[SWP] ACT VI: if you can dream

[Erasmus]

FOR TOO LONG THE AIR STINGS WITH STATIC – IT PULSES, IT GROANS, ELECTRIFIED WITH MENACE AND A LOOMING COLLECTION OF BAITED BREATHS; HIS OWN SLIPS QUIETLY, A SILENT GRIEVING PANT THAT RUSHES HOT BETWEEN CURVED FANGS AND CURLS AT THE CORNERS OF HIS LIPS. AN ACHE STIRS AS HE WATCHES OTHERS EDGE THE RED PETALS, AND HIS WONDER PRICKLES AWFULLY ALONG THE EDGES OF HIS SKIN THAT BEGS ACTION, ONWARD! AND HE WAITS. A WAIT FULL OF DREAD AND PINING MISERY, AN ETERNITY OF REGRET THAT BARRELS INTO A FLUSH OF FEW MINUTES – AND ALL THE JAGGED EDGES OF THE MIRROR BELOW SEEM TO SIFT AND PRESS HOT BENEATH HIS FEET. ONWARD, IT CROWS. HIS REFLECTION IS DISTANT AND DARK BETWEEN THE BODIES THAT RUSH ON. ONWARD. TO HIM IT LOOKS TOO PAINFULLY MORTAL, TOO AWFULLY RETICENT, AND THE CRUEL MECHANISM OF HIS HEART POUNDS AND POUNDS SO WILDLY IN HIS VEINS THAT HE WONDERS FOR A MOMENT IF IT IS HIS REFLECTION AT ALL. ONWARD. HE PONDERS THE WAY THE GODS FAVOR THEIR DEVOUT, THEIR UNWAVERING SUSTENANCE GATHERED IN BLINDED FAITH. THE WILLING, THE BRAVE. THEY CHARGE ON, DESPERATE AND RAVENOUS. ARE THEY NOT THE CARICATURE OF GRATING ADULATION, THE RESTLESS WANT AND SALIVATING MADNESS THAT KINGS AND GODS BOTH CRAVE? AND HERE HE STANDS, HIS SKIN FEELING TOO TIGHT, TOO HOT, WHILE HIS BLOOD USHERS WAIT, WAIT.

HE MAKES JUST ONE STEP FORWARD BEFORE THE VEIL EXPLODES IN A FLURRY.

A CRESCENDO OF RED, RED, AND THE FIRST SHADOW THAT PASSES THROUGH THE EYE OF A GOD COLLAPSES INTO THE RIVER OF OPIUM RED AND SCATHING BLACKNESS – THE OTHERS VANISH INTO THE CLASH OF MIRROR SHARDS AND BUTTERFLY WINGS. ERASMUS RECOILS, ALL SEETHING SHADOW AND BARED FANGS, RUGGED OUTLINE RECEDED FROM THE VIPEROUS UPHEAVAL OF SAND AND CONIFEROUS GREEN. IT IS TWISTING, GNARLED EARTH THAT RISES FROM ITS OWN ASHES – A SPIRAL IN A CLOUD OF FLAMETONGUE INSECTS, SHARDS OF SHIFTING GLASS THAT GLEAM LIKE PYTHON COILS. CELESTIAL WRATH UNDONE. AND OH, WHAT TERRIBLE FINALITY FINDS THEM; ALL IS CHANGEABLE AND WAVERING, EARTH, SEA AND SKY, AND BETWEEN ALL HE IS A TRACE OF FIRE IN THE GLEAM OF A DEAD SUN. THE GREAT SERPENT LEANS BACK, AND HE HAS ONLY A SECOND TO MUSE THE WAY THE ISLAND'S MAGIC HAD REACHED ITS JAWS FOR HIS NECK. WHEN THE SKY IS A CASCADE OF AZURES AND GREYS AND SMOKE AND TOPAZ, AND THE GROUND BENEATH HIM BEGINS TO OPEN LIKE A HUNDRED HUNGRY MOUTHS, HE REMEMBERS WHAT IT IS TO RUN FURIOUS AND YEARNING ACROSS THE DESOLATE STRETCH OF A BATTLE FIELD. ONWARD. THE RELIC STANDS WAITING BEFORE A CRUMBLING LAND BRIDGE, AND THAT IS ALL HE CARES FOR.

HE CRASHES HEADLONG INTO A THUNDEROUS GAIT – A FANTASTICAL SPRINT THAT LAUNCHES FROM COILED HAUNCHES SPRUNG; HIS PHYSIQUE IS RIPPLING GUILE, RUGGED GRACE TRACKED BENEATH THE LOOMING JOWLS OF A PYTHONIAN TITAN. ERASMUS DOES NOT STOP TO THINK OF THE OTHERS, OR THE FATE THAT WAITS FOR HIM WHERE THAT JEWELED PIECE SITS SPARKLING AND SLICK. HE DOES NOT THINK OF THE MOTHER SNAKE WHO SEES HIM AND THE OTHERS AND FLOODS HER MOUTH WITH SEA VENOM, REARING BACK TO STRIKE AND SWALLOW THEM ALL INTO A REALM OF BRINE AND BROKEN MAGIC. THERE IS ONLY ERASMUS AND THE RELIC HE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND. THERE IS ONLY ICARUS AND THE GRATING GOLD HUNGER FOR THE SUN.