CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE-
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
If only it had merely been rearranged, reassembled, or altered under a new regime. Instead, the land had been inhaled by smoke and flames, by infernos, by greed, by avarice from a choking, clawing god, laden with false convictions and assurances. If only everyone else hadn’t been swallowed and consumed, earned their sacrificial bravery, resurrected again across lakes and ponds in a certain circle of hell; where his mother had regained her mobility and voice in two words towards him (be good) before returning to her demise, where chains had clung, and the void might as well have strangled them all over again.
He was grateful when she didn’t pry further, because some had before and the wounds had cut and slashed, deeper into the scars, brought them out, fresh and whole. Her apology was noted with a lift of his head, hooves dragging through sand, then eyes snatching back towards the land. “It’s not an experience anyone would want.” Save for the gods – and he almost said it, almost uttered the syllables, but he didn’t know how much the world shuddered under deities here. If there were some like Kisamoa, I am Kaos, bent to break apart beauty, to render kingdoms apart with one specious declaration. He’d only been a child. He hadn’t been capable of doing anything. But here, would warnings be sufficient?
Or did it matter? Did any of it at all, when it came to a celestial being’s strength and ability?
He took the direction in silence, in exhaustion, in the weight fatigue drew over lines of muscles, flesh, and sinew. Perhaps he was fated for a tour, or merely an escort, given her circumstances and his own. He raised his head once more, realizing there’d been other awkward, discomforting notions laden in his skull. If his father were here, he would have been automatically scolded for the blunder. “I’m Mauna.” It means mountain nearly fell from his lips; as if it meant something, held significance, when he didn’t feel like a summit or a peak. He could be regarded as a pebble, a piece of drifting ash. “Thank you for finding me.” Manners, finally sinking in, as he followed, and his first inquiry about the land wasn’t truly measured towards it at all. “Who are you?” A name to a face, rather than the eventual parting as strangers. He’d already had an infinite number of them in his life.
@Seraphina
@tag | speaks
TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE-
If only it had merely been rearranged, reassembled, or altered under a new regime. Instead, the land had been inhaled by smoke and flames, by infernos, by greed, by avarice from a choking, clawing god, laden with false convictions and assurances. If only everyone else hadn’t been swallowed and consumed, earned their sacrificial bravery, resurrected again across lakes and ponds in a certain circle of hell; where his mother had regained her mobility and voice in two words towards him (be good) before returning to her demise, where chains had clung, and the void might as well have strangled them all over again. He was grateful when she didn’t pry further, because some had before and the wounds had cut and slashed, deeper into the scars, brought them out, fresh and whole. Her apology was noted with a lift of his head, hooves dragging through sand, then eyes snatching back towards the land. “It’s not an experience anyone would want.” Save for the gods – and he almost said it, almost uttered the syllables, but he didn’t know how much the world shuddered under deities here. If there were some like Kisamoa, I am Kaos, bent to break apart beauty, to render kingdoms apart with one specious declaration. He’d only been a child. He hadn’t been capable of doing anything. But here, would warnings be sufficient?
Or did it matter? Did any of it at all, when it came to a celestial being’s strength and ability?
He took the direction in silence, in exhaustion, in the weight fatigue drew over lines of muscles, flesh, and sinew. Perhaps he was fated for a tour, or merely an escort, given her circumstances and his own. He raised his head once more, realizing there’d been other awkward, discomforting notions laden in his skull. If his father were here, he would have been automatically scolded for the blunder. “I’m Mauna.” It means mountain nearly fell from his lips; as if it meant something, held significance, when he didn’t feel like a summit or a peak. He could be regarded as a pebble, a piece of drifting ash. “Thank you for finding me.” Manners, finally sinking in, as he followed, and his first inquiry about the land wasn’t truly measured towards it at all. “Who are you?” A name to a face, rather than the eventual parting as strangers. He’d already had an infinite number of them in his life.
@
OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER,
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.
