【AnderKlein】Fever Dream

【安克】Fever Dream

https://springwindsandnights.lofter.com/post/1f536e27_2be5c517c

  Sum: We are all doves and roses by the river. (1)

　　Warn: This article is 10k words long, and the descriptions of the geography, history, currency, and climate of the mysterious world are all nonsense. This article contains a lot of clumsy references and direct quotes from "Death of the River Guide".

　　The painting I am showing you is from the war that ended the Iron Age. It is the product of a peace between war and a city, the amniotic fluid is the poverty under martial law, and the umbilical cord carries the blood of falling heads. But the hands that delivered it were the hands of love.

　　At that time, Beldan City was a boil on the buttocks of the Sea of ​​Time. Conflicts and battles would break out every once in a while, sometimes a mayor would be replaced, sometimes not. Who could tell who this city belonged to? The hook-nosed Loen people erected a two-meter statue of William I, the founder of the country, in the city center, with the front hooves of the mount raised high, towering over the heads of the citizens for a century. However, the armies of Intis and Feysac had also stationed in this city in turn, Intis merchants spread their recipes, and Feysac's alcohol was deeply mixed into the blood of every citizen. Even if the war ended along with this era, walking in this city that was assigned to the Loen army by the victors, one-third of the people called it Ballard in Feysac language, and one-third of the people called it by its Intis name, Petain. Tens of thousands of troops were stationed in its west and north, and their counterparts from the east coast of the Sea of ​​Time formed small teams and patrolled day and night to respond. Even at the beginning of the war, at the beginning of the story, Beldam, whose mining industry was in decline and devastated by the war, was so poor that it looked pale and thin. Beldam could not even afford black bread mixed with sawdust.

　　At that time, only Anderson Hood would sell paintings door to door.

　　A conflict had just ended two months ago. The Intis people temporarily controlled the city. Long in the future, historians would define it as a temporary victory in a series of military operations launched and dominated by the Intis-Feysac Alliance in the early stages of the war, but at least at that time, people who did not know when their fate would turn, more or less believed the slogans repeatedly broadcast on the radio: Intis would gain the final dominance.

　　Therefore, the bishops of the Sun and the Mechanical Church acted quickly, closing all pagan churches within a week, announcing the list of pagans, and calling on believers to migrate, but with little effect. Anderson was not a believer of the Sun or the Craftsman. In a sense, he was sent here by the waves of war. Intis-Feysac's continuous progress also caused a stir in Renburg, and the dean's office of the Azshara Academy of Fine Arts changed its owner. The new dean used military victory to prove the victory of education, and then launched a series of reforms, proposing three pages of new requirements for students who were "too lax". Just like the first result of the joint march was the attack on the northwest of Backlund, everyone was waiting to see who would establish the authority of the new principal. But no one thought that Anderson would be the first student to be expelled, "Green Eyes" Anderson.

　　The dropout jumped onto a ship at random, doing hard labor in exchange for a berth and food. The next day he found out that it was an immigrant ship, and its destination was a coastal port industrial city in the west of Intis, which he had never been to. But when Anderson woke up one morning, he saw the vague silhouettes of Beltain or the port of Petain in the morning light, purple, rose, crimson, and then layers of blue and black. Impressionist paintings have gradually become popular in the east of Intis and the city-state alliance. Anderson has been to their exhibition in Azshara. At breakfast, the crew talked about the coming July in the Interstellar Sea, and the hearty and dry east wind ripened the grapes on the hillside. Something mysterious hit him. He packed his suitcase, said goodbye to the captain, and got off the ship.

　　As soon as he landed from the immigrant ship, he bought a city map. Taking the Civic Square with the statue of the king on horseback as the center point, he divided the crooked and narrow streets and clusters of low-rise houses in Beldan into different districts like cutting a cake.

