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[Cezanne Abella]

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“I’m afraid for you living here, alone.” Gustav knelt beside her seat and looked into Cezanne’s eyes, searching – for what? Forgiveness? Understanding? The brilliance of his blue eyes shimmered oddly in the lamplight of the theatre.

“This is my home, Gustav. It’s been my dream, though often put off.” Cezanne saw nothing but genuine concern in his eyes. What did he know that she did not? Perhaps he had seen the decree too. That hateful decree from the lich himself, solidifying the notion that this theatre and the lands contained therein were most definitely under the rule of Umbra – and hence, some brat named Catherine.

“I worry about the company you keep, Cariad.” He smoothed over the ab’Arawn crest on her pendant with his thumb. “She can’t be trusted. She’s turning back to Umbra, even now.”

Cezanne’s heart sank heavily. Could it be true? Could Lady Ceinwyn have turned back to fall at the feet of the one who humiliated her and cast her from the city? She shook her head, bewildered, and looked back into Gustav’s eyes as he watched her expressions change. “But where will I…”

“Come to the gypsy camp. There, you will be safe. There, at least, you will be with my family when I cannot be by your side.” He wrapped a strand of her hair around her finger and watched for her reaction expectantly.

The thought struck her forcefully. Her mother lived in the camp, though for the past few years, she had visited a camp that her aunt called home. Mama always said this wasn’t the right way. This theatre, this land, it wasn’t becoming of a gypsy girl. It was unfaithful to my roots…and I left her, just like Papa did.

Cezanne took a deep breath and sighed. “I suppose Stephen can take care of the theatre for now, till I can decide what to do with it.” She saw Gustav’s smile soften, and she knew she was making the right choice. But there was much preparation, so many loose ends. She was sure of herself, but she would not leave without speaking with Ceinwyn. She would not turn her back on the Matriarch, no matter who she served.

In the midst of the torrent of thoughts and fears, Gustav kissed her forehead softly. The storm subsided and a new thought settled onto the barren landscape of her heart and mind. What will Mama say when she finds out her daughter’s come home?

[Cezanne Abella]

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The night came in flashes of colour and light as the lanterns cast wild shadows of dancers on the tents. Here and there, candlelight shining through translucent scarves cast brilliant hues of light across the revelers. The night of Sol Invictus had claimed the spirits of the natives and visitors alike, as bejeweled dancers spun and jingled round the fire.

Cezanne smiled as she watched the faces, alight with hope and laughter, and bathed in the warm glow of the bonfire. On the perimeter of the revelers, lovers whispered, touched, kissed, and giggled in the energy of the night air. Cezanne searched the faces through the crowd, seeking one in particular.

“Ceza!” The face was familiar, but she couldn’t place the man’s name. He smiled, red-cheeked with excitement and dance. He picked her up and whirled her around with a yelp before letting her go again. “We’ve missed you! I’m so glad you came!”
Cezanne laughed as she regained her footing. “Thank you, it’s so good to be here! It’s a beautiful night…”

“Nocturne Sol Invictus!” He raised a goblet of wine, and those around him repeated his toast boisterously, raising their cups as well.

A warm whisper in her ear gave Cezanne a little shiver, as arms encircled her waist from behind. “Cariad, I’m so happy you’re here.”

Cezanne wrapped her arms over his and leaned her cheek against his as the two swayed to the music of a piper near the fire. Gustav spun her around and looked her over, grinning mischievously. “You look good enough to eat.”

With that he pulled her into a deep and exploring kiss, still swaying with her in the midst of the celebration. His hands roamed hungrily, possessively over her. Here, it didn’t matter. Love was a reason for celebration. It wasn’t something to be hidden in the darkest corners of a bedroom. Cezanne was still getting used to the idea, but at the moment, the spirit of the event had caught her up. She kissed him eagerly, losing herself in the moment.

“Care to step behind the tents with me?” His voice was husky, urgent.

Cezanne grinned, blushing, and nodded. Gustav took her hand and led her away from the group. Only a few noticed, smiling and winking at the two as the night beyond the firelight swallowed them whole.

*****

Some time later, the lovers clung to one another as they returned to the throng of revelers. Damp tendrils curled as they fell around Cezanne’s flushed face, and Gustav wrapped his arm tightly around her waist as they emerged from the darkness and immersed themselves in the welcoming warmth of the bonfire.

The mood had settled into a more reverent and quiet tone. Soft music from the lute wove its way between the gypsies and surrounded the group like a protective bubble, hiding them from the snow, from the night, and from the eyes of those who would judge them.

Gustav found a seat on a low wooden bench and Cezanne sat at his feet, watching the way his eyes softened by firelight. She leaned back against him, and he wrapped his arms around her, rocking gently. He leaned down to whisper into her ear. “Welcome home, my Angel.”

[Xana]

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From a distance, Xana saw the young lovers disappear for a while, and likewise took note of their return. She smiled a wistful and vaguely sad smile to herself, admiring their carefree approach to their love. It was good to see the half-gypsy girl return to the fold of the family. Be the relation near or distant, it was a blessing to have her people again taking pride in their heritage and refusing to continue bowing to the iniquities of the so-called polite society. There was much work to be done, on both personal and collective levels, but the Sosarian gypsies were indeed lifting their heads above the waters of oppression. Hearing the pair laughing softly, their heads bowed together to the point that their foreheads touched, reminded Xana of the love she once shared. Hastily, and with a touch of hostility, Xana forced those thoughts out of her head and began playing a new song on the beautiful white lute given to her by her nephew.

If only she could get the man from the surreal dream out of her head.

If only.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner