queenoflogs | (no subject)

[Mahalia doesn't see the actual creation or construction of the room, has her eyes closed the entire time, focussed on the image in her mind. She can feel something from the sand, though, a tingling, glimmering thing, and it's only when that sensation has faded that she opens her eyes.

The outside of the room is much like her mother's house in the woods. Dark, treated timber walls with large windows. Mahalia stands slowly, lays her hand against the wood, and it feels just like it had at home. She turns to Fela with a bright smile, joyful at that one small thing, reaching to take her sister's hand.

There is a door around the corner, one barely visible in the cut of the wood, a deliberate thing. Mahalia had considered large French windows, perhaps a porch, but after the giant flower attacks, such things didn't seem safe. The door outside was only needed until they'd attached it to Fela's house properly, anyway.

She is a little nervous as she opens the door, worried that perhaps things hadn't fallen into place as she'd imagined them, but peering around the door reveals that things are just as she'd hoped, and she leads Fela inside with a bright smile.

Three parents that she loved and missed terribly, and it had taken her a while to decide which parts of their homes to bring to her own. Jast's bed had been the first she had picked, the one he kept at the golems' house on the bayou, strewn with all the multitudes of pillows and blankets that he would use to construct a nest around him and whoever might be sharing the bed with him. Opposite that, her mother's desk, the worn old chair she refused to get rid of, the desk surface piled high with books and notebooks, even her mother's favourite fountain pen leaking ink on a fresh sheet of paper.

And then there is the far wall, the space taken from her father's home, the space she leads Fela to. His bedroom wall, covered in drawings and small paintings. Their entire family, laid out face by face, her father's artistic skill showing each in their true likeness, his feelings for each clear in the medium used, the colours, depths of shadows, weight of ink. Acacio had used it to remember them all, and Mahalia would use it to remember him, now.

There is a photograph of him, half tucked under the picture of Desidero, taken by Christopher and pinned there by Mahalia herself when she had noticed Acacio did not feature himself anywhere. She reaches up to pull it free, holds it out to Fela.]

This is Acacio, our father.

[Fela watches as the dirt shifts, as it twines together, as it expands, as it grows and changes, becoming fuller and denser, taking on new characteristics. Fela almost wishes she had been so meticulous in creating the house, but her moment of creation had been a whirlwind of excitement and desire, the sparking of a desire she'd never known she'd had until opportunity was in front of her.

The architecture of the de Luca home is noticeably different from the simple square shapes of Fela's imagination, but there is something incredibly charming about the little wooden structure settled onto the end of it. Like a little birdhouse, and Fela is already smiling by the time Mahalia turns to look at her and to take her inside.

It is difficult to know where to look in Mahalia's new bedroom. Everything inside of it is novel to Fela, taken from a world away. She thinks that bed is almost too overflowing with pillows to be slept in, she wonders what is written in the books on the desk, and before she can think too much about the wall of faces, Mahalia has chosen one to bring to her.

This is Acacio, our father.

Of course Mahalia wouldn't lie to her about such a thing, but Fela couldn't have doubted it besides, because she sees her face in her father's: the set of his mouth, and his eyes. His eyes are incredibly gentle.

A pink color spreads swiftly across Fela's cheeks and her nose. She always cries. Whether its a picture or with Acacio there to see her, she always cries, knowing she belongs to him and has been apart for a long time.]

[She expects something of Fela's reaction, really. Imagines how she would feel if she was Bohrre-na, her memories lost, and had one offered out to her like this. She could have shown him to Fela within her own mind, of course, and it's likely that she'll do that, one day. But sometimes physical anchors are necessary, especially with those of their family most prone to the drift.]

These are his drawings. Our family. He keeps them like this, in his bedroom, to remember everyone.

[She turns back to the wall, reaching up to point at the painting of Fela. A watercolour, soft and fading at the edges. Golden colours, the eldest daughter bathed in sunlight, her smile shining.]

Here, this is you.

