1rst Pattern: Longing for Life [Solo]

[Arenvel]

20th day of Winter, 511 AV It was laughter that jostled him out of the day dream. Laughter followed by the sharp prick of a thin sliver of metal into an exposed forefinger. Though he managed to stifle a yelp in pain and he silently chastised himself for not wearing a thimble, his upper lip reeled back over protruding fangs on instinct. His face cringed, producing traces of a furious sneer across his usually reserved facade. It was close. The Arnoldii estate was quiet except for the soft crackle of a lit hearth, its amber glow casting a silhouette of shadow against the walls in the shape of the lone, gaunt figure. The room was barren of furniture apart from a table set sitting empty atop thickly corded reams of the silk making up the base of the establishment. Several swatches of fabric encircled the interior comprising the sleeping quarters and personal chests for the families belongings. And the only other source of light trickled in from the opalgloam stones near the entrance in the roof. A typical home in Kalinor. A typical home for Symenestra. The merriment must have come from one of the neighbors, and though he never knew them to be malicious, the sound of it felt hateful to him. His twin brother Delyvir was out for harvest. It made for a somber past few weeks in the house that now felt empty like half the rest of the city. It should have been him. Bessany stirred from her bed across the room. She propped her head against the ledge of the bunk, drawing the back of her hand against the dark curls from in front of golden eyes. The soft contour of her chin fitting snugly against the rim of her chamber as she peered out at her frustrated husband with an exasperated grimace on her face. Certain that he had managed to restrain himself, he flashed her an inquisitive glance but Bessany wasn’t fooled, at times she seemed to feel his thoughts as if they were her own. From the distance he could just make out her creamy shoulder blade holding up the strap of a laced silk gown that clung to softly heaving breasts. Arenvel Arnoldii dropped the loom into his lap and propped an elbow against his knee. The pale beauty perked up and mouthed encouragement for him to continue his work but he drew a wounded forefinger across lips that parted in a childish smile. Seeing the droplet of blood dribbling down his extended forefinger Bessany had to bite down on her knuckles to stop from erupting in laughter. The twenty one year old tailor sucked on his index finger and waved his wife’s chiding away with a pout. Then he drew both knees to his chest and buried his head into the soft silk fabric of the dark black dress slacks in a mock sob. He had been following along the piece of instruction paper left in his mother’s embroidery kit when the needle stuck him, the particulars of the section detailing a chain link stitch had been giving him trouble. At first glance it didn’t seem like much, a series of entering and exiting through the same hole before wrapping thread around the exposed needle, then issuing a soft tug to pull the strand taut. The details didn’t look straight when he did it, so he had taken to pulling loose the stitching with his midnight black fingernails and starting over. Something struck his side causing him to look up. Bessany had pried a button from her blouse and was ready to lob another one at him. The thin fabric held together by the buttons had drooped in the absence, exposing the curvature of his wife in the gloomy darkness. She tossed the next button up and down in her free hand and motioned for him to visit. Arenvel shuddered with excitement at the invitation, but he shook his head and brandished his extended fangs so she would know that he couldn’t go. As in tune as his wife was, she had no idea how dangerous his mood was. How deadly his advances could be. He picked up the loom and waved the tiny piece of clothing towards her. Right on cue she flashed a knowing smile in return and confirmed her understanding with a nod before blowing a kiss goodnight and falling back asleep. The tiny white shirt clasped between the looms wooden arms could only fit a child. Something he longed for almost as much as the now overwhelming desire to touch his wife’s milky skin. She couldn’t know the growing pain in the pit of his stomach, she couldn’t know how he cursed everything beautiful about her one minute and how he desperately wanted to swim in a sea of her the next. The scent of her hair filling his every day dream, the pressure of her weight atop him and the soft touch of her skin over his pallid brow. Long black fingernails running through his silver locks as his lips found hers like they had so many times before. A drop of blood splashed against the soft cotton fabric waking him out of his fantasy and smearing his future son or daughter’s shirt in a red splotch. He didn’t notice as the warm tears streamed down Arenvel’s cheeks. His lunar date was close and with his brother’s only recent departure for the harvest, everything else still felt too far.

[Arenvel]

The needle pierced the underside of the fabric. Because of the positioning of the design he had to reach through the opening at the bottom and deftly slide the needle through the same hole as it emerged. Chain embroidery was a series of closely knit slip knots, one had to remain loose and yet accurate. The chain performed its looping dance in the silence of the Arnoldii home, the silvery-blue thread twinkling in the warm firelight as he worked. 'The Viratassa teaches the importance of sacrifice, it claims that we will never be asked to bear more than we can handle,' Arenvel thought in the reassuring voice of the priest, 'then why do I feel this urge to snuff it? Why can't my wife withstand my seed? Is the intention of a God for our race to die, or are we but a plague on the other races?' The next stitch tightened around the needle too tight, he glanced down at the misshapen ring and let out a soft sigh. His untrimmed claws pinched the strand with practiced patience tugging gently against the bottom part of the ring. The slip knot fed the thread back through the hole, widening the ring back to the proper size. Arenvel took a moment to examine his work. The shirt had only a dozen stitches in it, enough to form the wispy lines of a silvery vine vertically down the center of the shirt. He closed his eyes, allowing the picture of it to burn into his retinas so when he blinked he could see it. In his mind the design came to life. A snaking vine popped out tulipesian flowers with tiny opals for leaves. The vines climbed up symetrically over the shoulders before crossing over one another at the lower back. Every so often an offshoot of vine would form tiny swirls like a coiled up serpent. Arenvel quickly pulled out a gossamer thin sheet of parchment and placed it over the loom, etching against the page with a thin piece of chalk. His left hand held the paper firm against the article of clothing in the loom while the right hand pressed the sharpened chalk against the page. He nimbly followed the instructions of the picture in his mind but his hand would slip, drawing lines too dark then running off the edges of the cloth forming ugly lightning bolt lines. It wasn't exact but he kept at it anyway. In the end he managed to put a vague depiction of his design on the tracing paper. It looked like a feeble drawin from a child rather than the masterful piece of a practices craftsman. Arenvel sighed. 'No more than we can handle, eh?' he thought, his frustration becoming more ostentatious. His dark, wispy brows stitched together as he struggled to contain his anger. Through the thin paper he could just make out the amber splotch of blood soaking in to his child's clothing. Instead of giving up, he laughed. 'That's right, he gave us our sense of humor. I recognize the irony in fussing over the perfect threads when a stain of my blood will never abate from this cloth.' The tiny splash of red in the white shirt looked like a single dandelion in a frothing sea. Though its petals were not perfectly symmetrical they formed a hopeful radial. And in the twilight settling around his ancestral home, Arenvel Arnoldii felt his first genuine smile grow. The first since Delyvir left. Frantically, the Symenestra sharpened the bit of chalk with the sharp side of his fingernail, desperate to finalize the new image emerging in his head. He had to sketch the dandelion in all its imperfection. The chalk acceptably filed, he placed it to the paper, tracing the decals in crisp swooping motions, forming the stamen of the flower, then the oblong leaves, then the stem. As he worked on his drawing the piece seemed to come to life under his finger tips. It was the single unifying detail. The quintessential piece that encapsulated the entire concept. And then the drawing was complete. The tiny burst of flower was the answer to his questions. The understated beauty in a sea of mundane. Arenvel set the drawing aside and went back to work sewing. ‘We were given a window,’ he surmised with a smirk as he resumed sewing, ‘all life is sacrifice. Our choice is when and what to give. And for you, oh child of mine, I would give everything.’