　　He ran through different streets every day along the map he imagined, knocking on every doorbell. Some doors opened, some didn't. But he still had as many paintings on his back as he did when he left the house in the morning. No one wanted the work of an unknown art dropout. Once he offered to paint a portrait for the hostess of the house, but the hostess didn't say yes or no. He bargained with the model while he was painting. The customer was very hesitant in the first half of the time, as if she was pressed on the chair to be the apple and plaster statue of this unknown painter. In the second half of the time, the concerns in her expression disappeared, replaced by a strong confidence. The price she quoted became lower and lower, and more and more certain. When the painting was completed, Anderson showed her the finished product. The lady no longer had any doubts about his painting skills, and generously offered a price that was just enough for Anderson to buy a loaf of bread in addition to the cost of paint and paper. Anderson tore the painting to pieces in front of her and turned away amid the lady's screams. He still didn't sell any paintings that day, and he never tried this sales method again.

　　On his way back to his makeshift basement home, he passed the peppy Stallion and King in the city center, where construction crews were circling the construction roadblocks. The new city government had already approved the removal of the statue. Anderson suddenly remembered that long before the battleships and armored vehicles, long before Roselle's industrial enlightenment, knights charged on horses that were castrated.

　　At the end of the second week, Anderson had walked through two-thirds of the areas that urban planner Hood had drawn on the map. The generous July sun gradually turned into an apple pie in the painter's eyes, and the clouds were the latte art of a cup of coffee. When he realized this, he decided to have a cup of coffee and take a break, so he walked into the cafe where Claire worked.

　　Claire Moretti. Today we can no longer find more information about her. She is so mysteriously hidden in that turbulent history, just like the things that tempted Anderson are hidden in the halo of impressionism. All the stories about her are second-hand copies, and the words that want to tell about her have experienced what the avant-garde artists have experienced: abstracting, distorting, and fermenting the truth in the mind, and finally splashing hazy colors on the canvas. She was finally extracted from memory and turned into mint green, amber yellow and pearl white oil paints, and gained distorted immortality on the drawing paper.

　　Claire was attracted by the young man who walked into the cafe. She stood behind the counter and the shelves. On the left, there were bacon and salmon sandwiches, and on the right, there were various cakes and desserts. She looked up in the mixed aromas and felt that his hair was like the orange madeleines on the right shelf, and his eyes were like fig cakes. She wondered where he was from and what he did for a living. Trains passed through Pétain every day, and several ships docked in the northern port every week. She could only guess from his features and manners, but this stranger had the hair of an Azshara, the eyebrows of a Feynapotter, and the eyes of a Trier. His hands were those of a musician or a scholar, but the way he walked was that of a gold digger. She watched him sit down and drink his coffee in one gulp, thinking that he must be very thirsty.

　　However, when he walked in front of her, she immediately realized that he was also hungry. He put his hand into the pocket of his tweed suit. But Claire knew that he couldn't pay. There was definitely no filkin in his pocket. At most, there were a few ricks, not enough to pay the bill. He was too thin, which made the bag behind him look even more bloated. She was familiar with the smell of hunger on his body, which wafted from his nails and hair, and sank deeply in the full and rich aroma of pastries, just like his cheeks sank from the contours of his cheekbones. Or it was more like an electric wave, she learned its frequency from her life of wandering and immigration, and could always recognize it in advance in the crowd.

　　Anderson hesitated and was about to tell the embarrassing truth, I don't have enough money. For a moment, he thought that he should accept the price offered by the arrogant female customer. But at this moment, his pocket was quickly stuffed into another hand. The hand reached into his pocket like a robber, but left a few pieces of paper. He grabbed the papers and finally confirmed that they were several Filkin bills in the sunlight.

　　The waitress winked at him and said, "Would you like some cake? You've been staring at the cake stand for a long time."

　　Her fingers on the hem of her skirt moved quickly, and Anderson noticed that she didn't seem to be sure that she wouldn't be discovered. He licked his lips and ordered only two apple pies. He used the money to pay for the coffee and pies, and now he still had some money left. He whispered to Claire and promised to return the money to her as soon as possible.

　　Claire pretended not to hear. Some customers and employees noticed her little move, and even though she was taking money out of her own pocket, it still attracted their attention. Perhaps it was because she took the money from her own wallet that she attracted so many attention. She felt a little annoyed, thinking that her hands and feet were not quick enough. She wondered if it would be better to claim that this stranger, whose name she didn't even know, was her friend, but she immediately realized that the best opportunity had been missed. She took the money that she had just given, handed the apple pie to the young man, and immediately turned around to greet another group of customers. She didn't notice when the young man had left.

