my muse really took a poop today for some reason ; but so good to get some words in with you!! <3 <3 <3
@[shroud]
Sunrise and sunset, sunset and sunrise; time passes too fast. The ohtoocold winters that fade into the season of new life, and then heat, and then the dying of everything, and then back to coldcoldcold. It all passes in a blur - a cosmic blink that is there, and then gone. Time is infinite; yet somehow comes in a torrent, not a trickle. It is the time of rebirth now - soon the mewls of new children and the heavy, wet panting of mothers will burst through the quiet air. The children will stand, spindled legs wavering, weaving, unstead on their legs and in their future. And the children from last year will (most likely) be forgotten and thrust into the recesses of the land. Time for mother and father to dote on someonesomething new.
Godbear is no longer just a boy (is he?). He does not know his age, he does not know the time he has spent here (Beqanna is home, right?), and how much he has spent there (‘there’, he has quite no way to desrcibe). He is neither ripe, nor rotten - a murky mix of adult and child, old enough to know something, but young enough to not know how anything really and truly has happened.
What did Eight do to him? As if creating Godbear through incest was not awful enough (marking and marring one half of him as useless, gone, nogoodanymore). Then his father had to go and tear little Godbear’s universe in two - a rip across time, space, reality and the hazy hallucination. Flung so far from Beqanna, to be encased in stopped time - in the cosmos and galaxies, floating, waiting, for when Eight would release him again.
He had nothing special - no wings that could be molded and mutated to desire and necessity, he had no sickness lulled in his throat, waiting to rear it’s uglyredhead. He had no magic in his bones, no might in his past - all he has is his ruined side; a spark of constellation on his hind, and his skin forever tinted the color of the galaxy he was banished to.
He doesn’t know what happens now (he’s never stayed for long) - he doesn’t know how to firmly have all of his feet on the ground, how to exist without expecting to disappear at the whim of his father. He doesn’t know what there might be for him - a ruined soul, a ruined past, a ruined face. He does know that she is there; a winged thing, like a seraphim, like something that belonged in the cosmos (that was his home, wasn’t it - not here, but up there).
The first soul to step towards him - to pay him a mind like he mattered more than just a mote in the massive world. He moves his head, training his good eye on her speckled form, a mix of black and white (his world was so full of color - and here she is, mixing the known with the unknown; wings and greyscale - phantasmic and part of the earth. He twists his head, his good eye turned to her (drink it all in - the mix of the here and now and then
“You are a nebula without color.” He says, the words dusy and dry in his mouth (there are no need for words when you are alone in the sky); manners gone; swallowed up by the galaxies he once lived in. He steps forward, his eyes intent (rife with confusion, interest, lured) - “When were you let go?” He refers to the magic binding, the thing that held him so tight and listless up in the galaxy (that must have held her, too. Of course it had to.)
@[shroud]
godbear
Sunrise and sunset, sunset and sunrise; time passes too fast. The ohtoocold winters that fade into the season of new life, and then heat, and then the dying of everything, and then back to coldcoldcold. It all passes in a blur - a cosmic blink that is there, and then gone. Time is infinite; yet somehow comes in a torrent, not a trickle. It is the time of rebirth now - soon the mewls of new children and the heavy, wet panting of mothers will burst through the quiet air. The children will stand, spindled legs wavering, weaving, unstead on their legs and in their future. And the children from last year will (most likely) be forgotten and thrust into the recesses of the land. Time for mother and father to dote on someonesomething new.
Godbear is no longer just a boy (is he?). He does not know his age, he does not know the time he has spent here (Beqanna is home, right?), and how much he has spent there (‘there’, he has quite no way to desrcibe). He is neither ripe, nor rotten - a murky mix of adult and child, old enough to know something, but young enough to not know how anything really and truly has happened.
What did Eight do to him? As if creating Godbear through incest was not awful enough (marking and marring one half of him as useless, gone, nogoodanymore). Then his father had to go and tear little Godbear’s universe in two - a rip across time, space, reality and the hazy hallucination. Flung so far from Beqanna, to be encased in stopped time - in the cosmos and galaxies, floating, waiting, for when Eight would release him again.
He had nothing special - no wings that could be molded and mutated to desire and necessity, he had no sickness lulled in his throat, waiting to rear it’s uglyredhead. He had no magic in his bones, no might in his past - all he has is his ruined side; a spark of constellation on his hind, and his skin forever tinted the color of the galaxy he was banished to.
He doesn’t know what happens now (he’s never stayed for long) - he doesn’t know how to firmly have all of his feet on the ground, how to exist without expecting to disappear at the whim of his father. He doesn’t know what there might be for him - a ruined soul, a ruined past, a ruined face. He does know that she is there; a winged thing, like a seraphim, like something that belonged in the cosmos (that was his home, wasn’t it - not here, but up there).
The first soul to step towards him - to pay him a mind like he mattered more than just a mote in the massive world. He moves his head, training his good eye on her speckled form, a mix of black and white (his world was so full of color - and here she is, mixing the known with the unknown; wings and greyscale - phantasmic and part of the earth. He twists his head, his good eye turned to her (drink it all in - the mix of the here and now and then
“You are a nebula without color.” He says, the words dusy and dry in his mouth (there are no need for words when you are alone in the sky); manners gone; swallowed up by the galaxies he once lived in. He steps forward, his eyes intent (rife with confusion, interest, lured) - “When were you let go?” He refers to the magic binding, the thing that held him so tight and listless up in the galaxy (that must have held her, too. Of course it had to.)
the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
Code by: Pride