HOW CURIOUSLY DO THE MITES AND THE BEETLES STIR – HOW DO THE WITHERED EDGES OF THE TREES FIND THEIR PLACE IN THE TOW OF DESTRUCTION, HALVED IN THEIR AGONY BENEATH THE WEIGHT OF LIGHT. OF FLOODING LIGHT – OF PENETRATIVE GLOW, SEVERE AND HARDLY SHIMMERING BUT A GREAT FLOW OF MILKY MOON-WHITE THAT ATE AND ATE AND ATE. THE SAPLINGS DID NOT KNOW SUCH TERROR. THEY BENT AND STRAINED, SILENT MOANS AGGRAVATED IN THE WAY THE BOUGHS ABOVE TOSSED AND HISSED THEIR SHUDDERING LEAVES TO ASH. BUT THE GREAT TREES WITHSTOOD IT WITH QUARREL, AND THEIR SKINS WERE RATTLED WITH THE THOUSAND FEETS OF BEADY ANTS, EACH WITH THEIR ARMOR RAISED. TO PLEASE, TO GRATE, ALL IN LINE AND QUARTERED BY THE CADENCE OF CHAOS. O BUT SHE IS NOT THE HAND OF FATE, NOT THE FACE OF DEATH – AN EMISSARY, CRUEL AND ENDLESSLY HUNGRY. WE REMEMBER HER. BUT FEAR DOES NOT RISE TO THE FLESH OF THE TITAN-BORN, HE DOES NOT SHARE THE HORROR WITH NATURE UNDONE BENEATH THE WHITE-HOT PRESS OF DESTRUCTION. THE LIGHT TIP-TOES AT THE EDGE OF HIS HOOVES, IT SMOOTHS ALONG HIS FEATURES, IT THREATENS TO WEAVE AGAINST THE GLIMMERING GOLD COILS THAT SPLIT HIS SHOULDER. IT ACHES TO ACHE, TO PERSUADE HIS FLESH TO PEEL, TO GIVE, TO ACCEPT.
THE NOT-MOONLIGHT POOLS IN THE HOLLOW PARTS OF HIS EXPRESSION THAT DIVE INTO HER OWN WITH A VIRULENT REFUSAL. AND HOW BEAUTIFUL HE IS IN THE NATURE OF MILD FURY – THE POUT OF HIS CURVED LIPS, DRAWN TIGHT AGAINST WAITING FANGS; THE SHARPNESS OF HIS EYES THAT BIDE IN MESMERIC SHADOW, AND THE WAY THE LIGHT CUTS OVER HIS SHARP CHEEKBONES. IT IS CRADLED IN THE LIKENESS OF HIS SKULL – INDEED, A PORTRAITURE OF DEATH THAT PAINTS HIM BONE-WHITE AT ITS HIGHEST POINTS. SHE SPEAKS - NO - AND THE LIGHT SLIPS ACROSS HIS FEATURES AS HE MOVES TO SNAP AT A SOARING BEETLE. IT TASTES LIKE DIRT AND SULFUR IN HIS MOUTH, PROMPTLY SPIT AT HER FEET. ITS WINGS FLUTTERED ONCE, TWICE, TWITCHING GRIMACE OF DOOM BEFORE THE LIGHT EMBRACES IT AND REDUCES IT TOO TO ASH. THE SHADOWS RETURN FAINTLY, A VEIL THAT PASSES OVER HIS FACE AND TOYS WITH THE LIGHT THAT RECEDES.