　　Ships came and went in the harbor, and train whistles blew. Claire occasionally thought that perhaps the young man had taken a train or a ship to go far away, pursuing the success that could not be found in this dead city.

　　The owner of the coffee shop was a Feysac man. After coming to Petain, he converted to the Storm God and the Eternal Sun. Six and a half days a week, he would lie drunk in the store or in the room upstairs, and the remaining half day was the half day of mass on Sunday. He hated the people of Intis, Loen, or Feynaport because they were stealing his business in this city. He also hated the people of Feysac and the South Continent because he left his hometown because he could no longer work as a lumberjack in his country. So he hated the dark-skinned, short-statured Balam and highlanders who could chop wood all day for a very low daily wage, and the light-skinned, tall compatriots who hired the former or bought the former's finished wood products at a low price. He got lucky in Beldan on the seaside and made a small fortune, so he bought a store and opened the only coffee shop on this street. Later, his recruitment notice attracted Claire.

　　He had never been able to find any fault with this pretty girl. This immigrant from northern Loon had been employed in his coffee shop for a year and had never made a mistake. Customers and colleagues liked her. She was diligent and smart, clean, and remembered the names and tastes of regular customers. Sometimes, when the kitchen or waiters were busy, she would help. He sat in the corner of the shop holding a bottle of wine, and through his squinting eyes, he saw her busy back compressed and distorted. The employees he paid for and the customers who patronized him all greeted this girl with sunshine in her eyes, and an idea popped into his mind: everyone felt that this little girl was more like the owner of this shop than he was.

　　Alcohol told him firmly: This is impossible.

　　He muttered in a voice that Claire could hear: A good woman would never show her face outside. Or: Damn the elf survivors, who knows if they have parasites from the sea.

　　He concluded that the woman had no choice but to swallow her anger because there were not many job opportunities open to her in the city.

　　Things were different now. Claire finally had a handle on him, or so he thought. He said in a joking manner that he should deduct all of Claire's salary, the kindhearted one, and exchange it for coffee, bread and cake, and distribute it to every homeless person on the streets of Petain, and it would be best if he gave them a flying kiss from the elf girl. He kept making this joke, but Claire was not worried that he would fire her. Just as it was difficult for her to find other jobs to accommodate the pagan elf survivors without legal documents, it was also difficult for the boss to find better and cheaper employees than her. She did the work of two people in this Fessac store, but only received less salary than her colleagues.

　　But at this time Claire would once again think of the young man with blond hair and green eyes, and guess that he had taken a train to a place where there was real gold.

　　Later, Claire left the shop, not because of the boss's endless malicious jokes, but because a new round of war forced the coffee shop to close.

　　The "complete victory" that the Intis people kept talking about on the radio was reversed on a dark night in July. The Loen army and the Intis-Feysac coalition fought over this territory. The artillery fire on the shore and the submarines underwater, the headlines of newspapers and the list of casualties on the bulletin board. When all this finally stopped, a Beldan would say: Oh, the war is over. The Loen government that was sent here was satisfied with this step, but they did not know that in the dictionary of Beldan, Petain, or Ballard, "end" means "preparation for the beginning." Backlund destroyed the eternity that Trier claimed, and tried to replace the eternity of his mortal enemy with the eternity that the statue of the founder of the country had erected here. But Augustus's castrated horse had never set foot on this land, and the marble statue only raised its hooves on the gangrene on the coast of the sea for a hundred years, which was the second when eternity began. They have destroyed eternity.

　　In the fourth week of the tug-of-war, the coffee shop closed down. The owner was missing. Claire had considered leaving Belldam, but all modes of transportation were under control. Whether it was the people of Intis, Feysac, or Loen, no citizen was allowed to leave easily. Tickets also became extremely expensive, and her meager savings could hardly afford it. Fortunately, she still found a new job. The war created a steady stream of wounded soldiers. Her reading and writing skills and common sense of hygiene helped a lot. She got a nursing position in a hospital with a shortage of staff. The content of the work fluctuated according to the real-time needs of the hospital, and the salary was accommodation in the hospital and food that was just enough to fill her stomach. It was already quite good during the war, and she was satisfied with it.

