Lovis
I am made of
Memories
A field of gold. Lit by sunlight golden. In it Lovis stood haloed, allowing it to paint him too. His heart and soul were spun of gold. His voice was of silver.
"Cedoc," Lovis' spoke to the golden morn. A name offered to the gods, so that they may too remember the boy that it called. Lovis knew them to be present, for the mist; breath of gods invisible, lingered. He hoped Oriens was one amongst them.
His son's grave was humble. Time had taken for itself the grandeur the burial had once been decorated by. Flowers planted had long since grown free, reaching for the companionship of their cousins wild. The stone that had Cedoc's doings in life inscribed upon it, had given in to the desire of the elements, to nature's yearning to remove all that had not been drawn by her own hand. Split and crumbled the grave marker called to passerby with the riddles broken sentences made.
Lovis did not have need to see the words made whole. They were carved into his own being. As though if one were to look hard enough at him, they may find the celebration of a being he had so loved, spelled out by the freckles upon his own flesh. If they just looked hard enough. He carried Cedoc, his beloved son, with him no matter how the time passed.
Never had Lovis claimed the boy, nor the man Cedoc grew to be, but he had known. They both had. Too alike they had been to ever deny the connection. Lovis lay himself against the stone and pulled out a book. Readily the book bore its pages to him, worn by many a hand. The tale writen within nearly lost to time. Each year it became harder to find a copy. Each year he paid a bit more to obtain it.
He began to read from its pages. Brittle was his voice. It was Cedoc's birthday. Every year he would seek out a copy of the same story, one that Cedoc had loved as a boy and then as a man, and he would read it to him. Unmoving until the tale was done.
"Cedoc," Lovis' spoke to the golden morn. A name offered to the gods, so that they may too remember the boy that it called. Lovis knew them to be present, for the mist; breath of gods invisible, lingered. He hoped Oriens was one amongst them.
His son's grave was humble. Time had taken for itself the grandeur the burial had once been decorated by. Flowers planted had long since grown free, reaching for the companionship of their cousins wild. The stone that had Cedoc's doings in life inscribed upon it, had given in to the desire of the elements, to nature's yearning to remove all that had not been drawn by her own hand. Split and crumbled the grave marker called to passerby with the riddles broken sentences made.
Lovis did not have need to see the words made whole. They were carved into his own being. As though if one were to look hard enough at him, they may find the celebration of a being he had so loved, spelled out by the freckles upon his own flesh. If they just looked hard enough. He carried Cedoc, his beloved son, with him no matter how the time passed.
Never had Lovis claimed the boy, nor the man Cedoc grew to be, but he had known. They both had. Too alike they had been to ever deny the connection. Lovis lay himself against the stone and pulled out a book. Readily the book bore its pages to him, worn by many a hand. The tale writen within nearly lost to time. Each year it became harder to find a copy. Each year he paid a bit more to obtain it.
He began to read from its pages. Brittle was his voice. It was Cedoc's birthday. Every year he would seek out a copy of the same story, one that Cedoc had loved as a boy and then as a man, and he would read it to him. Unmoving until the tale was done.
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Link to Table Base
Feel free to make any assumptions of what the story is. It is probably a fable of some sort.
Link to Table Base
Feel free to make any assumptions of what the story is. It is probably a fable of some sort.
