanne’s face went red as she fumbled for one of the blades, which had tumbled under the edge of a workbench. The two laughed, one clapping the other on the shoulder as they exchanged a glance. But Cezanne thought she caught a hint of relief in their expressions.

“It’s on’y this, Miss,” the first man began. He raked his fingers through his coarse dirty blonde mop of hair and looked at the second man. “I’m a tinker. I don’ rightly know what business I have workin’ with a cobbler. Ye gettin' the whole town in on this scheme o' yourn?"

The cobbler, a large if quiet man with gentle hands, crossed his arms across his chest and waited for the explanation to come. Both looked at Cezanne as if she might be quite mad. She wasn’t sure whether they’d come for the promise of gold, or out of pure morbid curiosity. Either way, she was sure she wouldn’t disappoint.

“Gentlemen.” Cezanne steeled her resolve as she pulled out a rolled sheet of parchment and began to unfurl it on the workbench. “This…is what I need.”
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PostPosted: Sat Nov 03, 2012 9:32 am Post subject: Reply with quote

"Here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. He who sees too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand." ~Harold Bell Wright

~*~

Cezanne stood looking across the lake in quiet awe of the frozen, still morning. Barren branches, glazed and glistening in the song of the dawn’s breeze reached up plaintively to the perfect peace the sky offered. Clear, and cloudless – a shade of blue she was sure she’d never seen before.

Carefully, she uncapped her silver flask and took a mouthful of the bitter elixir. The last, Amdiriel had said, that would be given her. Fumbling with frozen fingers, she capped and pocketed the flask. At her feet on the frozen ground sat a nondescript brown paper box, tied with twine. Painstakingly, she untied the knotted twine and opened the box. Her face brightened as she looked over the fruition of the project she had undertaken.

A pair of sturdy leather shoes lay nestled in the box, beset on the bottoms with tinkered brackets that secured a long-curved blade to the sole of each. They fit perfectly the description she’d been given. “Ice skates.” The words felt foreign to her tongue. Earth, she thought, must be a wondrous place.

Cezanne pulled up warm, woolen stockings beneath her skirts, and laced up each skate tightly. She tied the laces securely and sat with her feet out in front of her, marveling at the workmanship. With teetering ankles and a fickle sense of balance, she clambered to her feet and shuffled toward the lake’s edge, then paused where ice met land.

A thrill of excitement caught in her throat as she looked around cautiously to make sure no one was there to see. Then, without a hint of trepidation, she stepped onto the ice and glided the merest few inches to a stop. In amazement, she looked down at the blades and then breathlessly out across the wide expanse of frozen lake. The world, in this moment, was hers.
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PostPosted: Wed Nov 07, 2012 6:39 pm Post subject: Reply with quote

"Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark." ~George Iles

~*~

No one came around the theatre these days. Not that she saw, anyway. But on this day, anyone who came ‘round out of curiosity, or pity, or disapproval – hoping to catch a glimpse of her failed and alone – would find Cezanne a radiant soul flying happily across a frozen lake.

Here, all was silver. The wind stirred through the barren choir of ice-glazed branches with a tangible whir, and time stood still in the frozen and forgotten cathedral as Cezanne drew a deep and expectant breath. With the greatest of ease, she pushed off from the shore toward the center of the frozen lake.

Within seconds, the tiniest ripple in the ice sent the steel blade askew. Her ankles wobbled as she flailed wildly, her black woolen shawl and skirts afly. By the time she crumpled, she was so hopelessly entangled in the raiments that she had no recourse to break her fall. She skidded across the ice in a heap of disheveled gypsy.

Flustered, Cezanne rolled onto her back and impatiently threw off the shawl as she tried to catch the breath that had been knocked out of her. Her chest constricted as she struggled to inhale. But, as with all things, in time the pain subsided, and she scrambled to her feet to try again. This time, she tossed her shawl toward the shore, sacrificing warmth for control. With a more measured and careful push, Cezanne tried for a long, smooth glide. This time she made it nearly a minute before she faltered and fell again.

Cezanne laughed hard as she fell flat of her behind, and looked around the banks of the frozen lake. Glazed spectres of Yew, Walnut, and Oak caught and absorbed the shining bubbles of laughter. Here in this place, there was no one to see her fall.

Battling against gravity for every inch that she glided, she fell again, and again. The ice, this frozen world, was proving as treacherous as it was beautiful. But with each tumble, she laughed with delight as a child, and scrambled to her feet again. Becoming perhaps a bit too confident, Cezanne pushed off hastily toward the very center of the lake. Beneath her, she felt and heard a squeaky crack, but she realized the error far too late. She lost her balance and fell, the ice splitting and water swallowing her as she jostled for a handhold on ice that was a hundred times more slippery when it was wet. Her skirts heavy and sodden, she grappled for finger-holds on cracks in the ice. She left pink fingerprints in each new crevice as she pulled herself from the hole. Frozen fingers, she found, didn’t hurt when the ice cut them, but they bled all the same.

