01-14-2019, 01:28 AM
There is a place that exists outside of this one.
Those who have been there before (and they all have, once) cannot say what it is like; the words don’t exist to describe it — not the sighs, or sounds, or smells, or feelings — and, even if they did, once those who have been there (and they all have, once) have left they don’t remember having been there at all. This is for its own protection, because if they remembered the utopia they would miss the quiet peacefulness — if they remembered, they would want the feeling of never wanting — if they remembered, they would ruin it.
It’s on this tranquil, far away plane of existence — a land where souls choose souls — that she first finds Vulgaris and Leliana. She had seen them in her mind like a prophecy, and she had known without ever knowing them that she would be born of their blood, and spun of their flesh; a patchwork quilt made from pieces of each of them, good and bad. She chose them then for what they were — violent tenderness, passion, regret. She chose them.
And at first there is nothing
Nothing, but blackness with warm, fleshy undertones. Nothing, but the searing need to come undone. For eleven months she had been a refugee in this nothingness, evicted from that unknown utopia, and wrapping herself so tightly in this space that she had found it impossible after a time to distinguish it from her; a tangle of parts with no definitive owner.
At first it feels like coming apart at the seams.
Like threads stretching and ripping, weaving out and in and out and in; reversing. She has never known gravity, but she feels it now. It sucks at the pile of flesh and bones that are her own as though it means to pull her into something else entirely. It does. She has never known pressure before, but here it is all around her. It comes in waves, and she is shipwrecked. She goes where the tide brings her, and where it brings her is to a heap of shivering skin along the shore of a violent river. She has never known sound like this, disorienting, assaulting, alive — but she knows it now.
She is alive with feeling. Her eyes blink open. Her heart hammers into a thunderous existence.
Malca.
It’s the first voice she will ever hear, and her heart quiets at the forgotten familiarity she finds waiting between those two syllables. There is a set of lips pressed now against her forehead as though they are doors meant to shield her from the wickedness that waits to creep in from all around the outsides of this wonderful, loud, wretched moment.
Cold, and wet, and sticky with vernix she rises to meet this voice — her mother, her maker, her destiny. Her choice.
She is a tangle of new, quaking limbs, swaying dangerously as she stumbles forwards suddenly propelled by a ravenish, rumbling belly and the smell of milk. She feels her skin meet skin again, and even though everything about these moments is loud and cacophonous she is utterly soothed. She is leaning too far to the left though, her centre of gravity thrown off by the lack of vision on her right, and missing her target again and again as she searches for food. Minutes pass this way until her nose finds the teat at last, and with the first gentle pull the sickly sweet warmth of milk meets her greedy tongue. She is devoured by starvation (watch as her laughable tail wags furiously with her efforts), and the feeling is so raw it hurts.
My beautiful and darling, Malca.
There are no words that come from her now as she sloppily guzzles the fruits of her labour, even as the others come to congregate around the newly bonded pair. She has never needed anything so much.
Time passes though she knows nothing of it, and when at last she pulls away to meet these bodies in their eyes they will see her finally for what she is — unearthly pretty, with round, oversize eyes (one is like black glass, and the other with a swirl of white that cuts through the dark of her iris like a galaxy might) and delicate lips emphasized now by the spotting of milk dotted just across the tops of them, behind which a razor sharp set of carnivorous teeth lay in wait. A set of downy wings are folded in along her sides that in one moment resemble her mothers and in the next, a violent, vibrant shift changes them to the green leaves of the oak tree they rest now beneath.
She is born to the rattle of an anxious heart, beside the violence of the river rapids.
She is born to a jilted mother, and a wild father, and from the throes of a savage passion.
But she chose them.
She is the last of him, perhaps.
And so, Malca she becomes.
Those who have been there before (and they all have, once) cannot say what it is like; the words don’t exist to describe it — not the sighs, or sounds, or smells, or feelings — and, even if they did, once those who have been there (and they all have, once) have left they don’t remember having been there at all. This is for its own protection, because if they remembered the utopia they would miss the quiet peacefulness — if they remembered, they would want the feeling of never wanting — if they remembered, they would ruin it.
It’s on this tranquil, far away plane of existence — a land where souls choose souls — that she first finds Vulgaris and Leliana. She had seen them in her mind like a prophecy, and she had known without ever knowing them that she would be born of their blood, and spun of their flesh; a patchwork quilt made from pieces of each of them, good and bad. She chose them then for what they were — violent tenderness, passion, regret. She chose them.
And at first there is nothing
Nothing, but blackness with warm, fleshy undertones. Nothing, but the searing need to come undone. For eleven months she had been a refugee in this nothingness, evicted from that unknown utopia, and wrapping herself so tightly in this space that she had found it impossible after a time to distinguish it from her; a tangle of parts with no definitive owner.
At first it feels like coming apart at the seams.
Like threads stretching and ripping, weaving out and in and out and in; reversing. She has never known gravity, but she feels it now. It sucks at the pile of flesh and bones that are her own as though it means to pull her into something else entirely. It does. She has never known pressure before, but here it is all around her. It comes in waves, and she is shipwrecked. She goes where the tide brings her, and where it brings her is to a heap of shivering skin along the shore of a violent river. She has never known sound like this, disorienting, assaulting, alive — but she knows it now.
She is alive with feeling. Her eyes blink open. Her heart hammers into a thunderous existence.
Malca.
It’s the first voice she will ever hear, and her heart quiets at the forgotten familiarity she finds waiting between those two syllables. There is a set of lips pressed now against her forehead as though they are doors meant to shield her from the wickedness that waits to creep in from all around the outsides of this wonderful, loud, wretched moment.
Cold, and wet, and sticky with vernix she rises to meet this voice — her mother, her maker, her destiny. Her choice.
She is a tangle of new, quaking limbs, swaying dangerously as she stumbles forwards suddenly propelled by a ravenish, rumbling belly and the smell of milk. She feels her skin meet skin again, and even though everything about these moments is loud and cacophonous she is utterly soothed. She is leaning too far to the left though, her centre of gravity thrown off by the lack of vision on her right, and missing her target again and again as she searches for food. Minutes pass this way until her nose finds the teat at last, and with the first gentle pull the sickly sweet warmth of milk meets her greedy tongue. She is devoured by starvation (watch as her laughable tail wags furiously with her efforts), and the feeling is so raw it hurts.
My beautiful and darling, Malca.
There are no words that come from her now as she sloppily guzzles the fruits of her labour, even as the others come to congregate around the newly bonded pair. She has never needed anything so much.
Time passes though she knows nothing of it, and when at last she pulls away to meet these bodies in their eyes they will see her finally for what she is — unearthly pretty, with round, oversize eyes (one is like black glass, and the other with a swirl of white that cuts through the dark of her iris like a galaxy might) and delicate lips emphasized now by the spotting of milk dotted just across the tops of them, behind which a razor sharp set of carnivorous teeth lay in wait. A set of downy wings are folded in along her sides that in one moment resemble her mothers and in the next, a violent, vibrant shift changes them to the green leaves of the oak tree they rest now beneath.
She is born to the rattle of an anxious heart, beside the violence of the river rapids.
She is born to a jilted mother, and a wild father, and from the throes of a savage passion.
But she chose them.
She is the last of him, perhaps.
And so, Malca she becomes.