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Silva was born into a world of colors, shades and hues so numerous he couldn’t count them all, varied and beautiful. But strangely, the color of the sun, of gold and flowers and so many other things, has grown with him.
His cradle was green leaves and soft grass, new eyes taking in the veins beneath the verdant surfaces. The sky overhead was grey, pale silver light passing through the clouds while crystal rain fell in droplets upon his face. The dryads murmured and swayed with their trees and flowers, a soothing hum beyond the dripping symphony of rain. Lightning, yellow and stark against such a uniform background, crackled with energy and set trees alight in orange fire. Silva, newly birthed from the Mother into the storm, watched the lightning and felt fear.
As he grew, tended to and nursed by dryads and river spirits, his forest cradle grew dense and lush in the coming spring. Vernal danced through the spaces between branches, sang songs with the coming of new life, the plants budding and blooming in riotous colors. Dryads and nymphs danced along with the bloom, flowers of pink, purple, white, red, green, blue, all coiled together along vines and branches and stems that bent whenever Silva passed by. The nature spirit coaxed the young god to join in his merriment, and daisies grew around Silva’s feet wherever he tread.
The god grew older still, the trees swaying to bow as he moved between them. The undergrowth parted to ease his tread, great antlers growing tall and proud atop his head. Autumnal cast the leaves in warm hues of red, orange, and yellow, an ombre that reminded Silva so vividly of fire and magma flowing beneath the earth. His horns turned golden with the autumn, shining and gleaming where the light cast its gaze upon him. Soon, in the forest cradle, lightning struck once more, storm winds toppled the forests and flooded the rivers as a rallying cry for war shook the very ground. The forest was alight in yellow flames and lightning, and Silva’s once lush home became a grey mountain, bubbling and belching molten rock high into the atmosphere with his rage.
When the fighting was over— for now , the promise hissed—there was rebuilding to be done, as the remaining dryads mourned their fallen kin and the river spirits snuffed the last fires. Silva gathered them all, his nature bound brethren, at the foot of that grey mountain, the magma dried black and glassy as ash fell like snow around them. The forest he regrew, the grass and trees growing thicker and twining around him, swaying toward their god, was darker than before, evergreen and deadly with roots to trap and vines to ensnare. Esteval swept over the land, and the flowers that bloomed there seemed to glow white while their thorns flashed amber in the dim light, spreading around the base of the mountain like a protective shield. In many ways, it was.
The city Silva built, heeding the pleas of frightened mortals, became golden, as the new residents painted their houses in colors of brown and red and orange and oddly, yellow. Yellow flowers mimicking those at the base of the mountain, and golden murals in the shape of Oro’s horns took shape along walls and roofs, the esteval casting everything in bright sunlight. Silva was almost blinded as he walked through the city, once small and humble, now resplendent and full of life. Mortal and god alike walked the streets, children playing and laughing as they ran from market stalls and after carved toys that rolled when pushed. Silva watched it all, bright beneath a summer sun.
When there was time, in rare stretches of peace, Silva would trace the patterns on Oro’s back, glowing with white-hot gold beneath dark stone skin. His friend would say nothing, would only wait his turn until Silva was finished, and then the vines that made up the god’s hair would be tended to, stone skin on stone skin as they curled together, powerful yet frightened. The magma beneath their skin, the lifeblood of the earth, hummed and glowed within their veins, calling out to kin and friend. The molten cores of them were once an inferno, but for now, they are simply warm and that is enough.
Chloris’ hair is as yellow as the sunflowers she creates to adorn the grounds, tending to the flowers that turn their heads toward the sun. Silva changes their colors, from a lemon hue to blue or purple, all for Chloris to throw her head back and laugh, flaxen hair blooming as she lets the world know of her joy. Silva would dance with her in the square to make more flowers bloom, and the daisies from before made a triumphant return. Later, she would hum as he braided the daisies he had created into her hair, and she would hum as she did the same for him.
Ophel’s eyes shine sallow in the low evening light as they sing in the entrance’s antechamber, feathers blue and shining in the golden light while they weave their tales and trials. They sing of victory, of peace, of tales so old Silva remembers them dearly, all reflected in the color of the spirit’s gaze. The spirit sang of betrayal, of heartache, and of a god who saved them, and all Silva could do was beg that the spirit not thank him. He has done many things, impossible things, but he did not wish to be thanked for saving a life. Silva still recalls citrine eyes looking up at him while spilling over with fear and pain, and it hurts to compare to the trusting gaze he sees now. He has taken far too much life, and given back very little, but as Ophel continues to sing—a lullaby this time—he finds the regret is not as heavy.
Winter descends on the mountaintop, the snow dusting the tops of trees and casting everything in a somber silver. Secretly, or perhaps only cautiously, Silva finds winter to be his favorite season. With his yearly visitor, Silva may admit that he has a bias. Hiemal does not wear yellow, preferring blues and greys and on rare occasions, pinks, that suit his pale visage more, but his blue mingles so nicely with the colors of Silva’s wardrobe. Silva dons a golden robe this time, and the god expects the blues and yellows of their clothes to meld into green, to bloom into snowdrops and winterberry and crocus as snow settles on the windowsill. Instead, they tangle but never mix, the gods a bit too in their cups and sprawled over cushions on the floor, laughing and touching and kissing through the haze as the lanterns cast the room in warm light. Their reunions are private affairs, close and intimate and a beautiful blend of colors that Silva cannot recreate, but that is alright. For now, Silva relishes in the cool touch of Hiemal’s skin, antlers blooming in a bouquet of orchid, peony, bluebell and hydrangea, flora pink amongst snow blue and sunshine yellow.
Of all colors that Silva has seen, of all colors his flowers take on and the many shades of gems hidden beneath the rock, he always finds himself partial to the color of sunlight and fire.