taair khalisa nasir 🕊️ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
historicals) wrote2025-02-08 04:06 pm
historicals) wrote2025-02-08 04:06 pmpc catchall | turboheaven | laurence
hello flower boy (shitpost later)
historicals) wrote2025-02-08 04:06 pm
week 6, mon
you find yourself in a beautiful room, (other vibe pics: 1, 2) though these images only barely begins to cover it.
the room itself is round, with ceilings that seem to stretch onto eternity - the floors are marble, the walls painted a beautiful, crisp white, the covers of the bed you're currently settled on thick and warm. there's a large bookshelf and a clearly well used desk - stacked and stacked with even more books, scrolls of paper rolled up and awaiting inspection, maps pinned to the wall near the desk. a quill and ink jar await your attention.
one wall seems to have paintings on it of stars: though upon closer inspection, it is a meticulously captured star chart, with tiny captions written next to the stars - names, locations, times, dates, and near it sits a neat box of painting supplies. there are plants in a windowsill, carefully cared for, a sitting area with a box of some kind of supplies, set next to folded fabrics and lovely embroidery projects half-finished or almost complete.
there are fresh flowers in a vase by your bedside, and there's even a teapot with a freshly brewed cup of tea already awaiting you at a small sitting area with a lovely red-cushioned couch; on the serving tray beside it are even a few delicious looking scones, still piping hot. next to the table sits a beautiful silver birdcage; inside is a bluebird, sitting on a perch.
it's eveningtime, or so you realize. the moonlight filters into the room through a large window off to one side of the room, arched and gorgeous, and a fire flickers in a marble fireplace, keeping the room warm. the luxite lamp by your bed is lit, flickering softly - in the near distance, you hear the chime of church bells, resplendent and awe-inspiring, ringing ten times in a row, and you realize you fell asleep with a book on your chest. how silly.
when you sit up and swing your legs off the side of the bed, your feet touch a soft, marvelous red rug. for all intents and purposes, this place is stunning, but in all of its austere glory, something about it feels... cold.
you don't know exactly where you are, but it's not particularly unsafe. in fact, you feel like you could have anything you wanted, in this room. you could do just about anything you wanted. what do you want to do? ]
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he'd never really liked this sort of elegance. something always feels off about it.
the stars call to him. laurence has always liked to see the sky at night, but first... maybe he'll try the tea? ]
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that sense of home contradicts, and the sense of offness remains, but... this is home. isn't it? you live here. well, maybe not... home. the place that i live, taair always says. never home.
he may try the tea, of course! the bird chirps happily at him from its perch when he comes close - the tea is a chamomile, warm and delicious, but it doesn't quite change the cold sensation that persists. ]
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[ a bluebird, trapped in a cage. one that sang how its predecessor never had. laurence wonders, for a second, if he should release it like the lark.
instead, he looks back at the bed, the book he'd apparently fallen asleep with. the bird and the stars can hold on a minute. what is this book. ]
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laurence can look at the book, sure! it is a historical treatise upon the irian revolution, 986 - a thin volume. the moment he picks it up, he will feel a cold chill down his back, and the air in the room begins to feel a little oppressive, but nothing else changes. the bluebird begins to sing. ]
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his grip tightens on the book. a quick glance at the bird, singing away as if nothing in the world could matter, then at the door, and quickly he flips through the book to find his place. that feeling started with this book. the answer for why has to be in it. ]
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The book itself details the true story of the Miner's Rebellion.
A bit further down the page, it continues to describe something about the royal family of the State of Iria, but the longer laurence looks at it, the more his vision begins to blur. the cold feeling continues, spreads down his spine and through his fingers, and the words on the page turn to splatters of black ink where he holds it, then reform right before his eyes, blurring and shifting on the page.
the bird continues to sing. ]
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history rewritten before his eyes. truths hidden away from those who should know the most, who are in the most danger for it.
laurence closes the book. sets it down on the bed and backs away, closing his eyes to listen to the bird for just a moment longer. ]
...Are you even going to know what to do if I open that cage?
[ if it's anything like him, that cage is its whole world, all its ever known. would it rather sing in safety, like laurence himself had always preferred? ]