09-07-2016, 06:59 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
We are bleeding and we are destroyed and what we once we, we are no longer. We are not magicians, we are not gods above them all, we have nothing – we are nothing. The land crawled up and devoured itself, the Valley shattered into splinters of pine and slate and the call of wolves. It is sudden, a rift in time – a heave of magic from Beqanna, a warning and a reckoning. One moment – we are there. We are living and breathing and cavorting about the lands braying ‘I am king!’, smirking ‘I can control the elements!’, laughing ‘I can shift into whatever pleases me!’. We were all selfish, and now we are nothing.
It is a strange feeling – being everything and turning into nothing. The magic through his veins dissipates like the thin air of the mountain. His horn slides deftly into his skull with a searing crunch. His wings though – those stay, a gift from Beqanna, a reminder of what he once was. Once? Or still is? If you take something from someone, are they still themselves? Was Eight made up of magic? Or did he make the magic? Are you still a magician once your magic is gone? Is it still laying there dormant and waiting to rise it’s head from the muck of your blood?
There were so many – too many – questions to ask.
There is silence after – as if they were caught in a snow globe. Silence and an unsettling mist flocking over the land. Eight was one of the first to begin the trek down the mountain – for he felt the forboding feeling that this was it, that things were new. The loss and stretch of his magic during the tumult, and then feeling it flow again through his veins was a feeling he would not soon forget. This time, though, as he picked his way down the mountain into familiar land, it was different. He felt the slow ebb of his magic with each step, and he knew what he thought in his heart was true – he would be as simple as everyone else down here in the real world. There would be no magicians, no elemental powers, no shape shifting equines – there would be nothing save for what there was in the beginning.
The meadow is barren, a winter wasteland of biting sharp wind, powdery flakes careening from the sky. My, my, what a time to choose to reckon with Beqanna. He is alone – and it feeling is ideal. A moment to mourn what once was, what they once had. His eyes are closed – breathing in deeply the new world they would come to mold. And then – He hears the soft crunch of snow beneath hoof, and opens his eyes – and there you are.
How long had it been? Years. Decades.
You would think his heart would lurch into his throat – his mind race with the countless hours of banter and magic intertwining and the jests and smirks and furtive touches. But no – instead, he is calm. It is a washing of wave after wave over his conscious – it is someone just like (yet so different from) him.
You are not cloaked in a swirling façade of magic – there is no play on your features, no mercurial eye color, no adornments or tricks up your sleeve. It is you in your purest form – something Eight had rarely seen. Even when you lay naked before him, there were always the marks of your lover the Desert – there was always the diamonds laid like a mountain ridge across your cheek. A small smile flutters to his face – an unmistakable memory of their drawn out times in their cave, of their childs play magic, of the universe they created all on their own.
“Hello Camrynn.” He shifts his weight slightly, bumping his hip to yours in a very uncharacteristic act of playfulness. Strange, how losing something can open you up so much more differently.
Loss- is that what it is? Was Eight truly so bereft to lose the magic that pondered through him? No, perhaps not. He was so long characterized by it – the magician king, playing with dark magic, the guardian who could wield power in the blink of an eye. It is almost a relief to be able to just be.
“Fancy seeing you here. I thought you had left us for good.”
It is a strange feeling – being everything and turning into nothing. The magic through his veins dissipates like the thin air of the mountain. His horn slides deftly into his skull with a searing crunch. His wings though – those stay, a gift from Beqanna, a reminder of what he once was. Once? Or still is? If you take something from someone, are they still themselves? Was Eight made up of magic? Or did he make the magic? Are you still a magician once your magic is gone? Is it still laying there dormant and waiting to rise it’s head from the muck of your blood?
There were so many – too many – questions to ask.
There is silence after – as if they were caught in a snow globe. Silence and an unsettling mist flocking over the land. Eight was one of the first to begin the trek down the mountain – for he felt the forboding feeling that this was it, that things were new. The loss and stretch of his magic during the tumult, and then feeling it flow again through his veins was a feeling he would not soon forget. This time, though, as he picked his way down the mountain into familiar land, it was different. He felt the slow ebb of his magic with each step, and he knew what he thought in his heart was true – he would be as simple as everyone else down here in the real world. There would be no magicians, no elemental powers, no shape shifting equines – there would be nothing save for what there was in the beginning.
The meadow is barren, a winter wasteland of biting sharp wind, powdery flakes careening from the sky. My, my, what a time to choose to reckon with Beqanna. He is alone – and it feeling is ideal. A moment to mourn what once was, what they once had. His eyes are closed – breathing in deeply the new world they would come to mold. And then – He hears the soft crunch of snow beneath hoof, and opens his eyes – and there you are.
How long had it been? Years. Decades.
You would think his heart would lurch into his throat – his mind race with the countless hours of banter and magic intertwining and the jests and smirks and furtive touches. But no – instead, he is calm. It is a washing of wave after wave over his conscious – it is someone just like (yet so different from) him.
You are not cloaked in a swirling façade of magic – there is no play on your features, no mercurial eye color, no adornments or tricks up your sleeve. It is you in your purest form – something Eight had rarely seen. Even when you lay naked before him, there were always the marks of your lover the Desert – there was always the diamonds laid like a mountain ridge across your cheek. A small smile flutters to his face – an unmistakable memory of their drawn out times in their cave, of their childs play magic, of the universe they created all on their own.
“Hello Camrynn.” He shifts his weight slightly, bumping his hip to yours in a very uncharacteristic act of playfulness. Strange, how losing something can open you up so much more differently.
Loss- is that what it is? Was Eight truly so bereft to lose the magic that pondered through him? No, perhaps not. He was so long characterized by it – the magician king, playing with dark magic, the guardian who could wield power in the blink of an eye. It is almost a relief to be able to just be.
“Fancy seeing you here. I thought you had left us for good.”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in