04-18-2019, 09:18 PM
Beqanna rips her heart open just as she expects her children to.
Beneath Litotes’ paws, the earth screams with birthing pain. He lifts from his stomach and stumbles to the side just as the Mountain tears herself open with a groan so final it echoes in his ears. Sorrowful topaz eyes reflect the brilliant light that flashes as the path is formed - the lion is not fearful in his cowering, but terribly heartbroken. He is watching the land that feels like a mother to him tear herself to shreds to save her people.
Every creature is so small, their desires so base, their actions hardly have meaning. The world turns: magic gives and magic takes away. Every political triviality and personal angst is useless and self-centered. Nothing really matters, he realizes, in the grand scheme of the world. But in this moment, they matter - they wrap their arms around something bigger than themselves, even if it burns their flesh down to the bone.
Gods and their people defining the constant struggle for purpose.
Into the Mountain he pads, the light swallowing Lie whole. Above his head the items continue to circle. He winces, dipping his head to his chest to prevent damaging his eyes. There is no thought of the others that must be here - surely he cannot be the only one on this quest - and the path is eerily empty for one that is certain to be well traversed.
Suddenly, the light of the path completely falls. It feels as if it is suctioned away, the brown and rocky wall disappearing into complete and utter black. The lion stops dead, whimpering for the first time since he was a babe. The magic is trying to make a point, to instill some understanding into him, some lesson he has yet to dig from the twisting and dangerous surprises.
Beqanna calls, then falls silent, then opens its world to the voices of countless universes. Litotes falls to his to stomach to dig his entire body into the earth in submittance to the overwhelming susurrations, but finds that there is no wall anymore - no loose pebbles, no crumbling trail. Prayers, curses, passions, murders, love-making - the cry of every intelligent emotion is in his ears and invading his mind. The claws on his front paws feel as if they are going to snap under the pressure of digging them into the ground that is somehow there and not.
The people of the unknown cry as the cremello does: a pop and a crack and his body is spasming in the black nothingness. He collapses into the dark, right-side lion legs unmatched to left-side equine legs. Litotes screams - his legs are breaking and then reforming - the magic is torturing him, taking him by a broken leg and twirling him then repairing him. He cries once again, tears he wishes he could repress; he begs to be killed, to just be sacrificed for whatever Beqanna needs, tells the fairies that this is too much pain to bear -
The magic refuses. There is a lesson to be learned.
The cacophony stops like a train coming to a screeching halt: slow and desperate. Pants and groans of the injured lion-horse echo in the empty air. His eyes are closed when the white light starts. Lie opens a pained gaze to slits, staring with no care for his well-being into the pinprick the brightness starts at. The billions of universes from before bulge and scratch at the edges of Beqanna’s world - then stop as if ordered by a stern mother. One lone voice, beautiful and lyrical and somber, starts low and grows stronger as the seconds pass.
Today I will wear my white button down
I'm tired of wanting more
I think I'm finally worn
For you have a way of promising things
The woman croons, voice crackling distantly as if passed through old speakers. Litotes struggles to his feet. He has the paws of a lion and the legs and body of an equine. His face is of his natural form but his ears are round with a horse’s fur. Long tufts of lion’s mane protrude from his neck. He gulps and drags his paws, stepping high and uncomfortably because these legs were not meant to carry feet such as these.
And I've been a forest fire
I am a forest fire
And I am the fire and I am the forest
The woman sings to him as the light glows and glows. The ground turns back to pebbles and dirt, but the shadows have yet to reveal where the magic has dropped him. The broken man leans into the wall that is suddenly there, dragging his exhausted body along the cutting surface. Plague rumbles in his chest, blood pools in his mouth, pours from his lips, stains his chest. He thinks once again that he is going to die, thinks the woman’s words are irony, thinks -
And I am a witness watching it
I stand in a valley watching it
And you are not there at all
The lyrics sputter, crackle, then end. What white light still needs to grow flashes suddenly, blinding Litotes in his already paralyzed state. He cannot get her words out of his head (a witness, a witness in a valley where he believes he is safe - from himself, from pain, from reality).
Before him is the heart. The stallion opens his eyes and coughs up the blood still dripping from his mouth. He stumbles at a snail’s pace to the pulsating life of Beqanna. Just as with any quest, he does not need to be told what to do. Lie closes his eyes but knows exactly what is happening without watching.
The hovering items fly to his chest then form the shape of a “2” gently upon the sensitive skin of his breast. They linger there for a moment, then rush to their final resting place. The pebble lingers, though, as if sentient and pondering its next move. It flings itself with supernatural force into the flesh of the stallion’s sternum, then carves out yet another shape of a “2.” Blood pours from the wound, then floats ethereally into the heart.