Carefully, painstakingly, Cezanne pulled herself from the hole and onto thicker ice. She stood, finally, and though she knew better, her instinct to dash for safety kicked in. She pushed off quickly and glided swiftly toward the edge of the lake. She realized only too late that she didn’t know yet how to stop. She’d never managed to gather enough speed before that the thought should have even crossed her mind. She aimed her trajectory the best she could, and disappeared into a snowbank along the lake’s edge with a hasty fump.

Crawling from beneath the tiny avalanche that had showered down over her, Cezanne laughed in the cold air until she coughed, her eyes wet with tears. But when the laughter stopped, the tears didn’t. And it was some time before she knew the difference.

When she did, she reached into her pocket for the flask. Empty. She looked back frantically toward the hole in the center of the lake. It must have fallen out in the water when she fell. Leaning back against the snow, her wet clothes beginning to crust and freeze, Cezanne knew the meaning of emptiness.

A warmth began to spread within her, and it eased her panic. The roaring fire of the theatre seemed less and less appealing, as peace settled on her like a warm blanket. The cold of the ice was held at bay, and Cezanne found herself confused, trying to decide whether to rest here, or to try and make it home.

Drowsily, she reached her hand again into the now frozen dress pocket for the flask, and remembered it was gone. No worry, she thought hazily. Amdiriel can make some more after I've slept.

Cezanne’s head bobbed like a child's, fighting off slumber, until finally she ceased the battle and closed her eyes.
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PostPosted: Thu Nov 08, 2012 6:56 pm Post subject: Reply with quote

“Do you know how pale & wanton thrillful comes death on a strange hour - unannounced, unplanned for like a scaring over-friendly guest you've brought to bed? Death makes angels of us all & gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws." ~ Jim Morrison

~*~

One by one. The slow and steady steps toward darkness, turn upon turn of events - all were in place. One by one, she had completed the tasks. The blades, the shoes, the brackets - that first step onto the ice, and the promise of sun-splashed flight across the wild expanse of a perfectly treacherous and glistening world.

And now there was only the warmth, and darkness of a soul swallowed whole by the world.

Do you yet wait, Cezanne?

"Wait?" She couldn't feel anything but warmth. But softly, the darkness was punctuated by light. A pulse. Here and there, the faintest flash of fire and light.

And song.

The mockingbird had returned early. She heard its gentle warbling call in time with the pulse of fire, and there was no part of this dark and waiting world that was not touched by sound and light.

The song pulled her into, and through the darkness. Hope perched aloft to sing, and she with it. Lifting her voice, she was awestruck by the timbre of a voice laid bare. Disembodied, free of constraint. Free...

Isn't it better this way?

"It's better here. But I'm not."

Cezanne's song ceased. Her song. Had it been here all along?

Then where will you go?

"Home."

The heavens await, Cezanne. And within them, absolution and peace.

Cezanne paused. "Absolution?"

Want for nothing more, ever again. No shouting into the tempest. No dagger plunged into your heart. Just let go, and lay it all down.

The promise lulled her deeper into slumber. But the pulse went on, faint in the darkness, this flash of fire and song. Her song.
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PostPosted: Sun Nov 11, 2012 11:16 am Post subject: Reply with quote

“Lady Finger dipped in moonlight
Writing ‘What for?’ across the morning sky.
Sunlight splatters dawn with answers.
Darkness shrugs, and bids the day goodbye.”
~Robert Hunter, Lyrics from “Saint Stephen” - Grateful Dead


~*~

Wake, Cezanne.

What for?

Morning has come, it’s time to rise.


But I was promised…

Tempted by…

…an end to the pain.

The end is here.

It’s finally over? The pulse went on, her song so faint that she could not have heard it at all if she did not know it beginning to end. No more cold. No more pain. Only darkness, and this song. The song she had sought all her life, only to find it in death.

Cezanne reached out in the darkness as the music diminished. Don’t fade away. It’s all I have left.

No, Cezanne. If you let go, you let go with both hands. Both, or not at all.

I can’t let it go.

Then don’t. Wake, Cezanne.

I’ve nothing left there. My song is here.

Your song is within.

A shrill note sounded, piercing the darkness with light that blinded her in comparison to the pulse of her song. Cezanne paused to listen. Again it sounded, flitting about her darkened world, confused and afraid, like a bird trapped in a house. And again. And again. Closer, farther away. Above her, beside her. Frantic and terrified the note sounded without relenting, never wavering, never giving up.

So this is the end…

It is.

The mournful note became a desperate cry. It pushed, pulled, urged, shouted her forward, and Cezanne pressed against the edge of darkness until it shattered in a million shards of light.

Cezanne’s eyes fluttered open. She was heavy with slumber, her dress frozen. Her hands were numb and ached with cold. Near her feet sat a tiny black kitten, gone grey with frost. The whiskers drooped, heavy-laden with ice from exhaled vapor. The plaintive cry of the kitten was desperate for warmth, nourishment, and affection. For life, and all its promises.