WHEN SHE MOVES HE IS PINS AND NEEDLES AND GRATING HOT MALICE. HIS SMOOTH EDGES SHARPEN, HIS AMUSEMENT IS WHITTLED TO REPUGNANCE. HE DOES NOT SNARL – BUT O HOW HE HUNCHES LUPINE, HIS SHOULDERS SQUARE AND HIGH AND READY, THE HUM SWELLS WHERE HER WORDS FALL SHORT AND HIS EARS SLIP BACK BEHIND HIS CROWN. HE LOOKS AND SEES THE WAY HER SKIN MOVES WITH SOME PECULIARITY HE CANNOT COMPREHEND – HOW IT IS RUSSET, NO, HOW IT IS BLOOD RED AND GLIMMERS WITH DEW, WITH PERSPIRATION, WITH THE REFRACTED RAYS OF NOT-MOONLIGHT THAT EATS AND EATS AND HAS LEFT HER SOMETHING NOT QUITE DEAD AND NOT QUITE ALIVE. HE SEES THAT SHE ALMOST RESEMBLES A SKINNED CARCASS IN THE LIGHT, A CADAVER THAT SHOULD NOT BREATHE BUT EXHALES THE FUMES OF CARNAGE AND DECAY. HE SEES HOW THE LIGHT SPILLS BETWEEN HER TEETH LIKE IVORY MOLTEN, HOW IT DANCES IN THE CRACKS AND THE CRAGS OF HER WHERE THERE SHOULD BE SHADOW. AND TO THIS, HE WONDERS – A DEEPER WONDER THAN BEFORE, DEEPER THAN FEAR AND TREPIDATION, DEEPER THAN ANY INKLING OF MORTALITY THAT THREATENED TO PRICKLE UP HIS BACK AND WHISPER RUN INTO HIS EAR – HE WONDERS IF SHE BLED WHEN SHE WAS CUT? WAS IT THICK AND HOT AND METALLIC? DID IT POUR THIN AND EARTHY AND HAVE AN AFTERTASTE OF ASH, OF SULFUR? DID IT RUSH OUT OF HER LIKE VIBRANCY, LIKE MOONFLOWER NECTAR?
ANOTHER STEP, AND THE PINS AND NEEDLES ARE DAGGERS. HIS BLOOD IS HOT. IT IS HUNGRY. IT IS FURIOUS. IT IS A BASTARDIZED COURSE OF ICHOR, HALF MORTAL AND HALF TITAN, SOME ABOMINABLE MIXTURE THAT DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO BE CONTAINED. IT RUSHES AGAINST HIS SILHOUETTE, PULSING WITH THE RHYTHM OF WARDRUMS. WITH THE BEAT OF THE HUM THAT FLOWS WILDLY THROUGH HIM, UNTIL IT SUBMITS TO THE ROAR. HE WONDERS WHAT HE WOULD BE IF HE DRANK THE LIGHT FROM HER. WHAT WOULD HE BE IF HE ALLOWED HER IN? ALLOWED HER TO BE A PART OF HIM? (WE FROWN IN DISGUST. SHE IS A CHILD, TO US. LESSER, CHAOTIC, RECKLESS, INSATIABLE. BUT HE DOES NOT HEAR US.) WOULD SHE RENDER HIM A CULMINATION OF ASH AND LIGHT AND INSECTS? WOULD HIS PORES RUSH WITH HIS BLOOD AT LAST, HIS INSIDES CHURN WITH THE DISGRACE?
ANOTHER STEP, AND THE FOREST HISSES WITH FERVOR. THE WIND SWEEPS BETWEEN THEM AND TUGS AT HIS MANE, AT HIS HORNS, AT HIS FACE – IT BATTERS AGAINST HIS SHOULDERS, IT DEVOURS THE LIGHT THAT PASSES BETWEEN THEM AND CARVES A DEEP HOLLOW IN IT. FOR A MOMENT HE HOLDS TO IT, HE WATCHES AT IT SETS FIRE TO HER, RIPPING BACK THE KNOTTED LIGHT AND SIFTING THE ASHES THAT FELL. AND BETWEEN THEM, POURING A WINDING SHADOW LIKE INK. IN IT UNRAVELS THE LIKENESS OF THE WITHERED CREEKBED, AND AT EACH END WRITHES THINGS THAT LOOK LIKE AN OCEAN AND THAT LOOK LIKE A BRUSHLAND WASH. WHEN HE LOOKS TO THE END THAT PAINTS THE OCEAN HE SEES THAT THE TRAIL NARROWLY DESCENDS FROM THE CREEKBED – IT DISAPPEARS INTO THE DARK OF THE NIGHT UNTOUCHED BY THE NOT-MOONLIGHT. AND WHEN HE LOOKS TO THE OTHER...
HE DOES NOT SEE THAT THE THING CRAWLS OUT FROM THE SAND. HE ONLY SEES THAT IT EMERGES AS A WORM – A SERPENT – SOME TWISTING MASS OF WRIGGLING CONTORTIONS THAT UNFOLDS AND BEARS BACK AGAINST ITSELF. AS IT LASHED FORWARD, ERASMUS SHRUGGED HIS SKULL FROM ITS RANGE SO THAT ITS MAW HAD JUST BARELY PRESSED THE POINT OF HIS HORN – BEFORE IT CASCADED OVER HIM IN A DISSIPATING SMOKE. WITH IT FLUTTERS THE TATTERED EDGES OF SHADOW THAT DRIFT FROM THEM LIKE ASHES INTO THE NIGHT AIR. AS HE WATCHES THEM, HE SEES THAT THE MOON HAS TAKEN PRESIDENCE OVER THE NAKED BOUGHS OF THE TREES – IT LINGERS HIGH ABOVE, A THIN RIND THAT GRINS DOWN UPON THEM.
