|| LORD OF VERTIGO, THE HAWK HERMIT OF THE HEIGHTS, TRACES A SIGN THAT INSTANTLY VANISHES INTO LIGHT, INTO AIR. STUBBORNLY, FROM DAWN TO DUSK, HE REPEATS IT. ||
A hawk circles lazily in the too-blue, too-bright sky. The silhouette looks cut even as it rotates; the midday sun behind it leaves the bird backlit, more an absence of sky than a presence of predator. Corradh's observation of the hawk requires no more energy than the lazy flight, circling, circling. Then the hawk is gone.
Mourning pigeons return from whatever alcoves they had hidden in, and the garden erupts into vivacious noise. The birds chatter and the fountain bubbles and all is as it should be.
Corradh rests there, in that noisy garden, having seen the hawk and now watching the pigeons in their dances and nest-tending. They bathe in the ornate fountain at the garden’s center. He is laid out on a bed of silks, behind a white linen curtain that drifts ever so slightly with the breeze. Everything in this world is beautifully contained, beautifully organised; every angle, from the agave plants to the cacti, draws his eyes back to the fountain at the centre of the garden courtyard.
The west wing of the Ieshan estate is his favourite; it always seems quieter there, less refined. The expensive tastes of his siblings had manifested elsewhere in their villa; the expansive library, containing works from scholars of all Courts and even a few foreign documents; the swimming quarters with it’s exquisite mosaics; the wine cellar, of all tastes; the larger, more articulately made gardens of the North and South wings respectfully. This garden, this courtyard seemed an afterthought in the construction of their villa; small, secreted away, and so Corradh since childhood has made it his own.
He rises from his bed of rich red silks and navigates through the garden's bold desert sage and palo verde, the Indian paintbrush and desert marigold. There are Medjool trees in one corner, and they are bursting with their fruit. He pulls several dates from the tree. Corradh pits them. The caramel flavour and rich sticky texture work in his mouth, against teeth designed for different appetites. The act is merely a guise. He has heard the linen curtains of the patio rustle, and knows he is longer alone.
Perhaps it was his walk across the yellow marble courtyard, that made the birds so silent. He does not think so.
Silence comes in the bird’s stead. Corradh looks over one supple shoulder; in the bright light, his rosettes are bold and abysmal all the same. He eats another date with the indolence of a great cat; slow; savoury. No one can chase him from this kill.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Pilate?” The hawk circles again, above, in the too-blue, too-bright sky.
"Speech." || @Pilate
A hawk circles lazily in the too-blue, too-bright sky. The silhouette looks cut even as it rotates; the midday sun behind it leaves the bird backlit, more an absence of sky than a presence of predator. Corradh's observation of the hawk requires no more energy than the lazy flight, circling, circling. Then the hawk is gone.
Mourning pigeons return from whatever alcoves they had hidden in, and the garden erupts into vivacious noise. The birds chatter and the fountain bubbles and all is as it should be.
Corradh rests there, in that noisy garden, having seen the hawk and now watching the pigeons in their dances and nest-tending. They bathe in the ornate fountain at the garden’s center. He is laid out on a bed of silks, behind a white linen curtain that drifts ever so slightly with the breeze. Everything in this world is beautifully contained, beautifully organised; every angle, from the agave plants to the cacti, draws his eyes back to the fountain at the centre of the garden courtyard.
The west wing of the Ieshan estate is his favourite; it always seems quieter there, less refined. The expensive tastes of his siblings had manifested elsewhere in their villa; the expansive library, containing works from scholars of all Courts and even a few foreign documents; the swimming quarters with it’s exquisite mosaics; the wine cellar, of all tastes; the larger, more articulately made gardens of the North and South wings respectfully. This garden, this courtyard seemed an afterthought in the construction of their villa; small, secreted away, and so Corradh since childhood has made it his own.
He rises from his bed of rich red silks and navigates through the garden's bold desert sage and palo verde, the Indian paintbrush and desert marigold. There are Medjool trees in one corner, and they are bursting with their fruit. He pulls several dates from the tree. Corradh pits them. The caramel flavour and rich sticky texture work in his mouth, against teeth designed for different appetites. The act is merely a guise. He has heard the linen curtains of the patio rustle, and knows he is longer alone.
Perhaps it was his walk across the yellow marble courtyard, that made the birds so silent. He does not think so.
Silence comes in the bird’s stead. Corradh looks over one supple shoulder; in the bright light, his rosettes are bold and abysmal all the same. He eats another date with the indolence of a great cat; slow; savoury. No one can chase him from this kill.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Pilate?” The hawk circles again, above, in the too-blue, too-bright sky.
"Speech." || @
unknowingly, he draws a question:
is power freedom? is freedom fate?
