She nods, still staring at the mural on the floor.
"I ..."
Her voice dies there, lost under the awful weight of the painted images that press in on her, stealing breath and light and everything but the flame. For a dizzying timeless instant it's almost as though she's wearing the Baelrath again, carrying the burning wild power of the crimson fire on her hand. There's a different sort of power here, present in these paintings, one of a sort that's hauntingly familiar to the white-haired young woman known to some as the Seer of Brennin.
How could possibly I have missed it before?
And yet, even as she asks herself the question she realizes the answer. This isn't her world, nor is it Fionavar, the two worlds to which she belongs by right of birth and inherited knowledge -- both hers and Ysanne's combined -- and the vision captured in this art isn't the same, can't be the same, for all that it's near, both close and familiar.
Close enough for her to be slowly becoming more aware as she stands here in this apartment, in the presence of the paintings. It's as though something within her is straining to hear a whispered echo, or to understands words spoken in a different language.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2007-09-06 12:40 am (UTC)"I ..."
Her voice dies there, lost under the awful weight of the painted images that press in on her, stealing breath and light and everything but the flame. For a dizzying timeless instant it's almost as though she's wearing the Baelrath again, carrying the burning wild power of the crimson fire on her hand. There's a different sort of power here, present in these paintings, one of a sort that's hauntingly familiar to the white-haired young woman known to some as the Seer of Brennin.
How could possibly I have missed it before?
And yet, even as she asks herself the question she realizes the answer. This isn't her world, nor is it Fionavar, the two worlds to which she belongs by right of birth and inherited knowledge -- both hers and Ysanne's combined -- and the vision captured in this art isn't the same, can't be the same, for all that it's near, both close and familiar.
Close enough for her to be slowly becoming more aware as she stands here in this apartment, in the presence of the paintings. It's as though something within her is straining to hear a whispered echo, or to understands words spoken in a different language.