The tower sits boldly amongst bracken cliff and Albatross-birds: an idol, piercing the quiet blue of sky, glittering in lantern light and begging you to worship it. It exists as a stark, palpable comparison to his worlds of old – the indiscriminate ruins of the Rift, home to things dead and others dying, and now, gone entirely – so much so that he is shaken by it, and brought to a solicitous halt.
The steeple is humbling; and splendid; and magnanimous: and a warmth settles at the very pit of his gut, with it a warbling hum of gratitude that he still exists to witness beauty, let alone roam amongst it.
He presses on towards the Citadel, quiet in thought, light-footed. The horizon is bright, embellished: he pursues it with purpose, head ducked low beneath everglade branches, limbs of bleached willow. His feet move less sluggishly than they once did, and less did his knees stumble, gnarled and creaking like old staircases – he is renewed, here, reborn: the Gods of this place grasping him in the ancient palms of their hands and tenderly, benevolently, piecing together his parts.
His newfound gifts of healing ripple sympathetically beneath the surfaces of him, idling in wait, yearning for use. The irony does not escape him, broken as he is, to be gifted the power of life – albeit weak, and amateurish, it inspires in him a determinism to do better; to be greater.
He might not flourish – but he will survive.
He is ready, now, to unbury himself from the grave, to wander amongst the willow trees of brackish woodlands – to meander amongst the living – to dance with them, bursting with the infinite possibilities of rebirth.
He settles peaceably on the outskirts the capital, content to watch, to wonder. The dark arms of oak and elms encase him – and he is safe, here, amongst lilies and golden thistle, hydrangea leaving violet imprints on the knotted bones of his hocks. He is home amongst them; home here; home already, his diminutive, underdeveloped wings shifting strangely at the strident lines of his shoulders, and his eyes to the sky, flying, flying, flying.
DIS BADThe steeple is humbling; and splendid; and magnanimous: and a warmth settles at the very pit of his gut, with it a warbling hum of gratitude that he still exists to witness beauty, let alone roam amongst it.
He presses on towards the Citadel, quiet in thought, light-footed. The horizon is bright, embellished: he pursues it with purpose, head ducked low beneath everglade branches, limbs of bleached willow. His feet move less sluggishly than they once did, and less did his knees stumble, gnarled and creaking like old staircases – he is renewed, here, reborn: the Gods of this place grasping him in the ancient palms of their hands and tenderly, benevolently, piecing together his parts.
His newfound gifts of healing ripple sympathetically beneath the surfaces of him, idling in wait, yearning for use. The irony does not escape him, broken as he is, to be gifted the power of life – albeit weak, and amateurish, it inspires in him a determinism to do better; to be greater.
He might not flourish – but he will survive.
He is ready, now, to unbury himself from the grave, to wander amongst the willow trees of brackish woodlands – to meander amongst the living – to dance with them, bursting with the infinite possibilities of rebirth.
He settles peaceably on the outskirts the capital, content to watch, to wonder. The dark arms of oak and elms encase him – and he is safe, here, amongst lilies and golden thistle, hydrangea leaving violet imprints on the knotted bones of his hocks. He is home amongst them; home here; home already, his diminutive, underdeveloped wings shifting strangely at the strident lines of his shoulders, and his eyes to the sky, flying, flying, flying.
KISS HIM
