11-14-2021, 12:36 PM
BRUNHILDE
I BET ON LOSING DOGS
You forgot.
What was it that you were doing all those years ago? So much simmering and simpering, you think. It was so much harder then. Your recent years have been so simple. Gentle, welcome monotony made you quiet—made that wildfire in your belly fall dormant.
But you forgot.
You always forget.
Beneath the ashes, around the blooms bursting forth in rebirth, your maddening embers sizzle. They do not call to you, but they burn the soft lining of your intestines. You bear scorch marks so well-hidden even you do not know they are there. Perhaps the anger and sadness will consume you once again. Perhaps you will triumph.
There is nothing you can do when the flames burst forth, answering His summons. They claw at your soothing words. They purr at his invigorating voice. You are helpless, but not listless. Your steps are measured with a quiet fight, but you listen to Him. You come. Thoughts of the project he has for you swirl and eddy in your mind, inciting your excited flames. You try to part yourself from the fire, calling them it. But each lick of flame is a piece of you just as much as the peace you no longer find foreign.
If you do not conquer this madness, it will conquer you.
He knows that, you’re sure of it. Just as He knows of all else. Perhaps He does not call you specifically, but His voice lilts for beings just like you.
You’re charred by the time you reach the foot of the Mountain. The wings at your back hiss and crackle angrily, chattering with the wildfire inside you. Like calling to like.
You’re scared. You’re so scared that you quiver, that your steps stutter and your eyes grow wide and bright. He frightens you with that beckoning voice and that ominous project. You don’t want to go any further, but the moment you turn around the flames inside you will devour you from the inside out. You will never return.
The Mountain is angry as you climb, unyielding as it pelts you with uncertainty and terror. Mindgames, you know. Endless mindgames, between the landmark entity and the Dark God. When you only hesitate, when you do not turn back, the Mountain goes quiet. You stop entirely in the discomforting silence.
“What are you doing, Brunhilde?”
Within the blink of an eye, a white lion appears. He watches you with golden, placid eyes as another lion (this one as black as night) steps around him. A mountain lion accompanies him.
You say nothing in return as the three cats peer at you. You watch, holding your breath, as agitation begins to show on the felines’ faces.
“You’re so insane, Brun,” laughs the mountain lion, wild voice so achingly familiar that you stumble backward. Your gulp is not measured. You choke on it, eliciting a chuckle from the midnight lion.
“I know you are not real,” you manage to sputter out as the flames inside you grow crazed with the nearness of such magic.
“What do you mean, daughter? Your brother and your lover and your father stand before you, trying to warn you, and you spurn us?” The white lion tilts his head curiously as he speaks. Your quivering grows violent. You cannot fight them off (you’ve never been a warrior, no matter how Vastra tries to teach you—it’s those lessons that you think of, that almost make your resolve capsize, as you stare at the perfect duplication of her wiry muscles).
“Really, you should turn back,” Draco murmurs, red eyes twinkling with cruelty. He leans forward, black fur shimmering ethereally beneath the moonlight. “Leave projects like these to the whole minded.”
You gulp again, knowing your fate. You must keep trekking upward, lest the fire take you completely. One step forward, two steps forward, three. The cats watch you with impassive faces. When you are within brushing distance of your father, you stop.
“My father would never speak to me like that,” you whisper viciously. The steps you take through him are unyielding and reckless. You run up the Mountain, up to face the Dark God and His bidding; but your father’s last words manage to echo through you as you face the grayed creature.
We were never going to stop you.
What was it that you were doing all those years ago? So much simmering and simpering, you think. It was so much harder then. Your recent years have been so simple. Gentle, welcome monotony made you quiet—made that wildfire in your belly fall dormant.
But you forgot.
You always forget.
Beneath the ashes, around the blooms bursting forth in rebirth, your maddening embers sizzle. They do not call to you, but they burn the soft lining of your intestines. You bear scorch marks so well-hidden even you do not know they are there. Perhaps the anger and sadness will consume you once again. Perhaps you will triumph.
There is nothing you can do when the flames burst forth, answering His summons. They claw at your soothing words. They purr at his invigorating voice. You are helpless, but not listless. Your steps are measured with a quiet fight, but you listen to Him. You come. Thoughts of the project he has for you swirl and eddy in your mind, inciting your excited flames. You try to part yourself from the fire, calling them it. But each lick of flame is a piece of you just as much as the peace you no longer find foreign.
If you do not conquer this madness, it will conquer you.
He knows that, you’re sure of it. Just as He knows of all else. Perhaps He does not call you specifically, but His voice lilts for beings just like you.
You’re charred by the time you reach the foot of the Mountain. The wings at your back hiss and crackle angrily, chattering with the wildfire inside you. Like calling to like.
You’re scared. You’re so scared that you quiver, that your steps stutter and your eyes grow wide and bright. He frightens you with that beckoning voice and that ominous project. You don’t want to go any further, but the moment you turn around the flames inside you will devour you from the inside out. You will never return.
The Mountain is angry as you climb, unyielding as it pelts you with uncertainty and terror. Mindgames, you know. Endless mindgames, between the landmark entity and the Dark God. When you only hesitate, when you do not turn back, the Mountain goes quiet. You stop entirely in the discomforting silence.
“What are you doing, Brunhilde?”
Within the blink of an eye, a white lion appears. He watches you with golden, placid eyes as another lion (this one as black as night) steps around him. A mountain lion accompanies him.
You say nothing in return as the three cats peer at you. You watch, holding your breath, as agitation begins to show on the felines’ faces.
“You’re so insane, Brun,” laughs the mountain lion, wild voice so achingly familiar that you stumble backward. Your gulp is not measured. You choke on it, eliciting a chuckle from the midnight lion.
“I know you are not real,” you manage to sputter out as the flames inside you grow crazed with the nearness of such magic.
“What do you mean, daughter? Your brother and your lover and your father stand before you, trying to warn you, and you spurn us?” The white lion tilts his head curiously as he speaks. Your quivering grows violent. You cannot fight them off (you’ve never been a warrior, no matter how Vastra tries to teach you—it’s those lessons that you think of, that almost make your resolve capsize, as you stare at the perfect duplication of her wiry muscles).
“Really, you should turn back,” Draco murmurs, red eyes twinkling with cruelty. He leans forward, black fur shimmering ethereally beneath the moonlight. “Leave projects like these to the whole minded.”
You gulp again, knowing your fate. You must keep trekking upward, lest the fire take you completely. One step forward, two steps forward, three. The cats watch you with impassive faces. When you are within brushing distance of your father, you stop.
“My father would never speak to me like that,” you whisper viciously. The steps you take through him are unyielding and reckless. You run up the Mountain, up to face the Dark God and His bidding; but your father’s last words manage to echo through you as you face the grayed creature.
We were never going to stop you.