HE CANNOT TELL IF IT IS A CHALLENGE OR A THREAT.
THE UNDEAD SPEAKS AGAIN. IT IS WHITE NOISE, WASP BUZZING, A MAD, PUNGENT SWEETNESS THAT POISONS THE AIR. ERASMUS LETS HIS EYES FALL UPON HER AGAIN AND THIS TIME IT IS NOT WITH AMUSEMENT ; IN HIS EYES BURN A HERESY THAT SHINES BRIGHTLY WITH THE DIM REFLECTION OF THE TRUE MOON, A RESILIENCE THAT ASPIRES TO MISCHIEF.
WITHOUT ANSWERING HER, HE TURNS INTO THE DARKEST PART OF THE FOREST – A PLACE HER LIGHT DOES NOT TOUCH YET, TOWARD THE DIRECTION OF THE SANDY MEADOW. HE DOES NOT KNOW WHY, OR WHAT IT IS THAT HE IS SEARCHING FOR NOW. HE ONLY FEELS IN HIS BONES THAT HE MUST – THAT IT IS HIS OBLIGATION TO DO SO, TO FIND WHAT IT MEANS. HE RECALLED THE SMOOTH STONES AT THE SHORE OF THE CREEK THAT SPLINTERED INTO THE COILS OF A HUNDRED SNAKES. AND HE THINKS BRIEFLY THAT HE MAY HAVE SEEN THEM RUSH IN THIS DIRECTION. FOR WHAT? HE MUST KNOW. HE MUST SEE. FOR ONE SMALL MOMENT IN THEIR MEETING, HE HAD THOUGHT THAT THEY WERE HER DOING. BUT HE SEES NOW THAT THE FOREST DOES NOT BOW TO HER. IT DOES NOT BELONG TO HER. IT DOES NOT WAIT FOR HER.
FOR WHOM DOES IT BOW?
THE ASH THAT CLINGS TO THE WITHERED SPRIGS OF TREELIMBS CASCADE ACROSS HIS PELT, UNTIL THEIR FRESHER COUNTERPARTS ARE LEFT WHERE THE LIGHT HAD NOT STRAYED. BUT HE IS SURE THAT IT IS BEHIND HIM LOOMING, EATING, HUNGRY AND SWARMING. HIS MOTHER WARNED HIM THAT THE GODS WERE GREEDY, IMPATIENT, INSATIABLE THINGS. THEY WERE THE ONES WHO IMPRISONED THEIR CREATORS. SELFISH, CARNAL. HE THINKS TO THE TALES THE ELDERS TOLD OF POWERFUL GODS, OF ENDLESS GODS, OF CRUEL GODS AND GREAT GODS THAT WOULD LAST UNTIL THE END OF THE WORLD AND BEYOND, AND THE NATURE OF THAT END TO BE AT THEIR WILL. HE THOUGHT OF HIS MOTHER'S TALES OF HOW THE GODS WERE NO MORE THAN A STAR TO BE WISHED UPON. A STAR IN THE EYE OF THE FATES, THAT WITHERED WHEN FORGOTTEN. (WE SCOWL AT HER FROM THE SHADOWS, WATCHING HER LIGHT CREEP FAINTLY IN THE NOOKS BETWEEN HIS VERTEBRAE.) ERASMUS PAUSED JUST BEYOND THE ENCROACHING NOT-MOONLIGHT, FALLING AGAIN WHERE THE SHADOWS LOOM. HE SWUNG HIS HEAD SLOWLY BACK, THE SLOPE OF HIS SKULL FRAMED IN THE SHUDDERING LEAVES. HE LOOKS UPON HER AND WONDERS IF SHE IS A FADED STAR. HIS EARS FLICKED, TONGUE SMOOTHING ALONG HIS LIPS AND HIS TAIL SNAPS ANOTHER OF HER FLIES FROM THE AIR. "this way."
@Eshek