　　She met Celeste in the hospital.

　　Hospitals are the places that cannot be deceived. There are always patients, old people and pregnant women who need them, even in wartime. Sally had been hospitalized before the war. Her condition was not good, but she seemed much better than those bloodied boys. She seemed to think so, so she applied to go home and only asked the nurse to give her injections on time. Claire had taken care of her before she was discharged from the hospital. After she returned home, she naturally took on the job of going to her home to give her injections and deliver medicines.

　　Sally's husband seemed to be a retired police officer. They used to live in the north of Loon until the husband retired and came to the city of Jianhai to recuperate because of his wife's health. She was a kind and gentle old woman who could play the piano well. Even under the blow of illness, she still comforted her husband to be strong. There were some special factors for them to accept Claire. The young elf girl also believed in the goddess of night. In her wandering life, she had also traveled to the city where the couple used to live. She still remembered the river that passed through the building. The dark clouds in the north of Loon all year round sprinkled heavy rain on the river surface, which was sparkling like the tears of lovers. During the turbulent period of ownership in this city, the old man's old job became inconvenient. They could hardly give Claire extra compensation, but Claire turned it into voluntary service. She liked to come to Sally's house. Sometimes she prepared needles and medicines outside the barrier of the living room, and when she turned around, she could see two gray-haired old people whispering on the sofa. As far as she knew, the few piano pieces her husband knew were all his wife's favorites.

　　Celeste's last journey was completed in the company of her husband and Claire. They choked up and performed the Starry Ceremony for her. At this time, there was no night priest in the city who could hold a requiem mass for her, but Claire and her husband believed that she could still find peace in the merciful kingdom of God.

　　In the nameless cemetery on the outskirts of the city, there was a new white marble tombstone: Celeste Neal. Two months after Claire laid a sprig of white camellia in front of the tombstone, spring arrived and the war was over.

　　After the war, she continued to work in Beldan City. She did not stay in the hospital, but moved to a new coffee shop. The new shop was in a dilapidated alley in the old city. She no longer took the low salary of an undocumented immigrant, but the salary of a normal waitress. Although it was not much, she insisted on doing so and felt satisfied.

　　The new store was opened by Old Neil. After Augustus regained this dead city, which was only meaningful as the gateway to Constanton City on the map, he began a series of consolidation activities. Old Neil's old job and his dedicated contributions to the country were dug out from the archives, and he received a small bonus, although he thought he had done nothing during the war.

　　He used the bonus and savings to open a coffee shop because his late wife loved to bake and he himself was a coffee expert. Of course, the more important reason was that Claire had experience in running a coffee shop. He expressed guilt to Claire that he could not buy a good location or buy a good decoration for "Piano Music" and that the money might not be enough. And Claire hugged him.

　　In the fifth week that she had owned a small teak table in Old Neil's shop, a man walked into the shop. Claire looked up from the aroma of roasting and coffee beans. Old Neil - he had moved his wife's piano into the shop - was playing a love song from northern Loon. She realized that she hadn't thought about him for a long time - hadn't he struck gold in a distant city yet?

　　He was still thin, with frayed threads on the edges of his suit, but he no longer looked like he was being hunted by hunger, and his bulging backpack had disappeared. He stood at the front desk and ordered a cup of coffee.

　　"I want two more cakes," he said. His Loenese was no longer pronounced, and was much more fluent than his previous Intis.

　　"Then I recommend you the sweet orange tart and fig pudding." She smiled, winked, and handed him the two desserts without waiting for his consent.

　　"Two soli," she said. Along with the two soli, an envelope was pushed in front of her. Inside the envelope was a thick stack of banknotes.

　　Everyone was looking at the bar, she looked up, the young man was holding a bunch of red carnations. Old Neil was also looking at them in surprise, his fingers slipped, and the keys turned to fly out a string of Intis folk songs.

　　She suddenly realized what they were all guessing. She raised her head higher, pursed her lips tightly, and pushed the envelope back. "I didn't think of asking for your reward." She said, but accepted the flowers dripping with dew.