Litotes does not dare utter a sound. He collapses.
lyrics are credited to mitski's "a burning hill"
Beneath Litotes’ paws, the earth screams with birthing pain. He lifts from his stomach and stumbles to the side just as the Mountain tears herself open with a groan so final it echoes in his ears. Sorrowful topaz eyes reflect the brilliant light that flashes as the path is formed - the lion is not fearful in his cowering, but terribly heartbroken. He is watching the land that feels like a mother to him tear herself to shreds to save her people.
Every creature is so small, their desires so base, their actions hardly have meaning. The world turns: magic gives and magic takes away. Every political triviality and personal angst is useless and self-centered. Nothing really matters, he realizes, in the grand scheme of the world. But in this moment, they matter - they wrap their arms around something bigger than themselves, even if it burns their flesh down to the bone.
Gods and their people defining the constant struggle for purpose.
Into the Mountain he pads, the light swallowing Lie whole. Above his head the items continue to circle. He winces, dipping his head to his chest to prevent damaging his eyes. There is no thought of the others that must be here - surely he cannot be the only one on this quest - and the path is eerily empty for one that is certain to be well traversed.
Suddenly, the light of the path completely falls. It feels as if it is suctioned away, the brown and rocky wall disappearing into complete and utter black. The lion stops dead, whimpering for the first time since he was a babe. The magic is trying to make a point, to instill some understanding into him, some lesson he has yet to dig from the twisting and dangerous surprises.
Beqanna calls, then falls silent, then opens its world to the voices of countless universes. Litotes falls to his to stomach to dig his entire body into the earth in submittance to the overwhelming susurrations, but finds that there is no wall anymore - no loose pebbles, no crumbling trail. Prayers, curses, passions, murders, love-making - the cry of every intelligent emotion is in his ears and invading his mind. The claws on his front paws feel as if they are going to snap under the pressure of digging them into the ground that is somehow there and not.
The people of the unknown cry as the cremello does: a pop and a crack and his body is spasming in the black nothingness. He collapses into the dark, right-side lion legs unmatched to left-side equine legs. Litotes screams - his legs are breaking and then reforming - the magic is torturing him, taking him by a broken leg and twirling him then repairing him. He cries once again, tears he wishes he could repress; he begs to be killed, to just be sacrificed for whatever Beqanna needs, tells the fairies that this is too much pain to bear -
The magic refuses. There is a lesson to be learned.
The cacophony stops like a train coming to a screeching halt: slow and desperate. Pants and groans of the injured lion-horse echo in the empty air. His eyes are closed when the white light starts. Lie opens a pained gaze to slits, staring with no care for his well-being into the pinprick the brightness starts at. The billions of universes from before bulge and scratch at the edges of Beqanna’s world - then stop as if ordered by a stern mother. One lone voice, beautiful and lyrical and somber, starts low and grows stronger as the seconds pass.
Today I will wear my white button down
I'm tired of wanting more
I think I'm finally worn
For you have a way of promising things
The woman croons, voice crackling distantly as if passed through old speakers. Litotes struggles to his feet. He has the paws of a lion and the legs and body of an equine. His face is of his natural form but his ears are round with a horse’s fur. Long tufts of lion’s mane protrude from his neck. He gulps and drags his paws, stepping high and uncomfortably because these legs were not meant to carry feet such as these.
And I've been a forest fire
I am a forest fire
And I am the fire and I am the forest
The woman sings to him as the light glows and glows. The ground turns back to pebbles and dirt, but the shadows have yet to reveal where the magic has dropped him. The broken man leans into the wall that is suddenly there, dragging his exhausted body along the cutting surface. Plague rumbles in his chest, blood pools in his mouth, pours from his lips, stains his chest. He thinks once again that he is going to die, thinks the woman’s words are irony, thinks -
And I am a witness watching it
I stand in a valley watching it
And you are not there at all
The lyrics sputter, crackle, then end. What white light still needs to grow flashes suddenly, blinding Litotes in his already paralyzed state. He cannot get her words out of his head (a witness, a witness in a valley where he believes he is safe - from himself, from pain, from reality).
Before him is the heart. The stallion opens his eyes and coughs up the blood still dripping from his mouth. He stumbles at a snail’s pace to the pulsating life of Beqanna. Just as with any quest, he does not need to be told what to do. Lie closes his eyes but knows exactly what is happening without watching.
The hovering items fly to his chest then form the shape of a “2” gently upon the sensitive skin of his breast. They linger there for a moment, then rush to their final resting place. The pebble lingers, though, as if sentient and pondering its next move. It flings itself with supernatural force into the flesh of the stallion’s sternum, then carves out yet another shape of a “2.” Blood pours from the wound, then floats ethereally into the heart.
Litotes does not dare utter a sound. He collapses.
lyrics are credited to mitski's "a burning hill"
