beh LOR ey (Thalassian): The Sun; also, less common, To uncover something hidden.
Despite the late night, I awaken refreshed to pre-dawn light gentle with promise. Wrapping a dove-grey shawl around my shoulders, I take the creaky steps down from my top floor room to the heart of the raven, warm with the smells of hearth and the burgeoning day.
You’re already waiting, of course. Leaning against the adjacent wall, arms crossed in a leisurely manner, you kick off and nod politely upon my descent. With soft smiles and no words we wander out into salty air together, coffees and sketchbook in hand.
I follow along behind. The breeze plays with my shawl and as it dances in the wind I fancy myself for a moment as a questing mystic, here to gather what wisdom I can from the meeting of water and fire, charcoal and parchment.
Your stride is sure along both pathway and riprap. Auburn locks tied up in that foxtail toss to and fro with each step, gracing strong, square shoulders; the frame of someone who takes pride in hard work. Yet there’s also lithe grace, a honed surety which belies some deeper wisdom of the land and how ones body best moves upon it.
The light shifts quickly. Dawn is imminent.
Near the water’s edge, face bright with almost boyish excitement and the sun’s infant rays, your chest rises with a deep inhale as you turn to meet my gaze. Reaching out, calloused hands assist with pulling me up and over the last few rocks to a small stretch of secluded sand. I settle down upon the woven linen you suddenly produce, sipping coffee contentedly as you ready your sketchbook.
The light creeps over the horizon, and I could swear there’s a song accompanying it. There’s something holy about the witnessing of another day dawning, and I observe both belore’s ascent and your artistic process with profound gratitude. Eyes bright as you set to work upon the page, you seem to relish creating something out of nothing.
“Anar'alah belore,” I murmur despite myself. Those verdant eyes shift to peer at me with a strangely serious expression, lingering but a moment too long before going back, fingers dancing across the page with a heady mix of passion and reverence.
I can’t wait to see what it blossoms to be.