Work Text:
Thunder resounds on cobblestone streets, flashes illuminating the night.
Lords, ladies, and merchants alike grumble, and the farmers rejoice.
All the while, the children breathe.
A boy remains in his room, drops of ink soaking into the wood of his desk as he hastily jots down sorrows too loud to contain but much too intrusive, too burdensome to pass to another beyond a hushed whisper. So his soul lives on a page and melts away in inky candle wax. He looks fondly upon the drops pattering against his window as he sees his reflection streaking down the glass.
All the while, his cousin sits on the edge of the river, watching as the fleeting droplets attack the stream's surface but disappear into the water; forever forgotten, lost, insignificant. He cranes his head to the sky and allows the drops to stream down his face in place of tears, for he had never allowed himself to cry before. He always thought it would feel much more liberating, though he supposes he is still a stranger to the feeling when even this is mere pretend.
Two brothers stand in the castle's doorway, as if birds perched atop a rooftop.
One allows nothing more than the point of his shoe to extend to beyond the brick walls, as he avoids sullying his silk in water lest the banquet planned for that evening is still held despite the downpour. In truth, he is grateful to simply be free from the event at all, if only for a few hours.
The other dances in the rain, arms stretched to the sky as his laugh rivals the thunder's volume. He pretends he is merry, and yet, all he hopes is that another would cry over his dead body when he eventually perishes in youth. Perhaps then his face would know tears as another's dripped on his face, and that person could sob, could mourn the person they thought he was. The man that their mind would create to grieve is likely to be far better than the one he truly is.
A boy allows himself to slouch for the first time that day as he cups pale red liquid in his palms before releasing it, hoping it would wash away the crimson from his calloused hands. Still, he knows it would never erase the sins from his soul. He glances over his shoulder at the church nearby, and swears he sees a woman he once knew. A nun. One who had witnessed the day he began his trek to hell.
The nun looks solemnly upon the sprouts in the church's garden, as the flashing lights of the storm only grants her glimpses of how they whip in the wind, trying with all their might to grow amidst it all. She wants nothing more than to step out, to tend to them properly, but knows the distance is too great, the storm too strong.
A girl leans on her balcony, shoulders still itching with the fabric of the white gown she'd worn earlier. She does not know why she detests the color so much, why she wishes she could disappear behind the veils her parents drape over her eyes. Perhaps the answer lies in how her mother always gushed over her beauty while her father practically lamented the "fortunate gentleman" who would be blessed with it. And if they would ever allow her to speak during it all, she knows it would be far from gushing about fortune. But they never do, and her wants never escape her thoughts.
The sun rises to reveal sparkles of dew scattered about the ground, and all returns to how it had always been.
The boy tucks himself away with his poems, and his cousin dons the same smile he's always worn. One brother attends the delayed banquet, while the other flees the farthest he can from it. The boy grips his hilt once more, the girl swallows her desires, and the nun prays for them both.
And the cobblestone streets remain soaked with their pains, the deepest fragments of their souls lost among the stars in the skies of last night.