[Fortuna's] you hold me down in the best way [#vera]

”Learn to be indifferent to what makes no difference.” – Marcus Aurelius

This was all much more grandiose and luxurious than Zygmunt had had the pleasure of experiencing thus far in his declared artistic lifestyle. He had half a mind to decline due to the excessiveness of it all, but Urszula reminded him lovingly that this was a push in the right direction towards getting his works seen and appreciated. Her interest honestly surprised him, considering how in her own world the girl had always been growing up. But things change over time, obviously, and she was unfortunately correct more than not when it came to marketing anything. In Zyg’s case, himself.

The thing that was creating this unsettled mind was that he would be reading in front of the largest grouping of people he had ever read in front of. The man adjusted his short rimmed fedora to busy himself away from that realization once more. He arched a brown lightly as he surveyed the attendees, bringing his Goblin distilled vodka high ball to his lips and taking a small sampling of this themed drink – minus the flavorings and added flower petals. So, vodka. The coordinator allowed him two drinks before and then two after so as not to make a fool of himself. Apparently that was a thing people did.

Zygmunt straightened his back a little more against the wall that had been serving as a support for the past twelve or so minutes and caught sight of the coordinator who beckoned him over to prep him for his reading. Formalities. Zyg took his time slinking over, his skinny black slacks keeping his movement more or less fluid looking and his rolled up sleeves of his white button down served to dial back the formality a bit. The attire was per request: black, formal, please wear a tie, leave the hat at home. It would appear he met the coordinator halfway and added a vest, kept the hat, and adorned himself with a burgundy tie and some self-made timepieces for good measure.

He offered up a smile, tipped his chin upwards and raised his brows playfully. “What now?” Zygmunt asked simply, raising his glass and taking another sip while he was being explained the basics of how to speak – the level of caring he had was very minimal. What was the point in reading his own works if he was being instructed on how to read them? None. “Yes, well. That sounds like a good plan.” He appeased, set his glass down, and gave a nod in acceptance for his allotted second glass for the show. Plus, that meant he could be alone for a moment.

His gaze took in the levitated canvas pieces of art, all in black and white. Most of which were oil or charcoal based mediums. All of which he found really quite impressive and some of which were better interpretations of the crap sketches in his own journals. Each paired with a parchment covered in Zygmunt’s mostly legible handwriting with the written piece that complemented them. The lights were brightest at every piece of art, and otherwise dimmed throughout the rest of the galleria. A small podium stood on its own, an actual sculpture in and of itself of a male figure balancing whatever speech guideline were resting above him. The flowers all white with grayscale accents. It was all very well done.

And there it was, his introduction, a handshake in exchange for his new glass. He offered up a smile in response to the polite applause and cheers to those in the audience in an attempt to quiet them down for his reading. His gaze fell to the podium and he let out a soft laugh that could be surprisingly heard by everyone thanks to the Sonorus charm. “Well, you’re all here for a purpose.” He paused, looking up once more and running each hand up the opposite arm to further roll up his sleeves, exchanging his glass as he went. He took a sip, biding a bit of time, before setting the glass down on the sculptured creation before him. “Shall we?” His arms shrugged themselves out to his sides, wand brandished lightly between his fingertips in the act.

“To the Fire” Zygmunt started, his attention on his wand movements as he created his own hand-held flames. He gave a toss of his hand and through intricate side to side motions, as if drawing the flames, he encouraged them to grow whilst still being manageable.
     “How long I have been
                  looking into you
            staring through you into
                                  the other side
           there is no way of telling

it appears to have continued
                              from an age of its own
           this scrutiny of the bright
                  veil rising and the lit
      corridors of the embers
                                    in which I see the days

beyond touch beyond reach
                     beyond all understanding
                beyond their faces
             beneath your dangerous wings
       you at whose touch
                                 everything changes
        you who never change

there in you one at a time
    are the unknown days
                     turning the corners
               the unseen past
       the unrecognized present
                    familiar but already
           beyond identity …”

Zygmunt caught himself off guard at the sight of a woman clad in a very near matching red dress. As the flickers of the flames from the stage danced, the shadows of her figure beguiled him. He longed to see more. He wished her to turn. But he was almost finished with his read and this was most certainly the only means with which to take in all of her beauty. It was figures like that that aided in the creation of masterpieces. And so he collected his dancing flames from across the stage back into his hand in the form of a small female figure with no discernable facial features and licking flames for hair. Directing his wand towards the lady in red, he danced the flames gingerly her way and continued.

