*---------------------------< In Character Time >--------------------------*
Time of day: Morning
Date on Aether: Wednesday, May 16, 3930
Year on Earth: 1530 A.D.
Phase of the Moon: Full
Season: Spring
Weather: Breeze
Temperature: Cool
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Atrium - Domus Areides - Parnassus
A feeble attempt has been made to foster the impression of warmth and human life in this domicile. Ringed in dove grey marble streaked with white, the central atrium is starkly empty but for spare weapons that hang on the walls, and cloaks and sandals arranged neatly near the exit door: artifacts from a world of men who know nothing of the need for softness. Dwarf trees, too stunted and poor to produce leaves, much less bear fruit, have been set in the spaces between doorways. The seem to crouch near the sterile soil of their pots, afraid to grow tall and thus call attention to themselves. Above each tree, set in its own niche, is an ivory statuette of a god or goddeess. It is difficult to say which ones are present as all have been turned so that they face the rear of their ledge.A number of doors leads from the entryway -- dining room, kitchens, servants' quarters, courtyard. If one looks up, a balcony is visible, easily reached with a short leap and flight. From there, pillared doorways mark the entrances of the master's quarters and the children's nursery. The latter bears the only bright color that can be seen in this house: the pillars themselves on either side of the door have been painted with blue creeper vines that bear green fruit and hide red birds.
The dream has come again, the same one, where a gray wind blows through an empty house. No light from the sun. No light from the clay oil lamps. It is not day and it is not night, only grayness, weirdly illuminated without a source. Mater is standing by the window, tall and regal, in a gray chiton. Her hair is swept up. The long pins are in it, the ones Sophia is not allowed to play with.
A lyre plays somewhere, far in the distance.
Dreaming steps are a slow thing and sometimes carry a person where they don't want to go. Sophia finds herself standing behind her mother, a chubby hand reaching out to bunch in the cool grey folds of her skirt. Wanting reassurance but knowing, in her heart of hearts, that she'll find none here. "Mama please..."
The cool grey skirt is wet on her fingers, leaving a gray slurry. It is clay, all clay, but too wet, and beneath her grasp it deforms into a sloppy handful.
A fly is buzzing.
"Sophia," Mater whispers, in her windy voice, "you have done wrong."
Skirt, now it is skirt again, not clay. Mater turns, a slow, slow turn. She is displeased.
"Nooo..." The denial is little more than a whimper as she snatches her hand back, though it sounds more like a scream in her head. If she were a good girl, she's stand brave and face Mater's displeasure. Accept her punishment. Prove to her mother that she's done no wrong.
Sophia runs.
She kicks awake in her bed. Morning light falls across the room from the open window. The smell of the air is fresh. And her sheets are dry, she has not made water in fear, like some of the other times before. The room is empty; Peleus has risen from his own bed, on the other side, where his own things clutter the floor. The more Ama the granny-slave seems to tidy them, the more they fall into disarray.
The sound of voices may be heard through the wall, through the door.
Sophia hiccups, the sound a sob that dies in her throat. Then she's rubbing at her eyes, rolling from the bed to pad soundlessly towards the door. Testing that she can walk in this world without feeling as if the ground were pulling at her feet. At the door she stops and cocks her head to listen, little round face completely empty of expression.
Ama is singing softly in her soft old voice, some mongrel song of hope and just rewards. Her leathery hands are gliding a comb through Peleus' hair, as the young boy stands looking out of a window. He is eating figs, and there is a sticky red hand print on his tunic.
He is so messy. Is it because he's a boy, or because he's Peleus? Sophia ponders this for a minute before turning back. She goes to dress herself and to fetch Rufus from the tangle of sheets. Everything is done silently, except when she defends herself in a whisper to the gryphon: "I didn't forget you." With him secure beneath her arm, she moves to enter the other room.
By this time, Ama has noticed the fig-print upon the boy's tunic. With a patient sigh, she strokes his white hair, and then half-turns him by the shoulder. His chin is sticky too. As she unfastens the pin that holds his tunic together, Peleus turns his head and tells Sophia-- with very red teeth-- "We are going to a festival soon. Pater says."
Sophia goes to sit on the floor at their feet, looking up without much in the way of interest. She's just watching, round eyes blinking like an owl's. Rufus seems more animated, with his carved grin and brooding brows. He looks to be laughing at Sophia's brother. "Your mouth is full of blood, Peleus."
The boy lifts a sticky hand to his mouth as if to see. "Figs," he tells her. "You can have some too, there are some left for you." Ama has unhooked the pin, and holds it safe in her palm as she pulls the boy's tunic off him. "The festival, the festival, it is the festival of the springs. There is magic water that comes out of the ground in a village nearby. There is a god in it, and the god comes out of it, every year. The village celebrates the entire day."
Likely this is Grandmother's doing, the excursion. She is absent from the home this morning; her shadow does not hang over the breakfast table. The long table is laden with several plates and platters. Fresh fruit. Flatbreads. Cheeses. A fly is buzzing about, and loud is that buzzing.
Sophia exchanges a look with the gryphon. The smooth white skin of her forehead is suddenly wrinkled with worry. She stands, leaving Rufus to guard Ama and Peleus, and goes to the table. "Gods live in the sky," she tells them while looking over the foods. They may see only a girl debating her breakfast.
When she is sure Ama isn't looking, Sophia takes hold of the white tablecloth and backs up to pull it off, with everything on it.
Loud is the crash! Dishes are reduced to shards like strewn teeth, white, though some of them show the blue key patterns around the edges. Olive oil soaks greenly into the cloth. Wine goes out purple. A small apple is rolling across the floor.
Ama looks on in surprise, her eyes wide. She shakes her hand out hard suddenly, then, the pin flying to the floor-- it has cut into her hand, and she bleeds from it. "Sophia!"
Peleus only stares, his sticky mouth open.
Rufus seems to nod.
The girl returns calmly to her gryphon and picks him up, cradling him in her arms. She smiles for the first time this morning. "It's better now," Sophia assures them. "When do we go to the festival?"
