i feel hope deep in my bones; tomorrow will be beautiful
The world is becoming more turbulent. The dark seems somehow more malicious, the weather violent. Even the monsters seem to have grown and multiplied, and it is like they are everywhere now, vicious and hungry and hunting. He wonders if they know something he does not, a secret, an imminence, something vital.
Where once he had loved the dark, he feels uneasy now, like something important lingers beyond his perception. Gradually this unease builds into fear, and the fear is a weight in the quiet of his chest that keeps him closer to the safety of the only place that had ever been any kind of home. It is not home, there is nothing that keeps him here except for familiarity. But in a world of violent change, that familiarity is enough.
Wind races through the trees, the crack of thunder like a rending in the sky somewhere overhead. If there is lightning he cannot see it through the clouds or the treetops, can see nothing in this dark except the nearest looming trunks. It is eerie though because he can feel the ground shift beneath his feet, the dirt moving above the vast network of roots as the giant redwoods sway. It is disorienting, and he would like to leave the forest, but when he tried before the wind nearly ripped his gossamer wings free of his withers.
So he stays and he hopes that the monsters have all found safer places than this to weather the storm, that when the rain stops and the wind exhausts itself, he will still be around to take comfort in the quiet. But something catches in his periphery, and it’s gone so fast that he cannot tell if it was light or shape or sound that had caught his attention. It is gone when he turns to face it though, or perhaps he is just disoriented by this storm and the blind spot of his single blue eye.
He frowns and tries to scan the dark, but his forelock is a tangle of impossible dark and it blinds him as much as any day. So he turns deeper into the forest, finding a place where the trees are so thick they might be a wall, where he will be cornered if monsters find him, but safe if they don’t. It is a kind of gamble he doesn’t often make, but he is exhausted and without his senses, and it feels as though his wings have more bruises than there were ever stars in the sky.
It is either this or the storm, and so he chooses the violence that has not yet found him over the one that tears at him outside the forest.
Lumos
@[Memorie]