Tsuyu scarcely sees his approach – entranced as he is by the cornflower blue of day, shadowed beneath the gnarled fingers of willow. Lonesomeness becomes him: even now, in his rebirth, he finds it challenging to avoid the lure of solitude – of dark places, antediluvian and buried. How many years had he traipsed dark castles, chary and quiet as a ghost, ascending trees as though they were staircases? How many years had he lurched through the swamps of Eden, of Tartuga, knees folding beneath the weight of him – broken?
And now – he is alive, in inequitable parts, but whole. Alive enough to stand amongst the bracken, alive enough to turn his eyes to the sun and watch its deliberate, leisurely descent. His shoulders burn and itch, pin-feathers lancing his skin, bursting to the surface: for now, he is unbothered by it.
For now, they remind him of looming sovereignty; of freedom; of flight.
They say there are Gods here – he had heard whispers of it, foreheads furrowed in the throes of prayer. Was it Gods who gifted him the dark bloom of his wings, small and crumpled at his sides? Was it Gods who erected the remarkable castle astride them, glass windows and golden arches?
But he has seen God – in the shape of a man, hard angles and perturbed parts, and when he touched him, Tsuyu worshipped.
“Oh, hello.”
He turns toward him with some trepidation – habit hard to break, a resilient instinct when you’ve lived amongst brutes and behemoths. The stranger is striking, in his own curious, emblematic way – not as fluorescent as some who paraded amongst the Citadel, ostentatious wings of dripping gold, embellished with charms and insignias – but enough so that you would notice him in a crowd; notice his eyes, dark, deep and ochre. “What do you see?” He is dark and tall and dreamlike. He is not who Tsuyu is looking for – but close.
He is full of quivering things: butterflies in his stomach, burrowing outwards. “Oh,” he starts lamely, embarrassed – he steps back, and stumbles. “Jeg tenkte – I thought I saw…” He trails off, his imaginings suddenly secretive, uncomfortable: “ – snow,” he finishes lamely, and the lie buckles beneath the bore of silence.
The question lies in the wasteland between them. Who are you? Can I stay?
“I was searching, and….” He looks back at the man – looks up, cranes his neck and ruffles the sharp line of blooming shoulder-feathers. “I think I belong here,” he finishes, slow – eyes distant, dark. His voice is unsure – like the stranger might hurl him away from his lands – away from the glittering tower than stands forebodingly astride them, away from the dark shadow that embraces him and back into the hell from which he came.
And now – he is alive, in inequitable parts, but whole. Alive enough to stand amongst the bracken, alive enough to turn his eyes to the sun and watch its deliberate, leisurely descent. His shoulders burn and itch, pin-feathers lancing his skin, bursting to the surface: for now, he is unbothered by it.
For now, they remind him of looming sovereignty; of freedom; of flight.
They say there are Gods here – he had heard whispers of it, foreheads furrowed in the throes of prayer. Was it Gods who gifted him the dark bloom of his wings, small and crumpled at his sides? Was it Gods who erected the remarkable castle astride them, glass windows and golden arches?
But he has seen God – in the shape of a man, hard angles and perturbed parts, and when he touched him, Tsuyu worshipped.
“Oh, hello.”
He turns toward him with some trepidation – habit hard to break, a resilient instinct when you’ve lived amongst brutes and behemoths. The stranger is striking, in his own curious, emblematic way – not as fluorescent as some who paraded amongst the Citadel, ostentatious wings of dripping gold, embellished with charms and insignias – but enough so that you would notice him in a crowd; notice his eyes, dark, deep and ochre. “What do you see?” He is dark and tall and dreamlike. He is not who Tsuyu is looking for – but close.
He is full of quivering things: butterflies in his stomach, burrowing outwards. “Oh,” he starts lamely, embarrassed – he steps back, and stumbles. “Jeg tenkte – I thought I saw…” He trails off, his imaginings suddenly secretive, uncomfortable: “ – snow,” he finishes lamely, and the lie buckles beneath the bore of silence.
The question lies in the wasteland between them. Who are you? Can I stay?
“I was searching, and….” He looks back at the man – looks up, cranes his neck and ruffles the sharp line of blooming shoulder-feathers. “I think I belong here,” he finishes, slow – eyes distant, dark. His voice is unsure – like the stranger might hurl him away from his lands – away from the glittering tower than stands forebodingly astride them, away from the dark shadow that embraces him and back into the hell from which he came.
NOTES // @Asterion
