“To overcome pain and attachment, finding healthy ways of remembering what once was is an important first step.”
In quiet sanctuary, distanced from wandering judgments and idle prejudice, sat an empty canvas atop an easel. Mere weeks before such a thing would have felt ridiculous, even pointless to consider. But it was different now, on the heels of a failure and mistake that saw a new Lord ushered onto the throne of Vokus. A man with absolutely nothing left to lose. A hard lesson to face, and even harder to look upon its cause, for all that he understand the root, he’d not known how to combat it. And then, in fear of himself, he’d made a request that so very few sensitives would ever dare consider. A request that was being considered conditionally, and the condition was a simple one. One way or another, be it through successful dissuasion or preparation, fear and pain had to be dealt with properly.
“…building some sort of shrine to the past.”
Without a second thought, without a chance for doubt to take hold, Vol’kari had returned home in contemplative silence, ordering what tools would be required in building such a shrine. Paints of various shades, fresh canvases, and a myriad of brushes had arrived, and now stood before him, simply waiting for him to make a simple choice. What would be the first to be enshrined and remembered with fondness, rather than bitterness or fear? Was it even a choice? No. It wasn’t.
Broad strokes would see the foundation of a galaxy being birthed upon the empty canvas in brilliant and subtly familiar shades of green, a shade that he’d not seen for nearly a year now, a shade that now wouldn’t feel so distant as the memories flooded him just as the colours flooded the canvas. Quiet talks beneath the shade of a tree with the warmth of the fire just a few feet away. Laughter as games of wit were won and lost all in good humour. Strokes of yellow would see stars and planets brought to life, radiating with a glow that seemed so familiar it nearly hummed with it.
Then injury. A large gargantuan abomination lifted him up like a doll and squeezed, ribs breaking beneath the pressure. But he’d fought on, refusing to go down without a fight, and a fight was exactly what he’d received. A whirlwind of teamwork that saw the abomination injured, but not felled before the world had gone dark, blood seeping from a dangerous gut wound. It’d left plenty of time to sit and remember, a memory that he’d not recalled for quite some time, a memory that stirred emotion. Then she had been named Hope’s Beacon, given to him as a final gift alongside Remembrance. But it was within her cargo holds that the final gift was delivered: a journal and guide that would see Vol’kari start his path as a Shipwright. He’d nearly forgotten, but no longer would it be.
Hours were spent constructing a new ship, not of metal and circuits, but of hue and broad strokes of a brush. An offering unto the shrine of the past, each line of paint steeped in not just memories, but those that helped shape him. Of laughter and joy. Of those things that helped shape him into the man he was today. The lessons that were taught, jokes that were shared, and the passions shared for hobbies and shipcraft that brought them together even if their time was so incredibly brief. He would remember these every time he looked upon the splashes of colour. He would remember these moments instead of the fear and pain of struggling to be there for someone struggling within themselves. He’d remember better times instead of the cold shock of waking up to news that Dax Fitzim had fallen. For those moments of happiness were just as real, and deserving of being remembered. In that way, he’d never truly be gone, never truly be forgotten for who he had once been. Not by Vol’kari, at the very least.