Vermilion Rewrite ~ Four: Fortune Teller

[annarti.livejournal.com]

Scarlet and violet drapes in delicate silk and gauze fluttered gently in the breeze around the fortune teller’s stall. He hoped it looked sufficiently mystical. The effect always worked for the locals, but would it be enough for the gathered nobility?

He hooked his long, dark hair nervously behind one ear, then clasped his hands on the delicate batik tablecloth before him. His thumbs twiddled for a moment before he began tracing a finger over the patterns on the batik.

‘Good afternoon,’ a cool voice greeted.

The fortune teller almost jumped out of his skin at those light tones, and he hardly dared look up at the kind and open face he knew it had come from for fear of saying something stupid.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked quietly.

‘I hope so.’ There was the scraping of steel against the cobblestones as she drew a chair back and took a seat.

Now he had to look up at her. He tossed his long hair over his shoulder and lifted his eyes confidently. Maybe he could turn this meeting to his advantage.

‘I’m alone,’ she lamented, and the fortune teller’s heart jumped again. ‘I’ve been alone for years now, but I simply haven’t the confidence to talk to anyone.’

‘You’re talking to me,’ the fortune teller reminded her.

The vintner shrugged awkwardly and turned away, scratching her curly hair with one hand. ‘Not with any sense of confidence, I assure you. Can you help me?’ Her pleading, honey-brown eyes made the fortune teller’s heart melt.

It took every fibre of his strength not to blurt his feelings to her right there. ‘Might it help if I could tell you just who you should be approaching?’

The vintner paused in thought, then gave a stiff nod.

The fortune teller held out his hands to take one of hers. They were stained dark purple—it was the harvest season in her vineyard now—and were rough and scratched, with stunted purple nails. The fortune teller closed his eyes and held her sturdy worker’s hand in his. His fingers danced lightly over her scuffed knuckles and callused palms, running over the lines in her skin.

He could see red… russet red that deepened to rich auburn hair that tangled in a bird’s nest of messy curls. There was purple, too, a purple shirt? A ring? Hair ribbon? No, purple hands, the same as the vintner’s. A face wove into his thoughts, and he brushed his fingertips against the winemaker’s to make the image clearer. It was an unremarkable face, the eyes too small under a heavy brow and an angry under bite. Somehow, the young man’s smile was charming under his squashed nose.

‘I see red and violet,’ the fortune teller began. He could never lie outright, but bending the truth just a little to alter her thoughts might work. ‘Dark red and dark violet,’ he emphasised. ‘Long, dark hair…’

‘And his face?’ the vintner pressed.

The fortune teller shook his head. ‘Plain, unremarkable, the sort of face you wouldn’t notice, that would just slip past you unless you were looking for it.’

The winemaker sighed, and the fortune teller knew she hung her head, even though his eyes were closed.

‘Not the news you were hoping for?’ he asked quietly. He released his hands and opened his eyes. He didn’t need to see anything more.

The vintner shook her head. ‘You couldn’t give me a name, I suppose?’ she asked hopefully, and the look in her eyes caught again at the fortune teller’s heart.

She shook her head. ‘You know I can’t do that.’ To speak the name would curse the relationship forever. If she did manage to recognise the young man that the fortune teller had seen, even eventually speak to him, he didn’t want to curse them. He wasn’t that vindictive.

The vintner sighed again. ‘Thank you anyway,’ she mumbled, then scraped the chair back again. She took a pair of copper pieces and placed them on the table, her fingers lingering a moment before she turned to go. Maybe her mind was already being turned towards him.

‘Good luck,’ the fortune teller called after her. ‘I’m always here if you need me.’

‘I know,’ the vintner called back with a smile. ‘You always have been. Thank you again.’ And then she was gone.

He was only able to watch her passing for a few moments before he noticed another customer standing in front of him in a long red coat.

The fortune teller jumped again. ‘Oh, Master Ver—M-Master, I’m terribly sorry! I didn’t see you there!’ He dropped his head, staring at his black boots in an attempt to hide his furious blushing.

Vermilion only laughed, a good-natured sound rather than the mocking he had expected. ‘Not to worry,’ he beamed, and the fortune teller glanced up, though his face was still down-turned. His dark brown eyes twinkled with amusement. ‘I know I don’t stand out too much,’ he said with a wink. ‘Certainly not when the apple of one’s eye has been the centre of one’s attention the past few minutes.’

The fortune teller blushed again and dropped his head. ‘I’m that obvious, Sir?’ he asked timidly.

Vermilion laughed again. ‘Honest, I like to say, and maybe our dear vintner will notice in time, hmm?’

‘I can only hope,’ he replied.

‘You can maybe do a little more than that, I should imagine.’ Vermilion winked again, then turned behind him and beckoned as he hooked a few strands of blond hair behind one ear. ‘The mistress and her brother, here, have travelled all the way from Greendale in the Barossana Valley.’

