Erased - Written in Colors - Chapter 6
Enjoy a story of goddess falling for someone who is out of reach until their paths cross again. All she ever wanted is to help and defy the puppeteer behind it all just to meet an end... But what is death for a goddess if another start?
Music choice from this part: Ember - Acoustic Labs
Or open a full playlist that I was listening to on Spotify - here
Warnings: bad humor, mentions of death, violence, a bit of Raf myths (I am not sure if all of them got in or not)
Certain things should not be said when your eyes see red. Anger is such a powerful thing that can be used both to start a war and to ignite something else completely. Depending on many small things.
You hoped that you prevented a bloodshed, or, more likely, an argument of nuclear proportions.
It was so much more difficult to intervene when you were so close. You always loved emotions; you felt so much of them yourself, with the constant state of your mind and watching those mortals so often. Now they burned more. There was something bubbling in you that you tried to silence. Mostly for your own sake. This story was not yours. There was no place for you… Was there?
You thought you would be able to rest, recalibrate yourself and get back to the research you were doing. There was a lot to discover. Ever hiding between the shadows like they would protect them. Cute.
You never expected for the artist, the root of the need to distance yourself, to reach out to you.
A picture of the commission in progress that turned into a few late – bless the artistic mess your schedule was — night text exchanges. Then a few more day exchanges, some mutual complaining sessions over messages — who knew you were so stressed?
You should have cut it and kept it at arm's length. You really should, but there was a way of weird understanding.
By the first phone call — where you were resting after a chapter done and he was at the exhibition — you knew you were fucked. Maybe you always were and this was what truly drove you to fight.
“Miss Writer, I will die. My body will overgrow with mushrooms and moss, and that will be the end of a great artist.”
“Do you want me to plant something else on your corpses or….?”
A gasp sounded and you looked from the book you were checking out, a small smile on your lips. You heard Thomas’ muffled voice moments later and some general sounds.
“I feel like a slave. I should have never agreed to such a dumb thing.”
You hummed. “They never turn out to be good. It’s like an obstacle course, but you’re in a bag, blindfolded, and the obstacles are crocodiles that have been on a diet for too long.”
A grunt confirmed your description.
“You know, Miss Writer, I am glad you picked up. This really is a nightmare.” His voice was light, but you felt a fluctuation in it. Not only this event was weighing on him. You could imagine other reasons with ease. You saw Mc and her blond companion a few other times, they looked more involved each time you did. “And you ease it up like a remedy,” he continued with a sigh.
“I am glad I can help,” you said, absentmindedly poking the screen of your phone. The screen black, seconds of conversation passing by slowly. “I always will,” you added, before you could stop yourself. The silence that followed became awkward. It’s not what you said, but how that makes the time seem to stop. You sounded almost too quiet, almost like it was a confession. Your ears burned, and you were ready to hand yourself over to the cringe police any moment. A silent laugh answered.
“Thank you, but ‘always’ is a commitment and a half,” another laugh, more distracted, even panicky. “Thomas is going to put on a whole pantomime show if I don’t move,” he added. “I will talk to you later.” A short, with no time for a response, ending.
You wanted to evaporate. Ah, to be a water nymph on a desert — a dream.
You grunted, covering your face with a book. How the hell is this going to play out? You didn’t account for something like that, you never even suspected your heart to betray you. Et tu, cor? Et tu?
It was a calm dream. The constellations you were passing were beautiful. The colors you saw before — the purples, pinks and the blues mixing together. And then the shining blue, like stormy seas.
“You are happy,” you heard a familiar voice. Dream was here again, sipping her tea and trying visibly to content the urge for a sweet snack she brought from the mortal realms. There was no helping her, she was a sweet addict. And you really didn’t write that one.
“You are, you silly goose. I saw the story you passed to the oracle the other day. It was so sweet that she dreamed of it, wanting it to be her own if possible.”
“Hers is nice as well, I promise.”
The visits were always pleasurable, Dream never wanted anything from you, no changing of the stories, no interfering. She herself took matters into her own hands if needed. You admired her ways, even if she said they could be a bit mad.
“Were you looking at their story when you wrote this one?” she asked with a knowing smile. There was no escaping her knowledge; she was, after all, in everyone's life. “You know, I could—”
“Don’t. Just leave it, Dream. I will be happy if it goes as planned.”
“He… I am just saying. You don’t know what was in your scroll, just try to get out…”
“The well of chaos cannot be left like that.”
“It’s alright. Now tell me about the priest.” Nothing better than gossip to make her change the topic.
He found her. You finished their story — the scroll in its place in the library of yours. It was a good day, seeing him happy.”
