Log:Art and Soul
A cut scene, of sorts...
“You will teach me?”
The question comes softly over the sound of fountain spray, pattering down like a gentle rain. In the wee hours of morning light, Sculpture Park is scarcely inhabited. Two bodies sit atop the stone rim, facing the refreshing mist.
To Rheisa, it is reminiscent of the wild places – blustery castoff of a waterfall, or a morning fog within the heart of her forest valley. With her eyes closed, she can almost convince herself that it smells of home.
To aging Alexander Engelando, it is a symbol of the refreshing nature of art – the very drive of his existence all these many decades gone by. Crisp, touching, free. But now, he is trapped inside this arthritic shell, and must accept that he will never generate such feelings again. Not with his own two hands.
The old man opens his graying eyes and stares down into the withered palms looking back at him.
“I will teach you.”
A slender hand inches across the span between and cups gently around his forearm. Carroty fingers are almost swallowed by the plush of his robe as they offer a reassuring squeeze. “What is lost /will/ be found.”
“Oh,” a halfhearted, wheezy chuckle lifts from Mr. Engelando’s lips, “And what might that be? Youth? Or the years of my life’s work, thieved away in the span of night?” There’s no masking the bitterness edging his soft voice.
Rheisa opens her eyes. Her piercing stare remains forward, as there is no need to witness his sadness so directly. “Both.” Looking down at her toes playing in the cool water, she adds “Your city has many laws, to fight for you here. And Nar Shaada may have no heart…but there are many eyes.”
A quiet huff of amusement curls the aging artist’s lips into a sorrow-laced smile. “Of that, I have no doubt. But the other?”
“Your spirit will forever live through what you have created,” says the Togruta with unmistakable conviction. “It does not matter how far away they go. You have given life to these stones.” Her intense gaze could speak earnestly enough without words.
She cups a hand to his grizzled beard and turns his face towards hers.
Alexander breathes a shaky sigh and lifts a gnarled hand to pat at hers, then struggles for a moment to pull a necklace out from beneath his vestments. It’s a tiny, wooden bird dangling from a leather cord.
“As there is yours, within this,” he whispers.
Rheisa nods once.
“To guide you, for it already has seen the way. When it is time,” murmurs the little woodcarver from Shili.
Alexander nods once.
“Then until it is time, I will teach you. Through that, may I live happily ever on.”