Alex | 28 | she/her | USA
Blog for my art and the occasional short story. I also reblog medieval and medieval-ish inspiration. I never use AI and try my darndest not to reblog it.
miniature from a copy of le roman de la rose by guillaume de lorris and jean de meung, illustrated by robinet testard or his school. manuscript produced in france, end of 15th c.
I just can't get over the details on this painting at the National Gallery. The gemstones! The texture on the goldwork! The drapes of all the fabrics! The translucence of the angel's hair...
Mary, Queen of Heaven
Master of the Saint Lucy Legend, Netherlandish, active c. 1480 - c. 1510
Arachne had wanted luminescent shades of gold, orange, and scarlet yarn, and so she had ordered the aurai to assemble large vats for the cloud-spun skeins. She watched as the throng of spirits poured brazen sunlight into the vats and mixed it with zephyr to make the colors fast. When the first skeins emerged from the dye, Arachne approved of the shade for the lightest threads but requested the rest be dyed longer for more robust hues. Wild geese sailed west underfoot; tonight would be one of the last rose dawns of harvest time.
Miles below, fires were being lit to bake the day's bread, appearing to Arachne as tiny dots on the landscape.
``Matins!" she called to one of her most skilled aurai. "Take the greater part of our companions and begin the tapestry. The lesser part must continue to dye the cloud-spun yarn scarlet.
``Yes ma'am -- we will start at once. When can the dyers join the weavers?"
Arachne thought. ``When the yarn is the color of the last, bruised leaves of Autumn."
``Yes ma'am." And with an airy bow, Matins joined the aurai to pass along the instructions.
Arachne was wise enough not to be in the aurai's way as they wove the morning sky into being; however, she was no passive observer. She paced the length of the tapestry as it grew, recommending adjustments on the tension and on the placement of tendrils of light. When the delicate aurai apprentices, whose only job of the day was to transport dyed yarn to the loom, became overwhelmed with the task, Arachne did not hesitate to join their rank.
Once the last brilliantly dyed yarns were woven into the tapestry, the Arachne and the aurai fell into the quiet, speedy work of skilled craftspeople as they pulled in the ice-blue colors of day. There was no need for Arachne's instruction now, as the daily ritual was well familiar to all, and she blended into the throng to weave. Her hands knew the loom like it was a rhyme from childhood.
But even the familiar ritual was tinged with signs of change. Arachne peered through the clouds below, and although the fires were slowly disappearing, much larger clusters of light were still unwaveringly aglow. Unlike fires, these would stay lit long past nightfall. Amid the work songs and gossip of the aurai, there was a more sinister murmur or things uncertain. High-flying vehicles, powered by grease and fire. Machines sailing further and higher by the day leaving scars of acrid smoke.
It was precisely because Arachne was trying to tune out the anxious gossip that she was the last to notice. The aurai stopped weaving and cast their eyes about the heavens, allowing the fabric of the sky to stop proceeding. There was a brief silence, and then Arachne did not so much hear it as feel it -- a deep, all-consuming roll of thunder unlike any thunder she had ever witnessed; for this one gained decibel and fury every moment.
Arachne had not felt instinct or primal fear in many thousands of years, yet something within her soul screamed that she must fly. But no sooner had her feet made the decision to move than new, dizzying information vied for her attention -- something soaring up from below! At its zenith it slowed long enough for the aurai to see a missile larger than a sailing ship trailing blinding light behind it. It appeared to be suspended in the sky for just a silent moment, and then it was instantly torn apart in golden fragments.
``Go, bring water!" Arachne shouted. Finally having some direction, the aurai leapt up as a unit and towed a late summer squall with tethers the size of tree trunks. They dampened the sky's fabric before the cinders could consume the whole cloth, but it would still bear black charred scars.
Arachne watched the projectile tumble slowly back to the earth, metal called back to its natal place. She watched as when it landed, several men in stiff brown and gray outfits tentatively scurried out of covered places to investigate the twisted scrap. Some jumped with glee, and others thoughtfully traced out the parabolic path that the missile had torn through the sky. One man in the center of the crowd removed his smart wool hat to shade his eyes and peered deeper into the sky even while his comrades patted his back heartily. Arachne peered back into his eyes as she shut the clouds and disappeared.
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