Moritz and I were standing by a hill. He was naked or close to it, and I was kneeling to paint designs on his chest and arms with this gorgeous sky-blue paint. (OH HI, SKY-BLUE STOCKINGS THAT MORITZ FANTASIZES ABOUT IN
SPRING AWAKENING, WHICH I BOUGHT BECAUSE I AM THAT MUCH OF A FAN.)
I couldn't see anyone else around, but there was this feeling that he was the last one I was painting because he was not only "the bear's son" (a clan leader/heir? There's an Irish clan called McMahon, the "sons of the bear"), I was stalling his departure as long as I could. And people knew what I was doing, but they'd let me paint every fucking man anyway because 1) it was a very high honor to be painted by me as opposed to doing it themselves, and 2) they felt really bad for me.
I was NOT dressed for painting, especially not with my hands. I was wearing a long-sleeved, pale-green dress and delicate slippers under a feather-cloak, and half my hair was in a crown of braids.
Here's an approximation. The style should be four half-inch side-braids wound around my head (I had to make two larger braids so they'd be visible on-camera), with a larger center-braid resting on top of them to keep them in place (it's about the right size, but not tight enough). The rest of it was loose, wavy, and VERY long and thick; it practically covered me and was only a few inches off the ground.
The fact that I was painting in such blatantly ceremonial clothes was both a mark of my skill and a sign of how deeply I felt about this, because I'd CHOSEN not to wear normal clothes or keep my hair out of the way.
[...] [O]ne physical trait my past and present selves shared was black hair; there was an explicit contrast of my dark hair against the light dress.
We couldn't make a noise because this place was sacred, but we were as close as the wet paint would let us be. He'd been holding my shoulders since I'd started because we knew once the paint dried, we wouldn't be able to touch each other--once he was dressed for war and had weapons, he wouldn't be able to be near me. When I was close to finishing, my eyes started burning but I couldn't actually cry because of the paint, my "stay immaculate while doing a very messy job" boast, and the "be silent in the sacred area" rule. So he let me wipe my hands off and started running his hands through my hair.
Knowing the Celts and their penchant for tragedy, I really don't think Moritz came back.
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