　　She put the flowers aside and didn't look at them for the whole day, letting her colleagues and customers cast their glances at her again and again. It was not until she got off work that she took off her apron at the exit of the bar, put the flowers in her coat pocket, and looked at the bouquet carefully for the first time in her basement rental room. The petals of the carnations had wilted and the leaves were slightly curled. A white note was among the flowers.

　　Under the kerosene lamp, the handwriting, blurred by time, still had a solemnity. He did not leave Beldam. After the war, he searched all the coffee shops in the city and found out that she was here. If she was not here, he would have to knock on every door and ask: Have you seen an elf girl with black hair and brown eyes? If the elf girl is willing when she sees this note, then she can find him at the Drowned Squid Tavern by the harbor any night this month.

　　She thought he was actually living in a pub. She also thought he didn't smell of alcohol. He didn't look like a porter at the docks or a bartender at a pub. His hands were still like those of a performer, and his steps were like those of a gold digger who had already dug up gold.

　　She didn't leave until a week later. This week, she made the wrong change for the first time. Old Neil played a series of teasing notes on the piano keys, and Claire blushed.

　　In the small room where she managed the business alone, the dampness and coldness that should have existed gave way to warmth. She carefully saved part of her salary to put a layer of satin around the broken mirror and bought parts to repair the kerosene lamp. In the twilight, she combed her long, satin-like black hair with a mixture of egg white, soap and water, and rubbed her calves and chest red with pumice. She cooked an egg and a potato in the teapot while singing. She sniffed her wrists, armpits, lower abdomen and calves to make sure they all exuded the damp fragrance of the evening. In the mirror, she put on her Sunday shoes and took a mint green lace dress from the borrowed sewing machine. It was left by Sally and given to her by old Neil. In the past week, she used the sewing machine to make a little change every day, and finally cut the dress to fit her waist. The soft fabric flows along the curve of her waist and hips, like a winding river in spring, with green leaves floating all the way to her knees, and her ivory-white calves still have traces of red from rubbing. She puts on a beige smock coat to cover up her appearance.

　　Her next-door neighbor knocked on her door at this time. Her friend Shirley, who lived in the basement of the next building, became her "neighbor". Her neighbor always squeezed her feet into ill-fitting high heels and had long wavy hair. During the war, even if she had to rely on Claire for a piece of brown bread, she insisted on getting cosmetics from the black market to apply lipstick and eye shadow. No women's clothing store sold dresses that fit, so she simply bought fabric and became a seamstress. Her big-framed neighbor, her kind friend. Shirley handed her a lipstick and picked up her sewing machine. When she walked up the stairs, she suddenly turned her head and laughed at her small neighbor: Our elf lady is getting married!

　　She disappeared down the hallway almost instantly. It was hard to believe that she could be so agile in high heels. Claire stuck out her tongue and made a face at her back.

　　She closed the door and continued to look in the mirror. Surrounded by the floral satin, the sunset glow that disappeared from the horizon climbed up to her lips again. From the outside to the inside, and then pursed. Her cheeks were also flushed with the red of apricot blossoms. When she gave the mirror her last smile, she suddenly remembered something. She found an orange from the plywood cabinet above the kitchen, cut it open, and used the orange slices to vigorously rub a few times on her forearms, chest, and the teacup-like depressions on her waist. The acidic juice was cold when it soaked into the skin.

　　She bit her smooth arm gently in the aroma, a dry hunger rising from her stomach, she suddenly began to think about Anderson, before she was thinking about herself, now she found that her longing and desire for the young man suddenly became unfathomable. But she didn't know that every time a plate of orange Madeleine cake was brought to Anderson again, the light would suddenly dim, and the burning fire would burn from the depths of her memories to her eyes.

　　She crossed the street without looking up. A row of black Loen-style military boots passed by her eyes, marching on the damaged paving bricks. Claire felt that the sound of their footsteps had a hollow texture. The street lights were lit every ten meters, dispelling the limited darkness, and sometimes even this small piece was ineffective. She held her coat tightly in silence in the night wind, and finally breathed a sigh of relief when she arrived at the tavern. She let go of her hand holding the coat after standing in the oak door.