“Poor thing!” Cezanne frantically fought the stiffness of her frozen raiment to loose herself from the snowbank, and she scooped up the kitten, cradling it to her chest. She quickly unlaced the ice skates and slipped into her boots, fighting the painful heaviness of her own half-frozen body every step of the way.

“I’m here, Sweet One. I’ll warm you. Don’t give up on me.” She whispered gently into the kitten’s fur as her breath melted the frost. “It’s the end, you know. So the dawn ends the night. And always…always with hope." With that, she pressed a soft kiss to the top of the tiny purring creature's head.
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Cezanne Abella
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Joined: 24 Apr 2009
Posts: 475

PostPosted: Thu Nov 15, 2012 8:02 pm Post subject: Reply with quote

"Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.”
~Maya Angelou


~*~

She was running through feathers.

What are you running from?

Not from. Toward.

They tickled her face and shoulders as she ran full-tilt, never losing breath, never growing weary. She laughed in rapt, mad joy.

Have you forgotten your song?

Her lips, in response, burst forth in a rapturous song, the self-same that she heard on the other side of the veil. Her voice trilled and dipped like a bird in flight. Still, she pushed the plumed feathers aside as they enfolded and caressed her.

Then it has yet survived.

Cezanne paused her flight and considered the notion. No, I survived.

And your song...

Wrestled from the talons of death itself....Again her voice lifted and wove itself through the silence like some clandestine dream.

From the land of the midnight sun,
where the ice blue roses grow,
'long those roads of gold and silver and snow.**


A song never dies.

But the feathers threatened to suffocate.

The tremors shattered her silent, silver world of peace, and she woke with a start to the insistent purr of the tiny, fluffy black kitten as it rubbed gently across her face, over and over again.

But the trembling did not cease. Two days hence, she still struggled with fevers. And her body was wracked for want of the elixir.

Cezanne rose from the bed and held the kitten against her cheek as it cried out in greeting.

"Good morning, Althea."

____________________________
(**lyrics from “So Many Roads” ~ Grateful Dead)
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Cezanne Abella
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Joined: 24 Apr 2009
Posts: 475

PostPosted: Sat Dec 01, 2012 10:23 am Post subject: Reply with quote

All I know is something like a bird
within her sang.
All I know she sang a little while,
and then flew on.

Tell me all that you know.
I'll show you
Snow and rain.

If you hear that same sweet song again
will you know why?
Anyone who sings a tune so sweet
is passing by.

~Robert Hunter ("Bird Song" - Grateful Dead)


~*~


Cezanne shuddered and paused in the warm candlelit haze of Umbran night, nearly dropping the chamberstick she carried. Weeks had passed since the apothecary’s elixir had last blessed her tongue, but still, at times, she could nearly taste it. She closed her eyes, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth – an attempt to catch the bitter flavour before it could fade away. How she ached for just one more mouthful. How she trembled in the night for want of its soothing affects. And how she wanted free of the spell it still had over her, despite the weeks that locked the distance between her and her addiction.

And then it was gone again.

Althea snaked between her feet, rubbing against her ankles before becoming distracted by a new upshoot of hyacinth that the kitten seemed certain was not there just this morning. The black fluffball gave the cluster of buds a swift swat and trotted off with a trill more akin to birdsong than feline utterance. The sun had set hours ago, but Cezanne had been lured in by the campfire’s inviting warmth and light, and sat late into the night, her quill giving voice to her thoughts as she filled page after page with ink and hope.

At last, Cezanne had finished securing the camp and returned to her room in the theatre. The warm creak of the wooden stairs, and the familiar scuff of her soft-soled shoes on the hardwood floors always somehow brought comfort to her. She set her candle down on the dressing table in front of the mirror and loosed her dark curls, allowing them to spill down over her shoulders at will. She had thought to reach up and remove her earrings before bed, but as she did, the fiery stones caught the candlelight and flashed azure fire in the mirror’s reflection. Instead, she found herself again admiring the craftsmanship of the spiraled white gold serpents and the blue diamonds they clutched in their fangs. She smiled warmly and stood, removing her crimson dressing robe for bed.

As Cezanne slid beneath the blankets of the bed, Althea jumped into the windowsill – a black silhouette watching the moons race toward the pinnacle of the heavens. As comforting as the quiet of the theatre was, it resonated some great longing from within as she lay in bed wondering what emptiness ached at her center. She listened intently to the distant, plaintive cry of the mockingbird. A settling groan in the rafters of the theatre echoed her melancholy.

Images of the Bramble Rose Theatre, bustling with patrons – artistry and song filling the stage – flitted through her mind. Fire rekindling within her, Cezanne sat up in bed, startling the kitten from her nightsong reverie. A theatre is meant to be filled with song and story and light. And so am I. Perhaps it’s time we each saw our purpose fulfilled!

She lay back and settled again into her pillow, plans and posters beginning to formulate in her mind as she listened to the mockingbird’s night song. He cries for dawn, she thought, smiling. Don’t we all?
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