Perhaps for a moment, time seems to stand still, as if the very center of the universe was holding its breath. A sharp point dangling over the surface of a world still incomplete, defined by the stuffs of legend, a brilliant mind, and careful placements of certain symbols, waiting for just the right second, or perhaps a new occurrence to take place. So much can happen in a moment. A person’s life could begin, a house could be burned to a crisp, a new, fresh love could be kindled. But nothing happened until the point, loaded with blank ink, came in contact with the world it was creating. Nothing more than a sheet of parchment paper, illuminated by a candle’s flame, licking at the thin wick it tip-toed upon as it overlooked the makings of a new thing… a world anew, breathing life to something else entirely.
The quill’s tip continued to scribble, scratch, and leave behind a trail as the hand grasping the shaft of the quill twitched to form symbols. Words. Letter by letter, the owner of that hand filled the parchment with ink, careful to not smudge this ink. She was creating a new world, fueled by thoughts, images, and inspiration. A story, for lack of a better word – a story of what she remembers before. She remembers fields, outlined by trees, filled with beckoning grasses and daisies and forget-me-nots, where the hares munched the leaves of clover and the sparrows flitted through the wide open sky as though it was nobody’s business. She remembers the edge of the forest, where she loved to watch for the gentle does and hungry bears. The fragrant berries in the bushes would catch their attention, offering a relief from the aching in their empty bellies… and for a time, the lion would dine with the lamb.
As she records more of her memory, her ears turn. They slight in the direction of a bird in the treetops, who has started singing of love and happy days. A happy day indeed, for today was a day for plans to take place.
Dipping her quill’s tip into the mouth of her ink bottle, she pauses again, as if a thought caught the back of her mind. A craving, perhaps. As she combs her clawed fingers through her thick, dark hair, she remembers what she had intended to do before she had gotten distracted by the creation of her own mind. Here, she is playing her own God, but she has every right to. This is her domain, where she is the Queen, and all that she sees looks up to her in awe and fascination, craving for a glance from her beautiful eyes. Eyes that have seen an age, eyes that tell the story of a lifetime… but right now, they are searching for something she needs. It doesn’t take long. As she locates what she had originally been searching for, she smiles… a kind gesture intended for nobody in particular, excepting her loving subjects. She reaches for her object of interest with her paws.
Her favorite coffee mug, so she might brew another pot of the bitter drink. A drink that might be sweetened. Examining the details for just a moment, she realizes with slight amusement that there is a stain where her lips had taken their drink, and a rough outline where she filled her cup. A meaningless detail, but one she notices all the same. She has a keen eye for details. It helps to write about what she remembers.
Her cup now filled with a spoonful of sugar, cream, and dark coffee, she sits back down. Through the window looking in, one might find this method of writing a bit unorthodox. But for this fantastic person, it’s perfect. It’s just right. And who should tell her no? Musing over this thought, she picks up her quill again, and begins to write about what she remembers.
With the fresh, clean breeze tickling her ears, her memory rekindled by the energizing coffee, she gets up from her nest. Her golden eyes swept across her territory, the bright sunlight reflecting off the coloration and seeming to illuminate them brilliantly. If the squirrel twenty yards away would look, it would spot flecks of an earthy green mingling in the glorious gold. It would have even more reason to admire this magnificent creature should it take a look, but this squirrel did not have time for such trifles. An elegant thing overlooked, favored by the collection of seeds and buried acorns.
Her paws pad very delicately over the soft dirt, making sure to step around a struggling sapling. She leans her head down to breathe a word of hope, and kisses the face of the broadest leaf as she wishes it well in the years to come. Her words seem to gladden the infant, for it turns to greet the sunlight filtering through its parent’s leaves.
Leaving little prints in the soft earth behind her, songbirds follow her progress as she journeys up a hill, the distinct essence of water greeting her sensitive snout. A few moments later, she is standing on the edge of the earth, the roaring sea crashing against the tall, powerful white cliffs that supported the very grass she mingled with. Mere seconds passed as she made a decision, and as the breeze gave way to a steady draft, she spread her thin, leathery wings, supported by long, slender phalanges. Waiting for just the right moment, she took a deep breath. Then it was time. The breeze whispered a single syllable into her sensitive, fur-covered ear, causing it to twitch in anticipation.
With one powerful leap and a push up by the means of her able wings, she was in the open air, allowing herself to be carried by the air current, despite the slight tilts of her wings to guide her in the right direction. She is the Queen of the sky. She is the Queen of all she sees. A single silver tear formed in her eye as she recalled the glory of flying high over the wonders of the sea, wowing weighted whales and dolphins that admired from afar. They, too, wanted such a freedom, for nothing was as free as her. Nothing was as beautiful. Nothing could compare, not even the noble Eagles to the north, or the majestic Horses in the Western Plains. Only a dragon could hope to match her.
Somehow, her attention is brought to the fact that her mug had drained itself of all contents. Sitting up, she realizes that the tear she had just written about had not been a figment of her imagination. The back of her finger slid under her lower eyelid, collecting the silvery drop to wipe it away. Her heart longed for the skies again. Wiping away the tear, she sighs softly, and reloads her pen with ink. Here, she has told the story of her heart, a story that nobody else would have ever known until now. A story of her home. How her life had once been, and how she longs for it again. Her day will come. Today is not that day, and even though her wings are weighted down by gravity and humanity, she will soon have her time.
A quiet promise, written and signed by the world, reassures her of this. There was a reason for her being here on Earth. And what if that reason was to share who she is?
She picks up her quill once again, renewed by this reminder. Finishing off her story with a flourish, she spreads her wings, ignoring as she knocks over several trinkets, knick knacks, and incense cones. This is who she truly is. This is what her heart is shaped like.
Her heart is her home, she realizes. And there is nothing that can change who she is.