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I can't remember why I never learned to fly but like a broken bird I'll try and I still don't understand but i'll catch the wind I can
His mother had ushered him into her tearoom beneath the sweeping al-Tazarad drapery strung from the marble pillars. The floor was a black damask pattern that made his head hurt; the mahogany carved furniture, layered in copious amounts of silken pillows, rested on rugs made from the skin of real tigers. It was a sad room, to Atlas; partly because he was only ever called in for a parental scolding, but partly because of those pelts spread upon the floor-- once they had clad powerful beasts, carnivores of the highest nature, now reduced to stopping scratches on the tile.
His mother lounged across her chaise as a young slave waved a golden fan to keep her cool. It blew the heavy hashish smoke away from her delicate nose; the pipe, with its dying flame, rested in a tray next to the ornate teapot painted in delicate scenes of the Sand Czar’s rule. Another servant stood nearby, head bowed, in case Sadrehsan bint-Giauzar al-Tazarad, matron of the second greatest family of Sand Czars in all Zukai, had any want or need.
A purple silk drape covered his mother’s pale spotted flesh; her head was adorned in chains of moonstone and amethysts, her eyes darkened with kohl. She fixed him in a half-lidded gaze and waited, languid and unhurried, for him to complete his approach.
He cut the steward off before the man could launch into his long list of names by stepping forward. “Mother.”
“Son,” she said, her beautiful, honey-soft voice long worn ragged by drug usage and the scolding of children. She bid him sit adjacent to her on a lounge, it’s buttons hewn from real gold. He did as he was told, as he always did.
Likewise, as she always did, his mother began with praise. “I hear I am expecting more grandchildren.”
Atlas licked his lips, forced his gaze to be steady, to not give away the lie. “Yes.”
“May they be boys, Sand Czars noble and true,” she lifted the delicate teacup. As she took a sip-- he watched the liquid, golden and fragrant, slip past her lips-- he mumbled the phrase back, sweat spreading out across his skin. “I’m a bit disappointed I’ve had to call upon you. Why does a mother need a royal summons to visit with her son?”
“Apologies, mother,” Atlas said, without meaning, “I’ve been busy.”
“So it seems,” she raised her eyebrows and took another sip from her cup, “busy with a certain silver filly.”
Atlas’ apathetic disinterest deepened into bitter suspicion. “Nashira is mine to do with as I please.” It was a practiced statement, but meaningless. Nashira herself had made him repeat the words until the sting came out of them.
“She is a slave, and was a gift to you, so this statement is true. However,” his mother let the silence hang between them, fostering the fuel for his fire, planning to irritate him into a misstep. He watched her take another drink and remembered, for the first time, how he wished he could slam that porcelain down her throat. “Your fraternization with the whore has been noticed by other families. The marriage offers we have received decline in value with each passing day.”
“I have two good wives, from good families,” Atlas said, forcing his tone to be even.
“Tazarad has countless whores.”
“And he treats them like whores,” his mother snapped, rising slightly from her seat. “He does not elevate them and he certainly does not give them seats of honor at his weddings.”
“Nashira deserves the world and you are a spiteful old bitch.” Atlas’ voice is his own but the words are not. They come from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere warm and loud and outspoken. He stands up and towers over her and as his shadow in the setting sun swallows his mother’s prone figure he sees the blood trails leaking from her nose; and in a blink the furniture is swept away and he is left standing in a pool of fluid on those ugly damask floors.
He awakes from his nightmare coated in sweat. The bed of grass he’d carved out for himself was plastered wetly to his flesh Instinctively, he tucks his chin and feels the rasp of the remnants of Nashira’s coat around his neck; the very touch of his relaxed him immensely.
It was a cool dawn in the meadow; songbirds were singing in full force as the sun’s orange rays diffused across the sky. The grass swayed in an early morning breeze, and it was cool, too much so to feel so heated. He must have really churned in his sleep, he realizes, because as he stands there are fissures in the earth where his hooves clawed and lashed.
The nightmare had been a new spin on an old familiar tale; his mother’s death, as her lungs hemorraghed and her lifeblood streamed from her nostrils. But their encounter had not gone like that; he had not spoken up or talked back. In truth, he had let her browbeat him as usual… but the anger in his dream had been real. He had felt that, so long ago… a rage so pure he no longer thought he was capable of it. It was a frightening realization, to reacquaint his peaceful self something so powerful. It left him shaken.
As usual, when he sought solace, Atlas wandered. He shook himself of the grass clinging to his golden pelt and stretched his neck long into the sun. Forward motion was a comfort to him, a known constant in this ever-changing world. Bright orange butterflyweed brushed his stomach, leaving behind orange streaks of pollen; the dew collected clear on the pink queen-of-the-prairie. The world was turning. Things were okay.
He crested the top of a small hill and looked down upon a strange creature like none he'd ever seen before; it was rather small, and a curious hybrid mash-up of bird and beast. Intrigued, he made his way down the hill, hoping to get a closer look.
