AKHIL
He is oddly calm when the world ends.
The setting sun is ironic; the lovely pinks and oranges behind the chaos of the destruction and reconstruction. Fitting, really, with Beqanna’s sense of humor.
Akhil had seen the Catastrophe and the rebirth, even been influential in the newly formed Deserts. It seemed so long ago, now -- and it was, truly: fifty years was more than a lifetime for most, but in Akhil’s stretch of life it was more like yesterday.
It began similarly: the shifts and the earthquakes.
He takes flight, outstretching his huge, black wings -- Epithet’s wings, really -- and follows the chaos, where Beqanna has led them all. He looks for them first, of course -- Maye’s smoky black body, similar to his own, a glimpse of scars across her chest from Moriarty’s attack, and Epithet’s small body, angelic and white. He looks for them, even as he lands on the Mountain, air thin and cold. He looks for them, and sees nothing,
until --
He sees Epithet in the distance, slipping away, and follows her into the Forest. As he follows along, his wings begin to feel different. Lighter. He gives them a brief shake as Epithet comes to a stop, breathing heavily and sweating uncomfortably, and then -- a child.
“Epi?” He says, quietly, as not to disturb her, their, child. They’d had another, years ago, but Malachai had been fiercely independent, going off on his own at an early age.
“Oh, Leola,” he murmurs, stepping closer to them, black and white, wanting to reach out and touch them both. “She is mine, isn’t she, Epi?” he moves closer, still, gently touching Epithet with his nose. He doesn’t even notice how she is different; she has and always will be angelic in his eyes, despite the loss of her magic. He loves her, and while perhaps it is a different love than he shares with Maye, it is real nonetheless.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, finally, falling silent.
The setting sun is ironic; the lovely pinks and oranges behind the chaos of the destruction and reconstruction. Fitting, really, with Beqanna’s sense of humor.
Akhil had seen the Catastrophe and the rebirth, even been influential in the newly formed Deserts. It seemed so long ago, now -- and it was, truly: fifty years was more than a lifetime for most, but in Akhil’s stretch of life it was more like yesterday.
It began similarly: the shifts and the earthquakes.
He takes flight, outstretching his huge, black wings -- Epithet’s wings, really -- and follows the chaos, where Beqanna has led them all. He looks for them first, of course -- Maye’s smoky black body, similar to his own, a glimpse of scars across her chest from Moriarty’s attack, and Epithet’s small body, angelic and white. He looks for them, even as he lands on the Mountain, air thin and cold. He looks for them, and sees nothing,
until --
He sees Epithet in the distance, slipping away, and follows her into the Forest. As he follows along, his wings begin to feel different. Lighter. He gives them a brief shake as Epithet comes to a stop, breathing heavily and sweating uncomfortably, and then -- a child.
“Epi?” He says, quietly, as not to disturb her, their, child. They’d had another, years ago, but Malachai had been fiercely independent, going off on his own at an early age.
“Oh, Leola,” he murmurs, stepping closer to them, black and white, wanting to reach out and touch them both. “She is mine, isn’t she, Epi?” he moves closer, still, gently touching Epithet with his nose. He doesn’t even notice how she is different; she has and always will be angelic in his eyes, despite the loss of her magic. He loves her, and while perhaps it is a different love than he shares with Maye, it is real nonetheless.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, finally, falling silent.
sit back and watch the world go by.
image @ vee swan wallhd4.com