"Mairi, may I come in?" asked Kyra.The door opened. Kyra stepped in, museum quiet and clean the quarters. Like a docent of hair autumn coiffed, her kit organized, clothes folded, bed made lake smooth in the way of one trained in the sartorial arts, stood Mairi. Elegant sadness, flowing steel, cheeks doll symmetrical below eyes limpid in the vision of heart, reins held beyond articulation. Bearing dignified as death, her fingers blanched in the way of deep space, graceful in length, manicured as gardens of state. "If you've come to change my mind, I will allow you to speak."
Kyra smiled of cheek only. Starlight evident in the glass of her eye. "I've come not of word, but of ear, not to talk, but to listen, not to command, but rather hold."
Mairi sighed. "Have a seat. I have nothing to say, which is not to say I do not appreciate your gesture."
"I know."
Mairi continued to pack. Her movements measured as if the very reach of limb and climb of leg could control the chime to come, paint texture to the hour with each slow breath, each soft step. Kyra watched as one athlete watches another, admiring the choreography of past training bearing fruit, ripe, mature. She moved like water flowing, continuous, without beginning or end, a geometry of curves in dance.
"You know," said Mairi after some time, "I must go."
"I know."
"I would rather a goodbye without ceremony."
"As you wish."
"Ceremony seems so final. And there is always crying. And I can't bear either."
"Mairi."
"Yes."
"You will always be a part of Bravo. And you will always be welcomed back."
Kyra stood, opened her arms and as the sun dips below the horizon, Mairi poured herself into the melanic leather of the one taut and tight, her red hair looking like a torch held in the night of Kyra.
6 comments:
The description of Mairi as Kyra enters the room is absolutely sublime. The detail is piercing, elegant sadness and Bearing dignified as death especially, along with the pristine bed and kit, and cheeks, the words from which the title came, so effectively the image of Mairi in her surroundings appears, intact, orderly, controlled and through these disclosures it becomes even more patent how fragile the hold she has really is.
Chapters such as this one always make me think of The Chapel, it makes me think of how true and consistent, how faithful, the story has been from the very beginning and throughout. So many times the characters of your story have shown the very best of, and this is something that humans and hynerians have in common, our natures, open hearts and arms and ears. The words the Kyra speaks working like a soothing hand gently unclenching the Mairi's upon those reins, the simple understanding, the simple being, the simple offer of ears to listen, heart and arms to hold. Beautiful. And still she holds on, reiterating, expecting if not argument persuasion perhaps until Kyra speaks those final words of love. The final sentence is absolutely stunning, beautifully expressed. (Also, especially well-written was the part where Kyra watches Mairi and the description of her movements, like water). Wonderful chapter!
Kyra stood, opened her arms and as the sun dips below the horizon, Mairi poured herself into the melanic leather of the one taut and tight, her red hair looking like a torch held in the night of Kyra.
Somewhere deep in my hollows, in the shallows of breath, you touch...
S., what a lovely thing to say. Your comment feels like the inscription on a card, handwritten, the ephemeral burst of papyrus, the fireworks of quality paper, and perhaps too, the scent of a hand educated in matters of pen and whip, the whip of a pen as a walk whips the mind. :-)
Sunshine, I know not from where these things come, but they come in the morning as birds and they come in the night as stars and they fall as leaves in the autumn and rise as flowers in the spring. I can no more stop the coming than I can stop the world spinning. And I like the coming. Very much. :-D
Even in comments you evoke sighs at such loveliness. What beautiful, vivid imagery, I'll not forget those as I, as I often do, think of you in those moments before the words begin to flow.
Or come, whichever you prefer. :-)
Wear cotton. I like the tactile feel of proletarian cloth weaved as it leaves my hands, our carpet to be on wood hard and pillows soft. :-D
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