I'll Find My Way

Sounds that the muses like:

Maroon loves the sound of wind rustling the leaves. The lower/more-bass sound of crackling when he runs his hand over bark, the knock of it. The sound of grass any time something moves there. Tall grass bending with the wind especially. Wind chimes. Running water, but not the bumbling creek kind, just... soft rain patter, water pouring out of a bottle or jug. The sound of digging into the soil with his hands or a small hand shovel. The sound of a rake going through the soil. The sound of kneading dough. The knock of the whisk as he hand-whisks ingredients. The satisfying chop of a vegetable. There is also a satisfying rumble to the world if he presses his ears to the earth, even better if between the grass.

Sora loves the sound of bubbling magma, the crackling of rocks near there. Similarly, he associates it with underwater bubbling. He likes the sound of hard tires against pavement - like skateboards and rollerblades. The crunch of snow and sand is similar but different. Snow-crunch can be pleasant or hair-raisingly bad and horrible. He likes the idea of the sound of a snowboard going on snow. The sound of wood carving. Perhaps surprising to some, but he loves the sounds of birds chirping. He loves staying still between the tree branches and hearing them as they land around the tree of his choice.

Lily likes rain. Paradoxically she finds city sounds both uncomfortable and also comforting in their own way. She likes the sound of waves crashing against the sea, and sand crunching beneath her feet. Similarly is the sound of leaves crunching when she walks in parks or pathways, sidewalks, etc. the pouring of water into a tea cup. The sound of a container being drained of its liquid (a specific sfx from an old PC game). The clicking of a magnet combines with heavy metal (also from the same game). She also likes the sound of chopping things in a chopping board, especially celery or similar items. There is also something about soft short echoes that is also comforting.

Morgan loves the sound of people's breathing. It's very distinct. It's comforting. It helps them sleep when there is someone breathing next to them. For that reason, the variety of snore patterns and sounds are interesting. The sound of wind rushing past their ears as they run or sail across the sea or skies. The sound of wind catching against the sails so it pulls and stretches the fabric, that soft creak. The sound of wood carving. The clacking of glass vials in Sayf's satchel.

Sayf likes the sound of people walking. There's a certain thud and scrape to it. Everyone has a gait and thus a different sound pattern. It comforts him to know who is approaching without looking up, and counting how many people in a group. He used it the most with the kids in the orphanage, and to look out for when his siblings returned. Now he uses it primarily to pinpoint where Morgan is so he can rush there (or stay away for a short guilty moment of peace). He also likes the sound of running a brush through hair. He did that with all the kids and now with Morgan. The sound of glass clacking is also a comfort, to know that he's armed and capable, but it actually originated from all the kids getting together to play marbles together. That specific thack of one marble hitting another is imprinted in his memory, as was the comfort of gathering all the marbles back into the satchel and bringing it back home.

Bells rustle between the tree leaves, chiming ever so softly in his ears as they twirl with the wind. A smile sweeps by his face, lifting the corners of his lips as they get kissed by the breeze. The gentle bellow of it, soft, warm, sun-kissed air cups his face like a lover, like a mother, ghostly hands held in his own before the fade into light. He closes his eyes and lets the information flood him through four senses, and a secret sixth. The breath like a sigh that he parts with is of whispers and emotions, love intermingled and laced through his soul in every ghostly and mortal pore until it is no more distinguishable from the air as is the breeze.

Just like that, his eyes flutter open to the soft singing of trees, to the reverent worship of sunflowers, to the gentle dancing of wheat that shudders with the crescendo, bending and bowing with grace and elegance of a thousand dancers. The wind, having left the tender hold of his hands, twirls between the life surrounding him and tousles his hair. It is neither wild nor chaotic, only playful and loving.

The wheat fields now sing to join the trees. Their voice is that of children laughing merilly, joining their hands in chains to dance rings of pollen and mirth on the breeze that takes them to visit their elders. Joyous, free, like the swallows that darted between nests and pale-white clouds. Puffs of white mixing with those of dandelions, coloured evermore bright and bronze in the settings of the sun.

This fragment of peace. This moment in infinity. This tender home of which he has no part but to be a witness. These are the rolling hills of deeper emotions than what the word ‘home’ could ever mean: Here, where the sun warms soft grass, reflects golden off of wheat braids, and kisses sunflowers like precious children to be loved. Here, where the gusts turn to breeze, because they are beholden by the sun’s gentleness, so rarely is it given. Here, where the trees and wind have a language that is understood by the birds, by the insects, by the pond over yonder. Here, where the clouds play coy with the sun, like lovers, stealing kisses sweet behind sheltered shade. 

Here, where he calls home, and home calls to him; but he is ‘other’, even while wholly welcomed as ‘one’. His arm stretches to revel in the sun’s gentle kisses. His hand caresses the soft hair of wheat. His lips find the soft petals of sunflower gold. His lashes flutter, and he’s the only one to catch glimpses of the bells hidden in trees, of the children playing hide-and-seek between stalks and fields.

The wind bellows once, and it rushes past him with a cold northern air, rippling the skirts of his dress more violently than necessary. He has to hold onto his straw hat, lest it runs away from him. Maroon looks up, and sees the clouds shift. Nothing ominous. The rabbits in the edges of the woods shudder, but keep on grazing. He sighs away tension in his shoulders that he hasn’t noticed build up.

He bids farewell to the wheat fields, to the sunflower stalks, to the pond even further. It’s a voiceless whisper that leaves softly-smiling lips, carried by the softest breeze that weaves through the crowds. He spares one last smile, neither happy nor sad, only content as he turns to rejoin the trees. 

There, his palms carefully caress the rough bark, gentle and reverent. So many live here. So many call these crevices home. He loves them, bark, the solid barrier and shelter, home of thousands and millions of souls, of insects, of hearts, and birds, and animals who seek to be loved. He places a soft, tender kiss there, trees and bark, home of the lost and wandering. He loves them, resting his forehead against their warmth.

He wants to linger here. He lingers here. Eyes closed and ears listening for the softly chiming bells and the fading laughter of children already unstrung and scattered loose with the wind. He takes a deep breath and lets it out soft and slow, warming the home before him. The rabbits have turned away, returning home. The sun is setting. Night sky will soon be visiting. 

Maroon swayed with the wind and the unswayable tree, and thought if he might linger to see it. The undefined darkness of the shadows protected behind the trees shifted and called for him, beckoning. He’d left it alone for too long. He murmurs his soft apologies, his hand passing by the tree’s bark one last, lingering time before it catches on his fingertips, as if wanting to leave a splinter to be remembered by, before they lose contact entirely. 

To the shadows, he offers his now undivided attention and smiles, carrying with him the warmth of life pieced together in that home, that haven. He kneels down slowly in their eager midst, his dress flourishing with the motion, haloing his figure on the ground as the shadows poke and prod. They, too, are like curious children, though different. He smiles at them fondly. 

He offers them his hands, his arms, his breath, his ears, his gaze. The scents, he selfishly keeps and shares them with no one. They are his way back home. The shadows feast eagerly on the knowledge, on the music, the laughter, the warmth. They graze until the moon stands tall in the midst of the dark blue sky, satiated. 

He has already been dozing between them by then, after having divulged murmured stories as if a retelling of bedtime. Fatigue takes him, but not before the shadows coat him in their own now-warmed embrace, like a protective cloak from the cold. They are his bedding, his comfort, his protectors from the dark. His brother, by choice, not blood, also lets his presence known. Child-warrior protector, to each other guardians. They all keep his light safe and sound while he turns away his senses to sleep and rest.