He paused slightly away from the duo, offering a polite smile. "Now there's a beast I've only ever seen on coats of arms," he said, unable to hide his joy as his grin grew. "Might I have an introduction?"
@Arah ! "Speech." ! emo atlas is my fave atlas
His mother lounged across her chaise as a young slave waved a golden fan to keep her cool. It blew the heavy hashish smoke away from her delicate nose; the pipe, with its dying flame, rested in a tray next to the ornate teapot painted in delicate scenes of the Sand Czar’s rule. Another servant stood nearby, head bowed, in case Sadrehsan bint-Giauzar al-Tazarad, matron of the second greatest family of Sand Czars in all Zukai, had any want or need.
A purple silk drape covered his mother’s pale spotted flesh; her head was adorned in chains of moonstone and amethysts, her eyes darkened with kohl. She fixed him in a half-lidded gaze and waited, languid and unhurried, for him to complete his approach.
He cut the steward off before the man could launch into his long list of names by stepping forward. “Mother.”
“Son,” she said, her beautiful, honey-soft voice long worn ragged by drug usage and the scolding of children. She bid him sit adjacent to her on a lounge, it’s buttons hewn from real gold. He did as he was told, as he always did.
Likewise, as she always did, his mother began with praise. “I hear I am expecting more grandchildren.”
Atlas licked his lips, forced his gaze to be steady, to not give away the lie. “Yes.”
“May they be boys, Sand Czars noble and true,” she lifted the delicate teacup. As she took a sip-- he watched the liquid, golden and fragrant, slip past her lips-- he mumbled the phrase back, sweat spreading out across his skin. “I’m a bit disappointed I’ve had to call upon you. Why does a mother need a royal summons to visit with her son?”
“Apologies, mother,” Atlas said, without meaning, “I’ve been busy.”
“So it seems,” she raised her eyebrows and took another sip from her cup, “busy with a certain silver filly.”
Atlas’ apathetic disinterest deepened into bitter suspicion. “Nashira is mine to do with as I please.” It was a practiced statement, but meaningless. Nashira herself had made him repeat the words until the sting came out of them.
“She is a slave, and was a gift to you, so this statement is true. However,” his mother let the silence hang between them, fostering the fuel for his fire, planning to irritate him into a misstep. He watched her take another drink and remembered, for the first time, how he wished he could slam that porcelain down her throat. “Your fraternization with the whore has been noticed by other families. The marriage offers we have received decline in value with each passing day.”
“I have two good wives, from good families,” Atlas said, forcing his tone to be even.
“Tazarad has countless whores.”
“And he treats them like whores,” his mother snapped, rising slightly from her seat. “He does not elevate them and he certainly does not give them seats of honor at his weddings.”
“Nashira deserves the world and you are a spiteful old bitch.” Atlas’ voice is his own but the words are not. They come from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere warm and loud and outspoken. He stands up and towers over her and as his shadow in the setting sun swallows his mother’s prone figure he sees the blood trails leaking from her nose; and in a blink the furniture is swept away and he is left standing in a pool of fluid on those ugly damask floors.
He awakes from his nightmare coated in sweat. The bed of grass he’d carved out for himself was plastered wetly to his flesh Instinctively, he tucks his chin and feels the rasp of the remnants of Nashira’s coat around his neck; the very touch of his relaxed him immensely.
It was a cool dawn in the meadow; songbirds were singing in full force as the sun’s orange rays diffused across the sky. The grass swayed in an early morning breeze, and it was cool, too much so to feel so heated. He must have really churned in his sleep, he realizes, because as he stands there are fissures in the earth where his hooves clawed and lashed.
The nightmare had been a new spin on an old familiar tale; his mother’s death, as her lungs hemorraghed and her lifeblood streamed from her nostrils. But their encounter had not gone like that; he had not spoken up or talked back. In truth, he had let her browbeat him as usual… but the anger in his dream had been real. He had felt that, so long ago… a rage so pure he no longer thought he was capable of it. It was a frightening realization, to reacquaint his peaceful self something so powerful. It left him shaken.
As usual, when he sought solace, Atlas wandered. He shook himself of the grass clinging to his golden pelt and stretched his neck long into the sun. Forward motion was a comfort to him, a known constant in this ever-changing world. Bright orange butterflyweed brushed his stomach, leaving behind orange streaks of pollen; the dew collected clear on the pink queen-of-the-prairie. The world was turning. Things were okay.
He crested the top of a small hill and looked down upon a strange creature like none he'd ever seen before; it was rather small, and a curious hybrid mash-up of bird and beast. Intrigued, he made his way down the hill, hoping to get a closer look.
He paused slightly away from the duo, offering a polite smile. "Now there's a beast I've only ever seen on coats of arms," he said, unable to hide his joy as his grin grew. "Might I have an introduction?"
