setting: during the verdant concord event, mathis takes refuge in a smoking down with cedric ; starter for @visxionaries
the den was tucked behind a curved hallway in highgarden, past the better-lit parlors and music rooms, and deeper still into the belly of the castle. it smelled of pressed flowers and pale smoke, threaded with the hush of conversations meant not to be overheard. everything here was dimâintentionally so. a sanctuary of shadows and thought. the walls were paneled in dark oak, the same wood that cradled them now in high-backed chairs, smoothed by age and touch. their seats were cushioned in green velvet, the kind that remembered every movement for a moment longer than it should.
mathis sat with one arm slung loosely along the carved rest, posture relaxed but composed. not stiff, not lazy. just⌠at ease. there was a quiet calm in him now, the kind that doesnât ask to be noticed. a far cry from the court-gilded boy heâd once beenâquick to speak, quicker to smile. that spark still lingered, flickering when he met someoneâs eyes or when he laughed under his breath at something dry and clever. but there was weight in him now, too. not heaviness, but grounding.
he rolled the unlit pipe between his fingers, more a gesture of thought than habit. the lacquered stem caught a flicker of light and held it like a secret.
"you know," he began, settling into his usual calm but thoughtful manner, "i was walking through the gardens earlier today, and i stumbled upon something that caught my attention. there were a group of painters there, using that old technique. fresco painting."
he paused, letting the memory sink in for a moment, eyes glinting as he turned to cedric. "it was strange to see, really. most people donât seem to appreciate it these days, not in the way it deserves."
mathis leaned forward slightly, his gaze growing more intense as he spoke. "the thing about frescoes, especially in a place like this, is the way the medium breathes. itâs alive, almost, changing as the plaster dries, the colors blending and shifting with every stroke. i watched them work for a while. it wasnât anything grand, like a heroic battle or a dragon soaring through the skies. no, this was more... personal."
he let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head at the memory. "they were painting simple moments. scenes of children playing in the garden, a breeze rustling through the trees. not the kind of things youâd expect to see immortalized in such a way."