[She lifts her hand, going up on tiptoes to point at the drawing above. A thicker paint used, strong lines and vibrant colours, but there are gaps, as if the painting is unfinished.]

And this is your mother, Oro.

[She settles back down, turning back to Fela with a sad smile. Their family is prone to tragedy and hardship, even these moments of joy are always tinged with something sad and bittersweet.]

Christopher had to find her image for him. None of us knew her.

[Fela seals the picture of her father quietly between both palms, as if that is as close as being with. She holds it there firmly as she approaches the other paintings, sees herself there as only a Father and a fellow Bohrre-na could see her, warm colors bleeding into one another.

And then there is her mother. Oro's face is not familiar, if the woman had walked past her she would not have turned to look after her, but Fela accepts that it is true. Fela doesn't think the state of this painting is surprising, even if Mahalia had not just said so, none of us knew her, Fela would have known her mother was dead. There was a strange feminine certainty to it that Fela had never questioned, and while she did not know the tattoo on her wrist had been put there by her mother, she knew her mother had given her that name and had always cherished it thusly in her memory.]

This is so beautiful, Mahalia.

[Her face is still wet, flushed across her cheeks, but she is clearly delighted. She lingers over the painting of her mother, with her father's photograph pressed between her hands, for a moment longer before offers the picture back to Mahalia to be put it in its proper place.]

[Mahalia takes the photograph back quietly, turning to pin it back up, tucked under the drawing of Desidero. Then she turns back to Fela, tucks into her with both arms around her waist, her own eyes growing a little wet. It's easier, with Fela here. On her own, she'd likely have stared at the wall and her mother's desk for a little while, then climbed into Jast's bed to cry herself to sleep.]

It's for both of us. I wanted you to see our family, and how much he loves us all. You can come look at it whenever you want.

[She squishes her little birdie in against her tightly. It just makes her cry a bit more, but she's laughing happily.]

He loves us all and he's much more clever than I am, keeping such a reminder.

It was only after Chris brought him home that he even realised he could draw at all.

[A skill - talent - long forgotten, but had somehow remained intact.]

He was determined to paint us all, once he found out.

So I see.

[She spends another long moment kissing Mahalia's hair before she looks back up at the wall, all the faces and forms so carefully replicated just as their spirits meant them to be. There are too many sad eyes for her liking.]

Even our little bird.

[Mahalia nods, drawing away from Fela slowly, rubbing the tears away from her eyes as she goes back to the wall. There is something of an order to their faces, and her own is last, the youngest daughter. Above it, her mother, painted in a very classical manner, defined lines, but delicate.]

This is my mother. Petronel.

[She has to go up onto tiptoes again to point to the next, central at the top, next to Desidero and Domino. There is love evident in all the drawings, in Acacio's skill, but here most of all it is clear in the subject, in his facial expression and bright eyes.]

And this is Jast.

[Mahalia is a credit to her lovely mother, lovely and romantic, but delicate. She pets the girls hair as she makes note of her immediate circle.

The one she points to, Jast, is clearly not in their bloodline, big blue eyes, black hair, pale skin, but he certainly doesn't look unwelcome in his place upon the wall.]

Yes... your... father.

[It takes her a moment to dredge it all up, but he is on Mahalia's mind often, even if she often refuses to say as much.]

Yes.

[She smiles up at Fela.]

Godfather, but he helped raise me, and he taught me to sing.

[Really, she considers him to be something of a godfather to all of Acacio's children, even if he hasn't met or keep regular contact with many of them. She was sure he'd adore Fela, if he ever met her.]

That's his bed, from his home with the golems.

[She points at the bed in question, replicated just as faithfully as Acacio's wall of pictures, right down to the patterning on some of the pillow covers, the colours of the various blankets. She points over the other side of the room.]

And that's my mother's desk.

[She wonders how much of her mother's handwriting she'll find in the notebooks there, couldn't remember the entire contents, but maybe there were snippets, paragraphs here and there.]