　　She saw Anderson at first glance, but he was talking to another man wearing a flowered bow tie. She remembered that she didn't know his name yet. She stood there quietly, looking at this world she had never set foot in. She didn't like drinking and had hardly ever set foot in a tavern, but even among the ranks of taverns, there were great differences. The "Drowning Squid" was obviously not one of the regular ones. The bartender was pouring drinks behind the bar. His long oak bar looked so different from the cedar one she had at "Piano Music". The bounty was posted on the wall behind him, some of which had strange faces printed on them and were crossed out with bright red crosses. It was really nonsense that all the guests were drinking. The smell of alcohol in the air was as strong as the smell of sea water. Someone had already noticed her and cast an inquiring look at her. She walked calmly to the bartender in his sight and ordered a glass of gin. When the glass was put down, Anderson also sat down beside her.

　　He smiled at her apologetically, but the corners of his mouth were wide open. She looked at the direction where the man was sitting, and he explained: someone I knew at work. She couldn't help laughing, but what she wanted to ask was, did he just leave the flower tie there and wait for you? Anderson said, "Anyway, he didn't wait for me as long as I waited for you." He also winked at Claire, "I almost thought you wouldn't come. I never had the chance. My name is Anderson, Anderson Hood."

　　Claire smiled so hard that her dimples appeared on her face. She didn't know what was so funny. "Claire, Claire Moretti."

　　"Actually, I'm neither from Intis nor from Feynaport. I'm from Renburg," Anderson said.

　　"I always thought that Lumborg only produced philosophers and great detectives." Claire shook her head deliberately and looked him up and down, "It turns out that it also produced swindlers and pirates."

　　Anderson sat up straight. "It's unfair! I'm not a pirate! Not everyone who frequents pirate hotspots is a sea pirate."

　　"So it's a liar," Claire said. "I knew you saw me a long time ago."

　　Anderson apologized to Claire with a bitter face and punished himself with three cups of Feysac liquor. Claire attributed this to the occupational disease of pirates. Anderson couldn't explain to her why. In the final analysis, this matter was his own fault. It was obviously the person he had made an appointment with, but when he saw her standing alone at the entrance of an obviously unfamiliar world, he couldn't help but suppress his heart that was about to jump up to greet her, and quietly observed what she would do.

　　He could only sigh and explain, "But I'm really not a pirate." He looked into Claire's deer-like vigilant eyes and explained, "I'm just a treasure hunter. My main job is to track treasures, and occasionally I do bounties that don't hurt anyone."

　　He simply started from the beginning. He jumped onto the whitest deck at the dock east of Isaac, and stepped onto the pier of the East Port in the dark shadows of the summer morning in the sea. He used to sell his paintings in the streets and alleys of Beldan City. When they first met, his backpack was full of unsalable works by unknown painters. Claire thought this explained why he had the hands of a performer. Later, during the war, he discovered that he could also be a treasure hunter. I have a talent for this. He raised the corner of his mouth with a sense of pride and drank a glass of wine. Claire thought, so he did dig up the "gold mine". For some reason, she felt an inexplicable comfort.

　　Anderson finished his drink and realized that Claire was staring at him in a trance. One of her hands was on the side of her face, her eyes were almost focused, but it seemed that she was not looking at him at all. He thought that she had bathed and put on lipstick before coming here, and her face with obvious elf blood was like a charcoal sketch, which made his palms itch. But he thought that she looked like she would leave at any time. It had nothing to do with his behavior. Even if he screamed in surprise from the moment he saw her, he could not change the future that she would leave at any time.

　　For some unknown reason, he asked: Would you allow me to draw a picture for you?

　　No one knows how the invitation of art and friendship rolled into the bed. The tavern owner rented him the utility room in the attic, and Anderson proudly argued to his lover what a wise deal it was. The rent was cheaper, he would not be tortured by the noises of other residents in the tavern in the middle of the night - which happened frequently - and he had enough space to display his own art materials, and he also had a unique sloping skylight. He pulled the rope, and the green fan blades opened and closed, and the stars twinkled.

　　Claire curled up in laughter. She could smell the staid smell of years of dust in the air and hear the constant sound of voices downstairs. In the darkness of the attic outside this window, rodents also lived happily. But all these lies did not disgust her. Because he really did have a great window.

