queenoflogs | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Characters:

mellifluently &

c_zacatechichi
Date: March 14th
Summary: Sisters being sisterly
Warnings: Only fluff.

[Guess who is lazing out front of her house on a blanket.]

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[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.]

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