The Princess from the Land of Porcelain

The early morning sunlight, soft and diffuse, gives way to the first strong rays of the day, the ones that bring true warmth. In this light, water evaporates in slow waves, waves that eddy in the gentle breeze, flowing upward to white-puffed clouds, ships of white in the blue above. The opera from the trees becomes all the more powerful as if these bright rays are their conductor's wand, and together they are the song that calls forth what is to come.

No longer do they leach heat but instead it gives them. Once more the breaths are quite invisible and the birds are more active in the sky. Someone stretches out a hand and tilts their face upward. This sun is not enough to burn—even for them—and whilst it has the first lick of summer about it, they put that out of their mind. Savoring the moment is important, tomorrow isn't guaranteed to anyone.

There is playfulness in nature, in the skies, woodland, and soil. The flowers promise their rainbow garland.

Suddenly, music fills the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand; the sound rushing in and around, guiding every person toward a secluded pub on the outskirts of the city. Some react to the beat, others continue in chatter, but always it speaks in some manner. The lyrics swim through like a wakeful dream, the notes relaxing, enabling the song to call their entire being, guiding them further in.

An enigma puzzles their soul, upon seeing a solitary figure lifting their right hand graciously. With delicate motions, as if caressing the most precious rose petal after the morning dew, black snow fell to the floor. The charcoal shimmered upon such hidden sadness, one the blank canvas would be unable to portray.

Amidst the lively drunkard’s Lemuria, the nostalgic personage stayed unfazed, not even bothered the by surrounding cacophony. Everybody's soul throbs with bitter pain, but this one would stink if it were possible to smell souls. Wounds that opened as blooming flowers amidst the season of change and new beginnings.

“Arles?”

Their raspy voice, the lack of air and hydration evident, made the artist halt their work.

A thousand-year-old brown iris stared back at the voice, casting an enrapture spell. A messy hair that could only be classified as a mixture of black with light blue silk was covered with dust, probably due to the fact that they held extra pieces of extra thin charcoal on top of both ears. With a convincing fake smile, a response made its way to the transmitter.

“Why, if it isn’t Dover. How do you fare?”

Immediate contact brought the world into silence, Dover experiencing what Arles was most likely feeling at the moment. Nothingness. Stillness.

Scooting his stool, Arles gave a small pat on top of the one at his side, offering Dover a seat. The man accepted cautiously, his whole body throbbing, throbbing, and throbbing. Arles figure had not changed after all these years, his unkempt bangs were the same as always, and the way he hunched back in front of his canvas brought memories from a past that should be forgotten.

“Aren’t you hot with that on?” Dove blurted out, sweating from seeing Arles' wardrobe. The whitish green wool vest was not the appropriate attire for such a crowded place during midday.

“I got used to it.” A soft chuckle got lost amidst the sea of sound.

An awkward silence grew.

“If you want to ask me something, shoot. Don’t be a stranger, buddy. Even if we haven’t seen each other in almost ten years, things aren’t meant to stay stale like yesterday’s batch of baked bread.”

What are you doing here? Have you always been here? I haven’t seen you in all this time and this is how I find you? Rotting away your art drawing still life of inebriated people? Hidden in a corner with no one to notice your talent? Shrouded in darkness?

“What drink do you recommend?”

“I see many drowning their misfortunes with the Lunarian Teardrop, others celebrate with a glass of Scarlet Mist Wine but I think what you need right now is a Ries Sumac.”

“I am concerned that you avoided explaining what kind of people order it,” Dover let out a sigh.

“Wanna guess?” Arles gestured with his face the illustration on his canvas.

There is a style that can't abide the art that's printed by the thousands. Nothing is a carbon copy and nobody wants that. Millions desire something beautiful on the wall, but only a few want to know the artist that made it. A fraction wants to know what moved them to make something so beautiful—and for Dover that has always been the case. Even pain and sorrow are beautiful in art, it shows us who we are, and who we have been, and help us to see where we're heading. So whenever Dover sees Arles' work, he was unable to give a proper reply.

That has always been the case.

“This lady right here.”

A rough sketch of a woman in a long dress, staring at the pub’s window. The charcoal’s trace was the same as all the others, yet the soul spoke volumes.

Something is wrong, very wrong.

“I’m impressed! I guess that ten years have changed your artistic mastery, young Dover Terpstra. Doing millions of paintings for the elite must have opened up your mind a bit more.” Arles looked pleased. “Those being swallowed by nostalgia often drink it. I, personally, avoid alcohol so I always bring a bottle of tea. Sure, I could go to the nearby teahouse but that place is really stiff, I would be able to feel thousands of eyes staring at me.”

Arles hand stops abruptly midway, lowering the charcoal and taking a deep breath. His slender finger twitched slightly, just to grab his tea and take a sip. He offers some to Dover, but he politely declines.

“I doubt thousands would be there.”

