09-02-2016, 11:54 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
Change. It was ever present in Beqanna. She was a woman of enigmatic and ever flowing presence. You never knew what she had up her sleeve, what was lurking about in her ribbed heart. She had been kind, for oh so long. She had nurtured and nourished, she had lovingly granted children to parents, she had rebuilt the earth when it had split apart. She had created entities to each of her lands, magical things that thrummed with the love of the land. And now? Now, it was gone. Now everything was gone.
It is morning. There is a light snow that filters through the thick pines of the Valley. There is quiet, just the sound of Eight’s own breathing, the caw of a distant bird, and the low bay of a wolf in the distance.
And then – there is everything.
There is the gut wrenching sound of the land tearing apart, the trees torn asunder from their white thicketed ground, the high crawling cries of the Valley inhabitants. There is chaos, a cacophony of sound, and a shattering of land.
And then – there is nothing.
There is a space of time, a floating freedom, ticking of the seconds, as the world swirls by in a blur. There is simply the rush of air, a sound that thunders in Eight’s ears – neither threatening nor meek. There is no Valley, no wolves at his heels, no snow dusting his skin – he is just there.
And then – there is the Mountain.
He appears standing at the apex of the land, and it is a sight to behold. It is each and every bit of Beqanna tied tightly together. Was this home, now? Was this finally what She wanted? What Beqanna ached for – solidarity, a land so complete that it encompassed all that the horses of Beqanna had known? He could not see the pines of the Valley in the distance, or the ever flowing sea of Desert, or even the humid Jungle. It was barren, bare – much shrouded in mist and unknowing.
It was something new. And Eight was no stranger to the changes She had given them throughout the years – and there were many. And each time She changed, each time the clock had turned and things began a new, Eight was there to see them. This time, it was no different. This time, he too, would start from the beginning. He would do as he always did, and find out what had happening again.
And so he began to descend to the only place that had always been there for him, through each disappearing act, each new time She created, each time he had fled – the Meadow was always there.
The trek was long, the air was thin, and by the time he made it to flat land- picking his way and using the ever familiar scent of the Meadow – he was tired. The Meadow, however, was barren, desolate (although, he didn’t quite mind) – perhaps the others were just waking up now too. And so he stood quietly, sipping from the cool and quenching stream.
It is morning. There is a light snow that filters through the thick pines of the Valley. There is quiet, just the sound of Eight’s own breathing, the caw of a distant bird, and the low bay of a wolf in the distance.
And then – there is everything.
There is the gut wrenching sound of the land tearing apart, the trees torn asunder from their white thicketed ground, the high crawling cries of the Valley inhabitants. There is chaos, a cacophony of sound, and a shattering of land.
And then – there is nothing.
There is a space of time, a floating freedom, ticking of the seconds, as the world swirls by in a blur. There is simply the rush of air, a sound that thunders in Eight’s ears – neither threatening nor meek. There is no Valley, no wolves at his heels, no snow dusting his skin – he is just there.
And then – there is the Mountain.
He appears standing at the apex of the land, and it is a sight to behold. It is each and every bit of Beqanna tied tightly together. Was this home, now? Was this finally what She wanted? What Beqanna ached for – solidarity, a land so complete that it encompassed all that the horses of Beqanna had known? He could not see the pines of the Valley in the distance, or the ever flowing sea of Desert, or even the humid Jungle. It was barren, bare – much shrouded in mist and unknowing.
It was something new. And Eight was no stranger to the changes She had given them throughout the years – and there were many. And each time She changed, each time the clock had turned and things began a new, Eight was there to see them. This time, it was no different. This time, he too, would start from the beginning. He would do as he always did, and find out what had happening again.
And so he began to descend to the only place that had always been there for him, through each disappearing act, each new time She created, each time he had fled – the Meadow was always there.
The trek was long, the air was thin, and by the time he made it to flat land- picking his way and using the ever familiar scent of the Meadow – he was tired. The Meadow, however, was barren, desolate (although, he didn’t quite mind) – perhaps the others were just waking up now too. And so he stood quietly, sipping from the cool and quenching stream.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in