i was maybe one thousand years too late — fenrir
Nov 3, 2022 11:22:49 GMT -5
Post by fox on Nov 3, 2022 11:22:49 GMT -5
The lake sinks into you.
Ace stands in the wind. You feel bone snapping in your mouth.
Nicoli follows in the forest made of light.
Your balcony bird. Akira watching you.
The elm tree and the carrion birds. The wanderer in the tall grass and Hela's feathered arrow in her back.
It cradles a wave, lying at your feet.
little wolf, the water murmurs.
You feel teeth on your wrist.
The lake pulls you into a memory. It's warm. You swim in sunshine and pine needles. You're still a child, holding a leather tether in your hands, strung to the neck of a little goat from the herd the commune keeps. Hafr licks your hand and you laugh. He searches for an apple slice in your pockets. The woods are branches of light. The woods thunder with energy. Spring roars in with ferocity. The trees are ablaze with green and gold.
Autumn, the water of your memory becomes murky with the taste of iron. Incense smoke drifts across the surface. You look for Hafr in the pen, the goats licking their salt block, chewing on the hay bales. He's not there anymore.
"I liked him," You say softly. Your sister pulls you along.
You watch yourself walk away.
you were not always like this, a small voice says.
You stand waist-deep in the still water.
I was different, you admit. you were just a child back then. I was weak, you spit out. So I made myself useful. I made myself known to the Gods.
The lake hums.
what is it like to be mortal, to change?
You don't answer.
You're treading water, as black as ink. Something silver lies below the plane, glimmering like a small fish. You try to drown it. It darts out of your hands. The memory surfaces.
The winter is bitterly cold. Snowflakes land on your eyelashes. Each inhale is laboured in the chill.
The door of the Hov opens and your face is bathed in heat. The smell of salt and damp earth hits you so hard you stagger backwards, pressed against the wall. One of the seers clutches a fox by its feet. The floor is slick with blood. A ceremonial knife drips from the altar.
"Him," the one who reminds you of an owl says. Her hair is feathery. Her eyes are so dark. Your chest tightens. The memory ripples.
You're here again. The light is different, green in the depths of spring, deep in verdant bloom.
The woman with the owl face cuts your hand with Tiwaz. You feel the sting of the knife.
"Go fetch water from the river."
You're drowning. The lake shakes, making waves. It crashes over you, harsh, stinging, and goes quiet again.
is killing only hard the first time?
Your lungs are too filled to answer.
You crawl out of the water, splayed across the bank, gasping for air.
The river is red and then pink, bubbling over the stones. A magpie flies over you. The birds sing. A green leaf blows from the canopies of ash trees, landing on your chest.
You shiver, bones aching, half sobbing as you drag yourself up from the mud, pushing the body off you.
His eyes are blue. His mouth is filled with loam. Fragments of skin and skull stick to the stone in your hands, darkened with blood. Your stomach twists. Your hands are stained and shaking. You kick him off your legs.
The body floats away, carried by the current.
It's evening when you make it back to the commune, limped through the forest, dragged your own body, raw like a decaying wound, through the springtime. You taste bile and blood. You don't even feel alive.
A tremor stays in your hands when you peel back the tent flap, treading water in.
They turn towards you, robes sweeping softly, a mountain ridge of blue. It's a hard gaze. You stumble, falling towards the ground. You can barely breathe.
"You're alive," the seer says flatly.
Somewhere, Ace cries out. You turn towards the sound.
The lake laughs as it leaves.
Ace stands in the wind. You feel bone snapping in your mouth.
Nicoli follows in the forest made of light.
Your balcony bird. Akira watching you.
The elm tree and the carrion birds. The wanderer in the tall grass and Hela's feathered arrow in her back.
It cradles a wave, lying at your feet.
little wolf, the water murmurs.
You feel teeth on your wrist.
The lake pulls you into a memory. It's warm. You swim in sunshine and pine needles. You're still a child, holding a leather tether in your hands, strung to the neck of a little goat from the herd the commune keeps. Hafr licks your hand and you laugh. He searches for an apple slice in your pockets. The woods are branches of light. The woods thunder with energy. Spring roars in with ferocity. The trees are ablaze with green and gold.
Autumn, the water of your memory becomes murky with the taste of iron. Incense smoke drifts across the surface. You look for Hafr in the pen, the goats licking their salt block, chewing on the hay bales. He's not there anymore.
"I liked him," You say softly. Your sister pulls you along.
You watch yourself walk away.
you were not always like this, a small voice says.
You stand waist-deep in the still water.
I was different, you admit. you were just a child back then. I was weak, you spit out. So I made myself useful. I made myself known to the Gods.
The lake hums.
what is it like to be mortal, to change?
You don't answer.
You're treading water, as black as ink. Something silver lies below the plane, glimmering like a small fish. You try to drown it. It darts out of your hands. The memory surfaces.
The winter is bitterly cold. Snowflakes land on your eyelashes. Each inhale is laboured in the chill.
The door of the Hov opens and your face is bathed in heat. The smell of salt and damp earth hits you so hard you stagger backwards, pressed against the wall. One of the seers clutches a fox by its feet. The floor is slick with blood. A ceremonial knife drips from the altar.
"Him," the one who reminds you of an owl says. Her hair is feathery. Her eyes are so dark. Your chest tightens. The memory ripples.
You're here again. The light is different, green in the depths of spring, deep in verdant bloom.
The woman with the owl face cuts your hand with Tiwaz. You feel the sting of the knife.
"Go fetch water from the river."
You're drowning. The lake shakes, making waves. It crashes over you, harsh, stinging, and goes quiet again.
is killing only hard the first time?
Your lungs are too filled to answer.
You crawl out of the water, splayed across the bank, gasping for air.
The river is red and then pink, bubbling over the stones. A magpie flies over you. The birds sing. A green leaf blows from the canopies of ash trees, landing on your chest.
You shiver, bones aching, half sobbing as you drag yourself up from the mud, pushing the body off you.
His eyes are blue. His mouth is filled with loam. Fragments of skin and skull stick to the stone in your hands, darkened with blood. Your stomach twists. Your hands are stained and shaking. You kick him off your legs.
The body floats away, carried by the current.
It's evening when you make it back to the commune, limped through the forest, dragged your own body, raw like a decaying wound, through the springtime. You taste bile and blood. You don't even feel alive.
A tremor stays in your hands when you peel back the tent flap, treading water in.
They turn towards you, robes sweeping softly, a mountain ridge of blue. It's a hard gaze. You stumble, falling towards the ground. You can barely breathe.
"You're alive," the seer says flatly.
Somewhere, Ace cries out. You turn towards the sound.
The lake laughs as it leaves.