The fortune teller curtsied deeply to the diminutive young lady. She was more than a foot shorter than Vermilion, and wore a pale pink satin dress that clashed horribly against Vermilion’s bright red coat. Still, she had a sweet enough face, and one that the fortune teller was willing to smile to. Her brother, not much taller, had her same mousey brown hair and sweet smile, though the light dusting of a beard around his jaw didn’t suit his round face.

‘Would you like your fortune read, my lady?’ the fortune teller asked.

The mistress’s painted lips spread into a demure little smile. ‘I would,’ she replied. Her voice was soft as her dress, carrying pleasantly on the warm autumn breeze.

Vermilion took her hand as she lowered herself into the fortune teller’s chair, making the fortune teller wish he had bought another, more suitable chair for the nobility this week. He might have to check with the travelling merchant in the square to see if she had anything suitable.

‘Hold out one hand, please, my lady,’ he asked, holding his own hands out to take the mistress’s.

Her hand was smooth, small and perfect in the fortune teller’s. She clearly worked a lot of cream and sweet-smelling powders into them every morning, smoothing out any dryness or potential wrinkles. It smoothed out any life in them, too, the fortune teller noted with a small frown as he closed his eyes. The young woman’s hands were so artificial, so unnatural, that it was hard for the fortune teller to see past all the creams massaged into them.

He ran his fingers over the soft, pampered skin, more harshly than he would otherwise have done, and finally colours began to form in his mind.

Or rather, one colour. Bright red swam in front of her eyelids. He waited for it to take form—hair, clothes, a rash even?—but the red only grew stronger. He pursed his lips and pressed his fingertips against the mistress’s, determined to give the young lady something more substantial, especially with Master Vermilion standing right behind her.

…Vermilion. It wasn’t just any red, it was vermillion, and that was as much as the fortune teller needed.

He just barely managed to keep back a gasp, but he knew his hands jerked.

‘What is it?’ the mistress asked, her voice slightly stricken. ‘Is something the matter?’

The fortune teller shook his head and released the mistress’s hand. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you much, my lady,’ he answered, struggling to keep his eyes from flicking up to Master Vermilion’s face. ‘Only the colour red.’

‘Red?’ the mistress asked. ‘Why red?’

The fortune teller shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Forgive me, my lady, but your hands have too much cream on them. I can’t see any further than the red.’

‘Oh.’ The young woman’s eyes dropped with her shoulders, but only for a moment. ‘Perhaps it will become clear with time.’

‘We can but hope.’ It was the master’s voice this time, softly spoken in contrast to the jovial nature with which he had greeted the fortune teller. He flicked back his coat with no extra show as he reached into his pocket, but as the fortune teller allowed herself to glance up at his face, she could see the faintest hint of a smile there as he glanced at the mistress’s brother. He knew just as she did exactly what the red meant.

He took his hand from his pocket and placed a single gold coin on the batik tablecloth. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said warmly, then took his guest’s hand and left.

The fortune teller smiled to himself. At least he had made one person happy today.

Comments

[saiena.livejournal.com]

Aww. This one’s sweet. Probably bitter sweet, but cute nonetheless.

And now I'm going to stop spamming you, 'cause I think I've rambled uselessly enough for one day.

[annarti.livejournal.com]

I think the fortune teller was one of my favourites. I'd like to draw him up properly, too. Silks and sparklies, yessss X)

[ladylight.livejournal.com]

Aw, poor fortune teller! "Yes, I see ... about yea high ... owns a glass ball ... lives in a tent ... OH FOR GOD'S SAKE WOMAN"

This is lovely. And the ending vision seems rather sinister somehow (even if the girl is possibly a bit of a ditz not to pick up on vermillion). I wonder if I'm not reading too much into it - never trust a man in a scarlet coat!!

(Barossana Valley XD)

[annarti.livejournal.com]

(I came SO CLOSE to renaming the Barossana Valley, since I'm naming places after houses around where I live now... but that one's stuck X3 I CAN'T HELP IT. Llayad just needs a Barossa, they just DO.)

[drazzi.livejournal.com]

My but what an interesting beginning to this chapter. Why is our Fortune Teller so nervous? How sultry is this anxious woman before him, but she is alone and that is horrible D: I AM INTRIGUED.

I love the way you describe his vision/thoughts. Like the man he comes up with sounds adorable. In a pug way. A fuglyadorable. But you always describe the best faces.

Ahhh its so cute. He has a crush on her and he doesn't want to lead her away from her fate and destiny~~~ What a little cutie.

The fortune teller curtsied deeply to the diminutive young lady.
Or did he bow instead? (Lot of gender missing at the end of the fic there)

Little nod back to our starting merchant once again. I do like that.

Man you must love fortune tellers, they mean you get to wax lyrical on hands all the time :3

[annarti.livejournal.com]

I DO I fit hands into things as often as I can these days. You know how in school they always got you to focus on recurring imagery in the novel you were reading, like water or wind or whatever? If mine were to be studied (...lol) it'd be hands imagery.

Just wait til I get to the wind witches 8D