Portraits of a Cycle

GUARDIAN
The guardian has paths of ink across his skin.
-As a way to tell, or to remember, he alone was not quite sure
The telltale mark of a tree upon his skin. His tree, his burden, his life.
And he would say, that it was a choice he made long ago. Their lives upon his back.
But her gaze held as she asks ‘but what of you?’
And even then, the paths of ink would not answer

PRINCE
For as long as he remembered, he was always the one who would be King
And they taught him everything, yet they taught him nothing.
They taught him to put blindfolds on his people, and to walk blindfolded himself
They taught him, and they taught him well.
And the day he became King would be his, and their undoings

PRINCESS
She had never wanted to be a princess
For she remembers the wooden swords and scraped knees of her younger days
And how she climbs and runs through earth and air
Until they took her sword, her earth and air, with pleasant hands and soft chiding smiles
And twirls her around, through strange faces and glittering halls and glass ceilings
Until she forgets what it felt like to hold a sword and to go on leaps and bounds
And one by one they kneel at her feet and took her hand to their lips and whispers delicately
‘My Princess’

KNIGHT
‘Being good hurts’
And that was his first lesson of being a knight
He had nodded, and then over the years fought, bled, and bends
Being good hurts, and that is what he lives by everyday
Sword drawn and head high, shield protecting everyone but himself
He counts the days, and wonders when he will finally break.

MAIDEN
Through the early trials and harshness, she of all people knows that things have their price
And sacrifice was a word dear to her
Later, she fought through their battles and their wars
And there she was everything – mother, disciple, shield and beacon
She was the maiden, and she rallied them on, rallied them all.
Knowing that one day she herself would be a sacrifice

MAGE
He flinches when anyone calls him ‘mage’
For the whispers, the fingers he is certain follows behind his every step
For ones who did not have to don the mantle and the staff, and were spared
And come night he whispers and tosses and turns and scatters pages of runes
This is what he was, what he does, this is what he becomes. Over and over he whispers.
This is what they had made him to be.
He still flinches when anyone calls him ‘mage’
And he thought that no one could blame him for that, if not anything else

MONK
The monk places little faith in destinies, yet he believes in his name
He was not meant to be the one who will fight
He watched as empires rise and fall, comrades fight and bleed and die
And he watched and he cried, and yet still he watches
When all else are doomed to perish, he had said
What have we got to hold on to but our names?

SEER
The Seer burnt down her tower, one bright solstice night
And with the glass tower, the kingdom she was to watch
Pleaded, burned, and perished
Barefoot and smiling, she watches the roar of embers and sparks
And whispers to the air, 'she did this out of love'

Watercolors on A3 paper, textures from #resurgere and *alizarin

The pictures were partly practice in drawing faces in general, as I suck at close-up shots and facial expressions The long and winding prose above is purely there because I was bedridden and bored for a few days courtesy of the flu, sorry about that
Comments and suggestions would be very very welcome. Thanks