It is a predator's instinct to sense apprehension. It is a keen eye that sees the subtle body language, a precise ear that hears the hesitation in a breath or voice, a steady intuition that feels it in waves, in vibrations. The aether, a thing of appetite that has teethed its cravings on the hot halos of stars, of wandering space dust, of doe meat, of horseflesh, is no exception to the melodious croon of survival. It sees the mule draw back ever slightly, the uncertainty in twitchings, in the lilt of his voice. They are such delicate details that it is enticed by each nuance of alarm as one may observe an art: ponderously, admiredly. It does not encroach on the hint of fear like an imposing villain. It welcomes it warmly, though abstractedly, a patient devil in examination.
It is not aware that it is imposing, unearthly, abnormal. It does not know that each word breathes like wind through a hollow deadrot, not know that its eyes pierce like daggers, not know that it is unnatural to hunger the way it does. In fact, it does not know that mule is much unlike Erasmus – that they are, at all, separated by more than genes or appearances, by dentistry and digestion.
There is much it does not know. And perhaps this is to Willfur's advantage.
Because when Willfur unfolds before the thing that is Erasmus like a precious bloom of waiting, infinite knowledge, it does not look to the tender places between his words – the places that pulse, the places that blush, the places that bleed. It listens earnestly, genuinely, its ears far forward and eyes open for engagement, watching with a curiosity that is near sated in every explanation. It does hitch on the occasional definition – phosphorence, absorb, wavelength, pollen, but it splits open the mind of the Erasmus-That-Was, a broad memory bank ripe for explication.
If it had mastered any expression at all, it may have feigned the appropriate caricature of awe – for, truthfully, it did not find the mule's illustrations to be useless in the least, and supposed the appropriate term for him would be what the boy that was Erasmus deemed a scholar or a bookworm or a brainiac among others. The former seemed to elicit more merit than the others, (it appeared Erasmus was not a fan of many scholars) and it wondered what other harmless, or harmful, questions a scholar could answer. Was his mind boundless? Maybe he, too, once a thing of stardust and continuum, some imperial resource of cosmic waves in the heavens of Novus that had found itself the hapless possessor of equine flesh?
No, it thought, he would not have behaved in such a way. Would he?
But its mind was too full with the consummation of two worlds: that of novus, and that of aeons, an entire galaxy locked inside the sentient dust that was aether. It looked to the bright blue blooms, nudged another with a knee, watched as it sprung back – flickering, pulsing, and certainly still bright but faded. Like a dying sun. It kneed another, all the while listening intently. When Willfur stops, Erasmus opens his mouth to speak – but grows silent again when the mule is now asking it questions. Did they bloom this way once a year? Less? Was it familiar, or special? Something shifts in the aether-eyes, realizing that the scholar's mind was not, in fact, boundless. Where then, did it end? “they–" only exist here, it almost says, not thinking that this would have been a possibly abnormal thing to say, but is stopped by more words. Willfur.
meat.
no... meet.
it learned that they were men of different hungers. but tonight, it was one in the same.
for a moment, it contemplates the proper response - for there must be one, when one says a word that not even the erasmus understands, and says, meet, which apparently means something like making an acquaintance. one that he does not eat. not right away, at least.
it searches, searches, all the while its hungry eyes filling like a reflection over black lakes when the clouds swallow the moon. it is a name that is proper, but the name still feels misplaced on its long tongue - though the thing that truly owned it had said it enough times. It had never had a name. In fact, it would not even know to call itself the aether, or aeons. The stones had their own name for it, and it could never be spoken on lips or tongues. "erasmus." it says, a sound like a wave rolling over the shore; almost ephiphanous, distant. it accepts the sound, the pronunciation matching all former records of it ever having been spoken. In fact, it even sounds better by the odd articulation, almost exotic. "how do you know so much?" in the back of his mind, he remembers the faces he carved, and the destination they gave before they no longer had jaws to speak. library, delumine. the mystic oracle. "is it... the 'library'?"
It is not aware that it is imposing, unearthly, abnormal. It does not know that each word breathes like wind through a hollow deadrot, not know that its eyes pierce like daggers, not know that it is unnatural to hunger the way it does. In fact, it does not know that mule is much unlike Erasmus – that they are, at all, separated by more than genes or appearances, by dentistry and digestion.
There is much it does not know. And perhaps this is to Willfur's advantage.
Because when Willfur unfolds before the thing that is Erasmus like a precious bloom of waiting, infinite knowledge, it does not look to the tender places between his words – the places that pulse, the places that blush, the places that bleed. It listens earnestly, genuinely, its ears far forward and eyes open for engagement, watching with a curiosity that is near sated in every explanation. It does hitch on the occasional definition – phosphorence, absorb, wavelength, pollen, but it splits open the mind of the Erasmus-That-Was, a broad memory bank ripe for explication.
If it had mastered any expression at all, it may have feigned the appropriate caricature of awe – for, truthfully, it did not find the mule's illustrations to be useless in the least, and supposed the appropriate term for him would be what the boy that was Erasmus deemed a scholar or a bookworm or a brainiac among others. The former seemed to elicit more merit than the others, (it appeared Erasmus was not a fan of many scholars) and it wondered what other harmless, or harmful, questions a scholar could answer. Was his mind boundless? Maybe he, too, once a thing of stardust and continuum, some imperial resource of cosmic waves in the heavens of Novus that had found itself the hapless possessor of equine flesh?
No, it thought, he would not have behaved in such a way. Would he?
But its mind was too full with the consummation of two worlds: that of novus, and that of aeons, an entire galaxy locked inside the sentient dust that was aether. It looked to the bright blue blooms, nudged another with a knee, watched as it sprung back – flickering, pulsing, and certainly still bright but faded. Like a dying sun. It kneed another, all the while listening intently. When Willfur stops, Erasmus opens his mouth to speak – but grows silent again when the mule is now asking it questions. Did they bloom this way once a year? Less? Was it familiar, or special? Something shifts in the aether-eyes, realizing that the scholar's mind was not, in fact, boundless. Where then, did it end? “they–" only exist here, it almost says, not thinking that this would have been a possibly abnormal thing to say, but is stopped by more words. Willfur.
meat.
no... meet.
it learned that they were men of different hungers. but tonight, it was one in the same.
for a moment, it contemplates the proper response - for there must be one, when one says a word that not even the erasmus understands, and says, meet, which apparently means something like making an acquaintance. one that he does not eat. not right away, at least.
it searches, searches, all the while its hungry eyes filling like a reflection over black lakes when the clouds swallow the moon. it is a name that is proper, but the name still feels misplaced on its long tongue - though the thing that truly owned it had said it enough times. It had never had a name. In fact, it would not even know to call itself the aether, or aeons. The stones had their own name for it, and it could never be spoken on lips or tongues. "erasmus." it says, a sound like a wave rolling over the shore; almost ephiphanous, distant. it accepts the sound, the pronunciation matching all former records of it ever having been spoken. In fact, it even sounds better by the odd articulation, almost exotic. "how do you know so much?" in the back of his mind, he remembers the faces he carved, and the destination they gave before they no longer had jaws to speak. library, delumine. the mystic oracle. "is it... the 'library'?"
@Willfur