“It’s an expression you silly. I know there wouldn’t be thousands, probably only… thirty?”

“Are we counting eyes as… eyes or pair of eyes?”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

Arles replied head tilted toward the wooden roof. A crack of sunlight streamed down upon his wintry pale skin. He pointed to it, the shape of his lips reflecting the crescent above.

🍃

An old clock kept time in a house that was no longer alive. No sunlight danced in through the dirty windows. Cobwebs hung, their occupants dead or gone. Dust lay on the floor, a dreary carpet on a sagging floor. A stray fly buzzed around a chandelier that stared miserably down from where it was bolted to the ceiling. An open door creaked as a breath of wind caused it to move on its rusty hinges. A crumbling piece of cloth fluttered through the air, like a bird trapped in a cage. It was an empty, forlorn building, without a breath.

What the hell happened… Arles?

A long time ago, the house had lived and breathed. Chubby, happy children had run through the velvet-carpeted halls. Red, white, and yellow roses grew on the walls outside the building. Willow trees drooped over a pond, creating a romantic atmosphere. Grass covered the lawn without imperfection. Friendly birds sang on the branches and kept the squirrels' company. Sunlight flowed in like a river through the crystal-clear windows. The wind entered with the sunlight and played tag with the curtains. It danced with the flowers in the garden and sang the trees to sleep.

But all of this was from a bygone era.

It was an old, long-forgotten, abandoned house where Dover’s best friend lived. It was broken down in disrepair and weeds filled the garden where once the grass had been as soft as a blanket. Birds no longer sang in the trees, and even the insects had largely left the house. Part of the roof had caved in after years of storms, even.

Arles stared at a broken mirror.

“I know it’s not the best but, please make yourself at home.” He kept on walking, going to God knows where. “I’ll bring some snacks. I don’t get visits often, as you can see.”

Once he was gone from the corner of his eye, Dover ascended towards the only stairs of the decrepit house which were, astonishingly, well kept. Everything guiding toward a single room was dust free, clean as a brilliant diamond. Stretching his hand, his fingertips were about to touch the doorknob, only for a loud sound coming from the other room stealing his attention. Walking slowly, the adrenaline and nervousness rushed to his face, making it beet red. He knew Arles wouldn’t be upset about him snooping around, yet the unnerving feeling was there eating him from the inside out.

An open door being hit by the breeze was the cause of such disturbing noise. Dover was about to close it, only to notice it smelled like acrylic.

A gate of memories was opened in his brain, shutting the door as quickly as possible to make them go away. His agitated breathing was enough to make him feel sick. Probably, that was why such morbid and intrusive thoughts came back to his soul, slowly going back to the first room that stole his curiosity.

Without a noise, the mahogany door opened. Seemed like it received proper maintenance.

A different world was confined inside those closed walls.

A room of pastels awaited him at the journey's end, a room in which the spirit could rest and expand. But for Dover, a myriad of negative feelings were about to paint an ugly art piece.

Creativity, eclectic chaos that told a story of talents and obsessions. A well-kept canopy bed, pastel pink. Frames filled with dried flower petals, bottles of tree branches on top of tidy cabinets, an impossible-to-count number of plushies, fancy porcelain dolls as well as a sweet minty but slight honey aroma.

Truly, a room fit for someone considered a princess from a certain someone’s heart.

Unable to move, Dover holds the urge to vomit.

“Yeah, I guess I should not only focus on keeping this place tidy.” Arles voice made his blood pressure sink. He was holding a tray with some sliced apples and two cups of barley tea. “Sorry for not having more. Most of the things I had were expired except these apples I got today from the market in the early morning.”

Unable to say a word, Dover followed Arles back to the gloomy area of the house and chewed slowly the juicy slice of apple while sitting down on a dusty sofa.

“Now that I think about it, we met today with perfect timing.” Arles smile was now genuine, Dover knew. It wasn’t a hunch, it was pure, raw instinct. “Being reunited this way, I don’t know if calling it fate or destiny or a whim of the world itself.”

Utterly confused, Dover was unable to even say a single word, since the house’s main entrance had been opened without a care in the world.

“Brother, you need to take care of yourself properly! Look at this mess! The staff had a tough time figuring out where to drop me since this looks nothing like years ago, I swear!”

If joy had a face, Arles would be it.

“Now that I’m back, I’ll be tidying this place up, just how it used to be! Then, we’re going to—”

Dover and the girl’s irises make contact.

“You do remember Dover, right? It’s such a coincidence we stumbled upon each other today. Isn’t it lovely? Just like when we were kids.” Arles stood up, trembling fingers embracing both Dover and the girl. “Welcome home, Marl.”

For Arles, this was destiny or fate.

For Marl, this was the reunion of the century.

For Dover, this was—.

After all these years…

Marl’s red wisteria eyes were the epitome of happiness, looking at Dover with a hint of nostalgia.

I still hate you for ruining Arles life.