That everything good is happening somewhere else?
The outside? I don’t recall of such a place. My realms consist of the fire and of night (and when seldom I sleep, these follow me). The seams of my existence lilt between ‘before’ and ‘after’: before Rodrik ruling, before my parent’s death, before Pomona; after Straia taking over, after my parent’s death, after Bergamot, and after the fire. After the tree.
The amber of my eyes have aged alongside my body, the soot of my muzzle decaying to wind-strewn ash. Interruptions of my meditations are scarce, for I have grown into the flames and away from the land. Loyal to a fault, forever Chamber-lain; in the sunset of my life I succumb to the ease of the heat, forgetting my duties and my family. So easy is it to wallow in the ‘before’ and ‘after’ of the fire that remembering the ‘now’ simply ceases to matter.
Having always believed in a greater power, I cannot deny that the tree represents to me a glimpse into Her understanding. The fascination of delving into what may be and what may have been only goads me further, encouraging my rapt meditations. Seeking answers has become my one purpose these days – weeks [months] are spent memorizing the patterns. And while perhaps unofficially, I have become the Chamber’s priest… Unfortunately, the members of the kingdom have a hard time of wrestling me away from Her flames in order to learn anything of importance.
Thus is the way of the tree.
When my eyes fall away from the majesty of the fire, I am not certain whether it is a dream or reality; sleep and wakefulness have melded into one, and in neither do I glance away. The severe burning along the surface of my eyes keep me from returning to my meditative stance, despite my anguished attempts. For a moment I believe She is punishing me; then I realize she might simply be pushing me towards the ‘now.’
Slinking away from the flames with a silent flash of my coat (pine and cobblestone, a lovely camouflage), I flinch when a ray of sun befalls me. I forgot about the day time… Arabic head swinging like a pendulum, I attempt to rid myself of the increasing sickness in my gut. How long have I stood at the tree?
Warring within myself as to whether I ought to obey the Lady or return to her eye, my teeth audibly grind until, at last, I release the tension. Unfurling the wings of my youth, my sturdy legs pick up to a gallop, and in the wind against my cheekbones and the sun reflecting off of my illusionist skin, I find undeniable comfort. A vibrant whinny splits the silence of the Chamber as I at last blast through its borders, sending a dozen ravens aflight. I laugh; the sound is richer than I remembered it to be. Like a grandfather’s.
As I come just beyond the Chamber, my knees begin aching. Frowning, a cough decorates my rapid breathing. Slowly to a walk, coughs begin wracking my unused chest. Head curling towards my barrel in an effort to stench the coughing, I realize how thin I’ve become. My shoulders dive precariously towards my spine, and my hips have begun peeking out from my skin. Highly uncomfortable with my aging, decaying body, I focus on my destination at a slightly more comfortable pace.
Having snatched a few well-needed bites along the way, I arrive to the meadow as the sun creeps towards the horizon. My knees feel better for having gone more slowly, and only occasionally must I clear my throat. Pleased with this turn of events (though I must admit to purposefully blocking any thoughts of the fire), I lower my chiseled head and begin grazing. Upon my golden coat, the image of my mother frisks here and there, a memory of her and I playing chase when I was young. I smile; the ‘before’ has always been my favourite.