“expressions without selves
             appearing finally within you
                                                                                of whom light is made.”

The dancing woman evolved into a hand of flames and outlined the woman’s face, directing her to turn and give her attention towards Zygmunt before dissipating to a smokescreen set of lips with a final flick of his wrist and apparently encouraging applause from the rest of those surrounding him. Meanwhile he was standing still, crooked smile on his lips and a name echoing in his head; Veronika.





@Veronika Petrova
credit for poem to W.S. Merwin, “To the Fire” – fantastic!

There was nothing more excruciatingly tedious than attending social events which required her presence, as imposed by her sponsors. While Veronika Nikolayevna enjoyed being a Quidditch player, it was a profession she had chosen because it had gone against her family’s wishes, and, furthermore, allowed her to always be as violent as possible without having to excuse herself and pretend to be especially ladylike. But fame and success wouldn’t excuse one of such situations, it seemed. She was having to deal with everything she did not like; parties, dreary events, social gatherings for one cause or another. All for the sponsors.

What infuriated her more was when such events took place in different countries; it was not because she disliked travelling, for Veronika always enjoyed that aspect of her job, but because she knew that she wouldn’t have what she’d like most; Russian vodka. However, she couldn’t complain too much, for, that specific evening, the event she had to attend was something she would have personally be interested into should she have had the necessary amount of time to dedicate to her own leisure pursuits. Veronika had always enjoyed reading, and despite her busy schedule, she still tried to keep up to date with everything knew. She tried, but she was not successful. Still, the occasion would push her in the right direction, for it was a reading, a famous poet of some sorts. Veronika hadn’t seen the invitation, for she was already late, as her manager had insisted on her changing her simple black dress to something more suitable for the occasion.

She’d entered the gallery, and felt indeed a bit embarrassed by her tardiness, for the lecture had already begun. Veronika however had immediately spotted a waiter, and picked up a glass of red wine from his tray. She would not try anything else when in Italy, for she had learned that superior alcohol could only be found in Russia. Nonetheless, Italian wine was fairly nice, and, most importantly, it was alcohol. She couldn’t stay sober for long in that lavish dress, that was certain. Veronika then slowly paced towards one of the levitated pieces of art, black and white, charcoal. Taking a sip from her drink, Veronika couldn’t but wonder why it felt so familiar. She hadn’t attended such an occasion before or, at least, for a long time; Vera knew nothing of contemporary artists, unfortunately, for she did not pay much attention to the media either. And yet, there she was, finding the work of art rather familiar.

A flame took her by surprise. A figure of a small female, dancing gingerly, approaching her; as soon as it drew rather close to her face, it evolved into a hand of flames, causing Veronika to turn, a bit taken aback. Modern art was perhaps not her favourite, she figured. Nonetheless, as the flame went down, it seemed that the lecture had also finished, as rounds of applause started resonating from all over the gallery. Her gaze then went towards the small podium, and Veronika’s eyes widened. It wasn’t a sentiment of surprise that she felt, but mostly of familiarity, the same she had felt when remarking the piece of art. A sentiment of longing overtook her as well.

Her first. The one whom she had offered so much to, and the one who offered her so much in return. The one who would always remain in her memories as a burning flame, causing her heart to beat faster just at the thought of him. The one who would forever remain an unfinished chapter of her life. It was him, the one who’d first captured her attention and fascination.

“Zygmunt.” She whispered, almost breathless, as she offered him a smile that mirrored his own.