There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life,
and beyond which life cannot rise
and beyond which life cannot rise
She cares no more for me than the desert does; strangely, I do not find myself surprised or insulted. I expect nothing else, from one who dances among the dunes as if she belongs to them, as if she is the mortal extension to them—
(And watching her, I cannot help but think she cannot possibly be mortal; not in the way that I am, and have always been, mortal—with a mortal’s fear, and a mortal’s aging, and a mortal’s bird-quick beating blood that dances to a crescendo rhythm at the spectacular sight).
She does not answer me at first; but that, in and of itself, is more of an answer than he words become. I see it—I see it in the way that she does not subtract from the wyrms beneath the sand. Not once do her hooves cross their patterns; not once does she disturb their intricate movements. Instead, she weaves among them; natural; deft; without care—
That isn’t right.
It is perhaps one of the most careful, articulate things I have ever seen, this dance with the sandwyrms. It fascinates me; it fascinates me to the point that even my fear seems subdued, and I cannot wrench my eyes away. She is not wrong to assume that my contribution to this dance is instinctual; that it is my wings responding to the current of the hot air and the track of her own movements across the desert.
Nobody would be scared of something you know won’t hurt you.
I am struck, suddenly, by a very childish desire to make her like me. I think it is because she is so statuesque—so other, and belonging to a thing I love but do not possess. (And that, too, is the flaw of me—I think as men ought to, as men are raised to, not like my father but like the Commander of the Halcyon, as a matter of practicalities). Yes, I think. There is a part of me that wishes to possess this magic but knows that I cannot; and the next best thing is to earn the admiration of the one who does.
I am more shocked at my own thoughts than by the rising sandwyrm; she does not flinch from the serpentine arch as it rises terribly, awe-inspiringly, from the sands. Where she moves to brush it gently, I ride the sudden influx of hot air the beast releases from the sands; up, up, on the thin current, and then down in a cloud of rose-gold scales. I watch her, still; the softness she takes on in appreciation to the creature, a softness she does not take on toward me. I think I recognize it, if in partialities; it is how I had looked at Ariel, before he had disappeared. It is how I had nestled beneath his great chin, between his powerful limbs, and rested as quietly as a babe in a nursing bed—he would never have hurt me, despite all the terrible power of his claws and teeth and burning skin.
There is something about her wildness, too, that reminds me of the girl in the Delumine woods—and her dark wildness, and the way I had felt afraid then. I had though to myself I would never feel fear like that—and now, watching this brazen girl, I cannot help but decide my only option is to not feel my fear. It is easier said than done, with the rapid beating of my heart and the trembling of my limbs. Yet, I steady my breathing—I steady my breathing, and continue my flight upon the currents. The sun is rising in earnest, now—the pinks and oranges of the sunrise are giving way to the solid gold of Solis at the horizon.
I am different, here, than in Terrastella. I am not so quiet. I am not so secretive. Perhaps that is what emboldens me to drop carefully onto the sands beside her. I do not speak, because of the hard flash of annoyance—I even ensure to keep distance from her, so as to not interrupt her dancing. But then I quietly mimic and, with tremendous care, begin to replicate the dance.
I know, however, that will not be enough—and so I let go of another breath, and all my thoughts, and move along the twisting patterns of the sandwyrms, letting them guide me as the hot currents of the air had only moments ago. When I do not think, it is not so different. When I do not think, I wonder if this is not the best way to get lost.
(And maybe, maybe, that gives me a bit of peace—imagining my father, dancing with teryrs at the edge of the world).
☾
(And watching her, I cannot help but think she cannot possibly be mortal; not in the way that I am, and have always been, mortal—with a mortal’s fear, and a mortal’s aging, and a mortal’s bird-quick beating blood that dances to a crescendo rhythm at the spectacular sight).
She does not answer me at first; but that, in and of itself, is more of an answer than he words become. I see it—I see it in the way that she does not subtract from the wyrms beneath the sand. Not once do her hooves cross their patterns; not once does she disturb their intricate movements. Instead, she weaves among them; natural; deft; without care—
That isn’t right.
It is perhaps one of the most careful, articulate things I have ever seen, this dance with the sandwyrms. It fascinates me; it fascinates me to the point that even my fear seems subdued, and I cannot wrench my eyes away. She is not wrong to assume that my contribution to this dance is instinctual; that it is my wings responding to the current of the hot air and the track of her own movements across the desert.
Nobody would be scared of something you know won’t hurt you.
I am struck, suddenly, by a very childish desire to make her like me. I think it is because she is so statuesque—so other, and belonging to a thing I love but do not possess. (And that, too, is the flaw of me—I think as men ought to, as men are raised to, not like my father but like the Commander of the Halcyon, as a matter of practicalities). Yes, I think. There is a part of me that wishes to possess this magic but knows that I cannot; and the next best thing is to earn the admiration of the one who does.
I am more shocked at my own thoughts than by the rising sandwyrm; she does not flinch from the serpentine arch as it rises terribly, awe-inspiringly, from the sands. Where she moves to brush it gently, I ride the sudden influx of hot air the beast releases from the sands; up, up, on the thin current, and then down in a cloud of rose-gold scales. I watch her, still; the softness she takes on in appreciation to the creature, a softness she does not take on toward me. I think I recognize it, if in partialities; it is how I had looked at Ariel, before he had disappeared. It is how I had nestled beneath his great chin, between his powerful limbs, and rested as quietly as a babe in a nursing bed—he would never have hurt me, despite all the terrible power of his claws and teeth and burning skin.
There is something about her wildness, too, that reminds me of the girl in the Delumine woods—and her dark wildness, and the way I had felt afraid then. I had though to myself I would never feel fear like that—and now, watching this brazen girl, I cannot help but decide my only option is to not feel my fear. It is easier said than done, with the rapid beating of my heart and the trembling of my limbs. Yet, I steady my breathing—I steady my breathing, and continue my flight upon the currents. The sun is rising in earnest, now—the pinks and oranges of the sunrise are giving way to the solid gold of Solis at the horizon.
I am different, here, than in Terrastella. I am not so quiet. I am not so secretive. Perhaps that is what emboldens me to drop carefully onto the sands beside her. I do not speak, because of the hard flash of annoyance—I even ensure to keep distance from her, so as to not interrupt her dancing. But then I quietly mimic and, with tremendous care, begin to replicate the dance.
I know, however, that will not be enough—and so I let go of another breath, and all my thoughts, and move along the twisting patterns of the sandwyrms, letting them guide me as the hot currents of the air had only moments ago. When I do not think, it is not so different. When I do not think, I wonder if this is not the best way to get lost.
(And maybe, maybe, that gives me a bit of peace—imagining my father, dancing with teryrs at the edge of the world).
@Diana"speaks" space for notes
