The Pearls Within the Sands of Time by WikedFae

Summary: Each brush stroke a blessing, each glance a gem in the cold of an artists' paradise. The unspoken thoughts that filled moments of two souls living in a world of color.

Disclaimer: The only thing I can claim rights to is the collection of snippets you are about to read. No more, no less.

Moment: Bristles of a Brush

The swish of the brush was entrancing, intoxicating, as it drowned in the sound her breath. Even beyond the door, Griet could feel the rasp of the bristles against the canvas slip down her throat to nestle in her bosom, hypnotizing her entire being, holding her captive in that dim, narrow corridor. She daren't move for fear of interfering, but whether she stayed still to leave him his concentration or to stave off her inevitable return to a bleak and barren task, she could not discern. For now, it was enough to listen to the music of his creativity, subtle and whispered as it was. So she stood eavesdropping on the discourse with his muse, transfixed with her hands wrapped around the handle of her own brush…well, broom. Somehow, though, the handle she clung to was not so different than the handle he cradled in his grasp. True, he made his brush sing as its toe slid resolutely across its canvas landscape, leaving behind a trail of oil-based beauty; she could not boast of having the same talent. Her broom's voice was rough and abrasive, its movements halting and brusque. It still moved with purpose under her stern and determined hands, but the brush she directed would always be wiping away the ashes of life, doomed to forever wander the same paths as the beauty of creation disappeared under the dust of abandonment and disuse. His hands would never subject his tool of interpretation to the same monotonous streaks—his brush would be the designer of worlds more beautiful than she had ever dared to dream. And all because of the gentle, guiding hands of one silent architect.


A soft clatter emanated from behind the door followed by a scraping sound. His work was done for the day then. The rustle of cloth, the creak of floorboards, the clack of window shutter latches, and the gurgle of brushes swirling through liquid, shedding their colored mantles for the evening all heralded his departure. Her heart ached to hear more but fear of discovery drove her to quietly steal from the hallway and disappear into the shadows of the heavy drapery lining the landing. The cold bite of approaching winter had crept into the house, the gleam of the waning sun strained to shine in the early evening sky, and soon the door opened. Warm candlelight preceded him as he emerged from the studio, the light dancing in his eyes. Watching him carefully descend the stairs, she sighed…his manner and quiet disposition left her with insatiable curiosity in all respects save one: she knew with certainty she would always be the moth and he the flame. His footsteps echoed down below until fading into silence and she could draw breath once more. Inching towards the banister, she strained to hear the vanishing whispers of his presence. Somewhere in the house a door closed; Griet's eyes slid shut as the puff of wind rushed up the stairwell. It carried with it the cloying scent of wine skin tempered by the muted aroma of linseed oil and for a moment, it was as if he'd never left. Moving back towards the door, she rested her forehead on the aging wood; with the haze of smells tingling in her nose and her figure held in the embrace of dusk, she knew kinship. The silent brush strokes danced on behind the door, their steps carrying on into eternity, she was sure. And there, so close to creation's haven, she cradled her broom gently in her hands and swept until no speck of dust remained, as was befitting of a master.