01-04-2016, 12:25 PM
But I won't rot, I won't rot. Not this mind and not this heart.
Would that he could be immortal like this man. Except, Clock has grown gray, and Corruption too, far away from each other. And when she goes, he’d sooner follow close behind (or, right beside, if there is any kindness in this life to afford them), than linger on this earth enticing more hardship to weight down his mind. He wonders if the Tundra is the place that he can hold her close. Keep a watchful eye on each other, and banish the forces that split them apart at the seams as if by instinct, time and time again. But she never had the heft of flesh and fat that the big stallion has, she would need more than just the cloak of his feathers…
He is reticent to admit the stiffness in his wings. Of the qualities he still has left clinging to his old bones and feathers, pride is close to chief among them. And so when the grey stallion suggests flight, he nods his stoic head and moves away to free space for his massive wingspan.
And the whoosh of air feeds him.
That initial drive, against all odds and gravity. Elevation.
Despite everything, it takes him back easily. For all the cobwebs that landing had strung from secondary to primary feather, he moves with the king like a youthful crow. From their wintering home he sees a flock of birds in the distance. A great, tight formation – military, protective, all the things that they had given him, and he them. He wonders where his blackbirds are now, and then realizes with a sinking feeling that the Tundra is not their home, and never will be. They still bow to the drive of instinct and habit.
He is shedding much on this trip.
But the cold rush of wind against his face, pulling his mane and tail, and the speed given to no one but those that know this dizzying height, erases everything. He flanks Hurricane, pushed by habit to something of a formation and synchronization. The world that shifts below them grows sparse, and then rugged with resilient pines and weather-worn brush. And then even those dwindle and disappear, until what is left is the cradle of something hard and fierce.
He lands with efficiency. Heavy, for his massive weight, and not graceful. He tucks his complaining wings by his side again, and looks around – and he cannot imagine her here; it is too wild and too merciless. Even if she could make it (and somehow he thinks she just would by some miracle), he’d be burdened with the guilt of making her.
But for him, it will hold. He has been battered by too many-a wintry storm-wind.
“It is as you said it would be.” He has never been a subject, but perhaps if he had to be, this place must be it. Untamed, and uncluttered. He can feel the vestiges of loyalty and survivalism in the echo of ice caves and the brush of cold breeze. He has many questions, an old hat with a new world foisted upon it. “Of the war the mare mentioned, what is the Tundra’s place in it?” If any. It is a good a place as any to start.
He is reticent to admit the stiffness in his wings. Of the qualities he still has left clinging to his old bones and feathers, pride is close to chief among them. And so when the grey stallion suggests flight, he nods his stoic head and moves away to free space for his massive wingspan.
And the whoosh of air feeds him.
That initial drive, against all odds and gravity. Elevation.
Despite everything, it takes him back easily. For all the cobwebs that landing had strung from secondary to primary feather, he moves with the king like a youthful crow. From their wintering home he sees a flock of birds in the distance. A great, tight formation – military, protective, all the things that they had given him, and he them. He wonders where his blackbirds are now, and then realizes with a sinking feeling that the Tundra is not their home, and never will be. They still bow to the drive of instinct and habit.
He is shedding much on this trip.
But the cold rush of wind against his face, pulling his mane and tail, and the speed given to no one but those that know this dizzying height, erases everything. He flanks Hurricane, pushed by habit to something of a formation and synchronization. The world that shifts below them grows sparse, and then rugged with resilient pines and weather-worn brush. And then even those dwindle and disappear, until what is left is the cradle of something hard and fierce.
He lands with efficiency. Heavy, for his massive weight, and not graceful. He tucks his complaining wings by his side again, and looks around – and he cannot imagine her here; it is too wild and too merciless. Even if she could make it (and somehow he thinks she just would by some miracle), he’d be burdened with the guilt of making her.
But for him, it will hold. He has been battered by too many-a wintry storm-wind.
“It is as you said it would be.” He has never been a subject, but perhaps if he had to be, this place must be it. Untamed, and uncluttered. He can feel the vestiges of loyalty and survivalism in the echo of ice caves and the brush of cold breeze. He has many questions, an old hat with a new world foisted upon it. “Of the war the mare mentioned, what is the Tundra’s place in it?” If any. It is a good a place as any to start.
I won't rot.