An Academy of Chaos and Clouds

Viridian POV: her

——VIRIDIAN———————————————————

    Red.
    On her hands. In her hair.
    Here she was once again to plague his dreams. This one started different than the others, more firm, less bleary. He stood in an opening in the tree line near the river. He recognized this river, its gentle curves and deep water where he and his sister frolicked as children. It would've been calming to see, but the red-soaked figure interrupted the landscape like a misplaced, smeared glob of paint. His feet rushed to her on their own accord as he slid down into the sand around her and reaches for a pulse.

...hmph...hmph...hmph

    There. A weak heartbeat. He breathes a sigh of relief that's short-lived when his eyes are drawn to the source of the red. Gashes.  Shreds of skin from some intense battle. The wounds are scattered up and down her lithe frame.
     He has to pause to breathe- to get his wits about him before the dream pulls him in farther but he's caught up, things are moving too quickly now. His hands, usually deep brown, are marred with the blood of this girl's violent struggle. They move to cover her with his cloak, to gather her in his arms strong from lifting paint and books each day. His feet carry him further through the dream, through the forest path, interwoven trees curving above them. The green and brown tunnel shelters him for a moment- a sweet reprieve from the adrenaline the dream brought forth. But just as before, as with every time he's dreamed, the rush comes back. Scenes flying a mile a minute. He struggles to get a grip- to control something, anything. They insist on going faster, always faster, dragging him down with them. Flashes of a life not yet lived. Stranger's voices. A calming presence. A tall shadow. The beat of wings. A shriek of terror. A floating girl.
     Roughly he's shoved into the real world and up, up, up. Lurching upright and breathing heavy, arms leaden and yet alive, humming with the promise of use. Paint. He needs to paint. Quickly, before the brief swatches of memory are lost.
     The castle stone is warm on his bare feet as he rushes to his study. The moon lights his path as he hurries out his bedroom door, into another, onto a stool. Brushes in hand already, his instincts take over to put dreams to canvas. Memory to paint strokes.
    Hours later he stumbles bleary-eyed into bed to sleep til the coming dawn. From the other room his creations stand drying. Raw, abstract pieces containing hours of emotion in one space. The ache of his hands visible in the gentle swooping lines. His frustrations towards the unknown girl appear in the sharp strokes of her cheekbones. The points of ears. What once started as clear and concise becomes blurrier the deeper you look. The canvas as bleary as its creator.
     Red covers the left corner, in a tangle of hair and blood. Sharp wings jut out of a murky memory. Gathering clouds retreating into corners hiding something sinister. His creation is still bright in his head as he drifts off, long eyelashes fluttering closed.