It’s like 3 AM and I’m completely shattered. So sadly this bit is short but it does continue the story. The next part tomorrow.
The Swimmer part 2
He started by sketching the crenelations of the walls. He didn’t have to look up to know exactly how many there were. When he reached the wall’s collapsed section he began to outline the wooden replacement- one rectangle, streaked with diagonals to denote the woodgrain. As he slashed the last diagonal the crenelations unraveled at the same rate at which he drew them, disappearing like a tugged out thread. Jon stopped to watch his walls disappear. He blew on the soil whilst the lines disappeared, as if it were him, rather than the Gods that undid his work. Then he smoothed brown soil onto his hands, so he could wash them in the river later. He dirtied himself on purpose so that the pleasure he took at the end of the ritual would be heightened, crested with just a dab of fear; if they carefully examined his nails they might wonder how the dirt got under after swimming.
Jon traced the crenelations again. He skipped the wooden addition this time, drawing the wall as it had once been, no missing teeth, he had to sweep his body around to make space for more of the wall. twenty, fifty, ninety crenelations before they began to disappear. He could see them disappearing in the corner of his eye. He continued, drawing faster than the Gods could erase, till he’d swept a circle around himself- decided it was a birds perspective, started adding the curve of the river, the island in the pool, the slab of the keep, dots for trees and the outline of a flower, carefully drawn where Lady Misha’s garden was. The wall disappeared, left the city undefended. Jon focused, had finished the careful details of the stigma when the rest was obliterated. He had a moment to observe the flower in full before the garden return to bare soil. Jon panted out of concentration. He smiled, chuckled to himself.
He started again.
A race against the Gods. A warmup. He spent the next quarter of an hour improving his speed, flexing his hands and arms. This was better than doing just simple shapes, this was so much more fun; to sketch what he saw, as quickly as he could- the trees, an imagined bird, sometimes the clouds though his neck hurt from nodding up and down and up as he tried to capture the moving sky.
Finally he was ready.
He sketched abstract symbols that looked lke nothing. A sweep here, a curve there, random lines in the middle. The only rule was that he had stop right before they began to disappear. Then he had to weight and start all over again. Once, when he was younger he could have sworn he saw, during the festival of the Warlord’s fall, a tender scribe a symbol upon a broken down fishing boat. He painted it by flinging shots of white frlom an iron-banded bucket onto the hull. He restarted several times until he got it right, and around the symbol the broken wood re-knitted together. Jon went into the hollow and found the small box. He withdrew from inside the shards of paper, the marks on them meaningless to him as he was illiterate. He placed it on the dirt and drew around it, trying out variations that seemed similar to that hold memory. He’d spent so much time going through the permutations. Had tried to remember more clearly, to sift and interrogate his memories hoping to discard the impostors.
As usual nothing happened. Till in his frustration Jon drew a new sign. When it finished it seemed to shine. Then Jon floated off the ground, terrified.