　　The light bulbs on the triangular beams with twisted wires never lit up, and the air was filled with fine dust, which flickered with the stars. The easel was placed at the corner of the mattress, the drawing paper was blank, and the light cut a fence-like shadow on it. Claire sat up from the opal-lime mattress, bent her knees, and her shadow sang between the fences on the drawing paper. At first she sang a song about flowers blooming in the countryside of Feynaport, and later a love song about pine waves and forget-me-nots that she learned in northern Loon. Anderson put his head in the fold formed by her lower abdomen and thighs, an irregular triangle cup. He wanted to see her girlish breasts, her black hair scattered on her chest, her face as white as apple blossoms, and he wanted to bury all his sense of smell deeply in the fragrance between her waist and hips. His eyelids were gently covered, and his lover's fingers combed his golden hair, and the wind combed the river surface rippling with morning light. He was swaddled and dipped into the dark running water, the starlight still flickering on his skin, but he could no longer see it.

　　He began to confess to the darkness, without any guilt, only memories. He grew up in Azshara, and was raised by the Church of the God of Wisdom. He was found at the door of the church near the harbor. People said that he might be an illegitimate child born on the ship by a sailor and a girl, abandoned in front of the gods by his parents who were unable to raise him. He never felt sad about this. The absence of parents did not create a void, it was never filled by faith, it just never existed. Anderson showed a talent for painting when he was young. Young humans hunted in the jungle and painted on the rock walls, painting what they hunted. He learned it by himself: painting and hunting are the same thing, both are capturing. Capturing the tendons and bones of tangible plants, birds and animals. Pigments are the blood of slaughter, and they are also the raw materials of creation. His hands were picked up, and his fingers were opened and played with. The hands of a performer, the hands of a scholar, and the hands of a painter. His hands helped him get into the best art school in Azshara. His classmates called him "Green Eyes" Anderson, and although one-third of the population of Lomborg had pupils of varying shades of green, no one would confuse Anderson's eyes with another pair. She agreed, peridot, marble, ivy. He used scholarships to pay for his tuition and living expenses. So everyone thought he would never be the one to take the initiative to cause trouble for the new dean, at least not the first one. But Anderson did it, and before the principal's office fired him, he first "fired" the adult who also held a high position in the Ministry of Education. He left so quickly that no classmates had time to see him off. The "Nautilus" had the latest painted side panels of the Azshara dock that day, and of course, the loosest and easiest discipline to sneak into. When the immigrants waved against the railing, he went to negotiate with the captain. He drifted on the sea for more than half a month until the silhouette of the low houses of Beldan called him. At that moment, he realized what he had not understood at the art exhibition: painting is indeed capturing, capturing the invisible from the tangible. He felt a fleeting soft touch on his forehead. At that moment he thought of nothing.

　　She began to sing a song Anderson had never heard before. The song seemed to bubble up from the deepest part of her throat. He had never heard the words of the song before. It seemed to be about ships and the ocean, or about endless wheat fields. Anderson felt that she was also surprised by this. He propped himself up with his hands, but Claire lay down. The moon poured milk from the deep blue sky, and the air was filled with sparkling icing sugar, but most of it was spread on the valley of her belly. Her small ribs and flat belly due to the war rose and fell with her singing. He saw her looking at him from the other side of her chest, and then he realized that he was leaning lightly against her belly. He had been bewitched by the valley flowing with milk and sugar. It turned out that someone could catch a fever with their eyes. (2)

　　He gradually felt that he understood the song. The song was painting in his mind. His fingers brushed across her belly and thighs, and his brush swept across the canvas. First, it started from the snow-covered canyon. The river of life always originates from the deep valley. Her last name came from the Night Monastery that once took her in. But no one would think that she was from the north of Loon because of this typical surname of Ahova County. Even among the elves, she was the one who was different. The homeland of the elves was Sonia Island, but where was her source? Was it on the other side of the foggy sea that Sonia Island watched over in the legend? Her hair was black instead of blue, and her facial features were softer than those of people in the north and south continents, leaving him with a deeper impression than the deepest chisel. What kind of brushstrokes would he need to use to carve out such an imprint? She was mysterious. In another word, she was wandering. In another word, she was homeless. Gypsies, the remnants of the elves, fell in many towns like dandelions, and left under the drive of different destinies.

