Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
It is the soldier in him that, when he flies, looks down at the vast countryside as if it is virginal.
In the best and worst way. From altitude, the land below opens, an offering both cruel and sweet. He is a god from the skies, swift and terrible, lightening and storm. He could take it all, once. In another life, he’d have bent the will of the land to his own, and that will was and will forever be war, war, war, like a battlecry, like a chant, like a heartbeat. Perhaps that is the one thing that has remained consistent; Solis rests at Zayir’s shoulder, a brilliant beacon, and for the first time (in longer than he cares to remember) Zayir does not feel so far from his god. However, it has taken longer than he would have liked to reacclimatise to exercise; but Zayir had, through meticulous practice. His journey to the mystic tree is his longest flight since emerging from the catacombs.
Below him pass rivers and valleys, forests and meadows. The Arma Mountains are a distant blip on the horizon; Veneror peak ruts agains the sky like a blade. Far, far away he can see the ocean; and if he spins to look behind him, or twists his neck just so, Solterra is an endless golden stretch on the other horizon.
He might have missed the tree altogether, if the rumours had not been so accurate even in their inaccuracy. The tree caught the sun like nothing Zayir had ever seen before. He tucked his wings and began to descend at a rapid dive, cutting up only at the end to slow his descent. Zayir takes to the ground in a run, which slows to a lope, then a trot, and then a languid walk. He does not shy from the center of the scene, but walks directly to the tree. The grass below seems Midas-blessed; the tree itself something of a fable, or a dream, or even a nightmare.
It had been the prince of Inebu-Hedij that had once read to Zayir, from a book of poems, for beauty is but the beginning of terror—
Zayir presses closer, to feel the waft of the grasses underfoot. There is something stirring in his breast, a feeling not unlike awe.
which we are barely able to endure, it amazes us so—
Closer, and closer still, Zayir begins to admire the small intricacies that from afar seem implausible. The trunk of the tree, although erected with the perfect anatomy of a true tree, shimmers as glass does; it seems there are pieces of sky trapped in the center of the towering tree. The leaves, too, gleam with the omnipotence of stars—stars trapped, perhaps, in mortal form.
Because it serenely disdains to destroy us—
In the catacombs, he had once dreamed of Solis descending from the sky as a man. He had been too bright to look at; a white stallion that radiated gold so pure, so brilliant, it burned. In the dream, Solis had stripped Zayir of his magic and left him bloodied, beaten, desperate. The god had said nothing—because what kind of god would he be, if he gave an explanation to a mortal for his actions? A justification? Of course, it had only been a dream. Zayir steps closer; he pressed his forehead into the bark, and—
Every angel is terrible.
He pulls away.
The bark feels just as bark would. The tree’s leaves shift and shimmer with a strange magic, but they sound as leaves do. Zayir looks for a long moment at the blood-red flowers, and for some reason his mind is drawn to Cairo. What would his companion think of the strange scene? Zayir’s mouth is dry—he regrets having come alone.
But the majesty of it, the tree’s connection with magic and otherness is too much for Zayir. He turns away and leaves with the same promptness he had arrived.
"Speaks" || Anyone is free to have seen him!
great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom:
a field where a thousand corpses lie
***STAFF EDIT
@zayir has been awarded +1EXP!
