he had been something before the fall; he had been flesh and blood
When I close my eyes, it nearly feels like falling. When I close my eyes, I could be anywhere, with just a moment of creativity. It is not so difficult to imagine me standing upon the precipice of a different cliff, on the eve of battle, somber and prepared. As a younger man, I had done that often—I had stood on the edge and imagined everything that might unfold in the sands beneath me.
Now, there is only the crash of water against rocks. Now, there is only what I know to be a certain kind of ending, a crossroads in my life—
I am aware I am not alone because I can smell her before I can see her. It is the hunger, I think, that makes the odor of warm flesh so evident; a bit like sweat, and sand, and the baking earth beneath a too-hot sun. She smells inexplicably of Solterra and it is the predator within me made ware of this; it is the predator within me that refuses to be caught unawares, that choruses in my stomach and my blood, that cries out for a salve to this insatiable hunger—
She is the last person I expect to find me; and in many ways, the last person I want to. The somberness of our last encounter remains fresh and distinctive in my mind; the way she reminded me so starkly of someone else, of someone’s name I do not want to give power to, not here, not now—
And, like that, like flint striking steel—I decide that she is the only person who should find me, because she reminds me of that someone else.
She stands, at first, in quiet. She does not offer anything except for her presence. The two of us face the sea, and I have at last opened my eyes. I regard her from the corner of them, briefly, before returning my attention to the thrashing water below.
What’s wrong?
I do not know how to answer, at first. Whatever I might say seems too large; and anyways, when I open my mouth to speak it at first seems too difficult to do so. She is not a woman I want to appear unintelligent in front of—and while I understand I owe her no explanation, there is a tangible relief to be asked.
“I—“ I begin. My voice is thick with alcohol, but not slurred. “I spent a lifetime hunting something…I have now become.”
I should have died.
“I didn’t.” I say this aloud, without meaning to, and quickly amend: “I should have died, and I didn’t. I was meant to die.”
I was meant to know nobility. I was meant to have my bones charred by a funeral pyre, my soul sent up to the heavens in billows of smoke. Instead, I am here, on a cliffside, pretending not to hear the way the sea sings or the way I hunger so viciously.
"I would have rather died, I think." At this, my voice is quiet. At this, I think of how my father once told me the only way for a warrior to end is gutted on a beach, a sword still within reach.
Now, there is only the crash of water against rocks. Now, there is only what I know to be a certain kind of ending, a crossroads in my life—
I am aware I am not alone because I can smell her before I can see her. It is the hunger, I think, that makes the odor of warm flesh so evident; a bit like sweat, and sand, and the baking earth beneath a too-hot sun. She smells inexplicably of Solterra and it is the predator within me made ware of this; it is the predator within me that refuses to be caught unawares, that choruses in my stomach and my blood, that cries out for a salve to this insatiable hunger—
She is the last person I expect to find me; and in many ways, the last person I want to. The somberness of our last encounter remains fresh and distinctive in my mind; the way she reminded me so starkly of someone else, of someone’s name I do not want to give power to, not here, not now—
And, like that, like flint striking steel—I decide that she is the only person who should find me, because she reminds me of that someone else.
She stands, at first, in quiet. She does not offer anything except for her presence. The two of us face the sea, and I have at last opened my eyes. I regard her from the corner of them, briefly, before returning my attention to the thrashing water below.
What’s wrong?
I do not know how to answer, at first. Whatever I might say seems too large; and anyways, when I open my mouth to speak it at first seems too difficult to do so. She is not a woman I want to appear unintelligent in front of—and while I understand I owe her no explanation, there is a tangible relief to be asked.
“I—“ I begin. My voice is thick with alcohol, but not slurred. “I spent a lifetime hunting something…I have now become.”
I should have died.
“I didn’t.” I say this aloud, without meaning to, and quickly amend: “I should have died, and I didn’t. I was meant to die.”
I was meant to know nobility. I was meant to have my bones charred by a funeral pyre, my soul sent up to the heavens in billows of smoke. Instead, I am here, on a cliffside, pretending not to hear the way the sea sings or the way I hunger so viciously.
"I would have rather died, I think." At this, my voice is quiet. At this, I think of how my father once told me the only way for a warrior to end is gutted on a beach, a sword still within reach.