　　The brush swirled in a maze on the fertile plains, just like a river flowing forward in confusion. Sometimes the river forked on the plains, nurturing patches of wild flowers, and sometimes passing through rapids and stairs. The city where she stayed the longest was the university town in Ahowa County, where Old Neil had worked as a civilian police officer for his entire life. The rowing team rowed in the Hoy River in spring, the oars hitting the water, and the waves were white. The green-painted train whistled all the way across the Tussock River Bridge, and the water flowing with apricot petals sang under the bridge. The streets of the downtown were dirty, chaotic, but also lively. There was a bakery opened by a person from the south of Loon that sold special drinks that were cheap and refreshing. She shared a room with someone on Blackthorn Street. She also bought a bicycle and rode it to work. She thought she could live there forever. She did not truly convert to the night, but began to look forward to the day when she would be buried in St. Raphael Cemetery. Until the spring of 1351, she rode her bicycle and fled with the screaming crowd on the main road. The bombers roared and cast shadows from the sky above Tingen. In a trance, she thought she was an ant. No one knew which would end first, the war or life. In the distance, she heard the loud sound of buildings being destroyed by shells. Suddenly she realized that her hut might also be destroyed by shells. Her hut was indeed reduced to ruins, but it was not because of air raids, but because of human terrorist attacks launched by the coalition forces.

　　Life. He heard it. Just a flickering light on the wall. It was only much later that he realized that she was singing about the wind blowing through the wheat fields.

　　Unspeakable sadness trampled over his chest, leaving a hole. He trembled and groped as he kissed his lover, the smooth curve of her neck, her plump earlobes, and her lips. The lips at the end. Half painted the soft pink of apricot blossoms, and the other half painted the deep red of wine. When their tongues intertwined, their hearts beat side by side, and he looked straight into her amber-like honey-yellow eyes. In the darkness where the moon could not find them, there were two crystal dewdrops.

　　The light spots flickering on the wall.

　　He finally completed the final stroke.

　　Her eyes.

　　Anderson Hood, who was later considered to be the last painter of the Black Iron Age and the first painter of the New Age, did not create many works in his life. In the world, he is more widely known as the number one treasure hunter of the Misty Sea. After dropping out of the Azshara Academy of Fine Arts, he spent several years in Beldan. Researchers generally believe that this was an important period for his career as a hunter and an artist. After the dean of the Azshara Academy of Fine Arts was replaced, the painter, who was already famous at the time, was invited to return to study. But he did not complete his studies in the end, and did not accept the honorary degree awarded by his alma mater. He spent half of his life exploring the Misty Sea. He led the opening of three safe routes in the Misty Sea, one of which is still in use today. He also discovered and assisted in the investigation of many ancient shipwrecks. His most important achievement was to work with geographers and historians to determine that there is still a new continent on the other side of the Misty Sea. Although it is still impossible to reach it with human capabilities, goals and hopes are priceless.

　　The painting I am showing you today is the last one he kept. There is no title or annotation. But the man in the painting is undoubtedly himself when he was young. Based on his appearance, people speculate that he created this painting during his time in Beldam. Today, scholars and museums call this painting "The Elf Girl of Beldam and Anderson".

　　Many people have tried to explore the story behind this painting, but in the end, nothing was found. Only speculations and stories are like weeds in a wasteland, growing more and more. I have an ending here, you can listen to it for the time being: the piano music in the cafe finally stopped one day, and the waitress disappeared without a trace; some people saw her disappear on the bow of the ship heading to the west side of the continent, and later someone said that they saw her boarding a ship exploring the foggy sea. This was the last news about her.

　　But there is another ending, perhaps you don't mind it being ridiculous and are willing to listen to it: in the dangerous sea full of reefs and rough waves, a lost ship would occasionally run into a small town where people could rest; in that small town, there lived an innkeeper with an elf face and long black hair; her husband was an explorer on the foggy sea, lighting up the darkness on the map; and the lantern she lit in the storm was the light on his lost journey home.

　　fin.

　　Ref:

　　(1) "Each Coming Night" by iron & wine. "Because light strikes a deal with each coming night". In addition, the title is another song of his.

　　(2) Star of the Sea by O'Connor