11-03-2018, 09:17 AM
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
OF MOVING ON
OF MOVING ON
He is unaware of the travesty happening across the inlet. Beqanna is screaming for help, but Tiphon hasn’t yet seen why. The blood dripping across the withered lands has escaped his notice; he has only witnessed those in good health scrambling away. There is a plague, they shout, but he hasn’t yet seen the evidence.
And yet he was driven to come here on sheer instinct. No family, no followers – it’s solely him with his personal agenda. Heal. Help. They will need him, he thinks with a distant stare finding the horizon.
But in the meantime, there is solitude.
The island is abandoned, a figment of ancient memories. The cobwebs haven’t been brushed away for decades and there’s a forgotten eeriness that chills Tiphon to the bone. His eyes search, hungry for conversation, but the beach is untouched save for his own footprints. The tide washed away evidence of the past while storms cleansed the remainder. What scents there may have once been have long since faded, discarded and left for dead by newer generations. Yet, he still walks and steps among the ghosts of the past.
At first, Tiphon assumes that she is one of them – a phantom of his own imagination wandering the beach and palm trees – but she seems far more tangible, far more beautiful than anything his mind could muster. Even sickly, with crusted blood and scars puckering her flesh, she is still beautiful. Tiphon glances away but is incapable of diverting for very long. Drawn to each other, moths to a flame, they meet at a crossroad. They gape at each other, but for entirely different reasons. His eyes trace along her and note every curve, cut, and hair out of place. There is no concealing the frown that stretches his lips down or how his brows furrow in concern. Surprisingly, however, she doesn’t talk about herself – it’s a conversation immediately focused on him, a topic that he nearly shies from but reconsiders in a brief silence.
”What am I? he echoes contemplatively, his weight shifting from one side to another. The sand underfoot hisses and churns. ”I am a son and a brother,” he recites what the voice had told him. He doesn’t remember his children or how many he sired. His memories are scattered, most far from his reach. ”And I’m a healer.” Is that the answer she wanted? He fails to announce that he’s an angel because his mind is trained to believe he is like them all - a misfit yet all the same. Everyone in Beqanna is different – beautiful and unique in their own way – but also similar in that they are here to survive.
”What happened to you?” He inches closer, but takes pause, unable to fathom what could’ve so easily destroyed her. Combing through her visual wounds, so trained and focused, he almost doesn’t notice the other woman stepping forward until the sound of her voice shatters the quiet pause. He regards her curiously, but she confirms her good intent. Are there really so few that wand to mend Beqanna’s wounds? Are there so many that are now infected? The questions pool and overflow the crevices of his mind as he weighs the situation. ”Yes,” he agrees with a slow nod, ”I want to heal Beqanna.” But then he breathes and calculates the magnitude of the situation. Their entire world is crumbling, but immediately in front of him, he sees two victims already. With a ruffle of his wings, he adds, ”But first, you two need to heal.”
And yet he was driven to come here on sheer instinct. No family, no followers – it’s solely him with his personal agenda. Heal. Help. They will need him, he thinks with a distant stare finding the horizon.
But in the meantime, there is solitude.
The island is abandoned, a figment of ancient memories. The cobwebs haven’t been brushed away for decades and there’s a forgotten eeriness that chills Tiphon to the bone. His eyes search, hungry for conversation, but the beach is untouched save for his own footprints. The tide washed away evidence of the past while storms cleansed the remainder. What scents there may have once been have long since faded, discarded and left for dead by newer generations. Yet, he still walks and steps among the ghosts of the past.
At first, Tiphon assumes that she is one of them – a phantom of his own imagination wandering the beach and palm trees – but she seems far more tangible, far more beautiful than anything his mind could muster. Even sickly, with crusted blood and scars puckering her flesh, she is still beautiful. Tiphon glances away but is incapable of diverting for very long. Drawn to each other, moths to a flame, they meet at a crossroad. They gape at each other, but for entirely different reasons. His eyes trace along her and note every curve, cut, and hair out of place. There is no concealing the frown that stretches his lips down or how his brows furrow in concern. Surprisingly, however, she doesn’t talk about herself – it’s a conversation immediately focused on him, a topic that he nearly shies from but reconsiders in a brief silence.
”What am I? he echoes contemplatively, his weight shifting from one side to another. The sand underfoot hisses and churns. ”I am a son and a brother,” he recites what the voice had told him. He doesn’t remember his children or how many he sired. His memories are scattered, most far from his reach. ”And I’m a healer.” Is that the answer she wanted? He fails to announce that he’s an angel because his mind is trained to believe he is like them all - a misfit yet all the same. Everyone in Beqanna is different – beautiful and unique in their own way – but also similar in that they are here to survive.
”What happened to you?” He inches closer, but takes pause, unable to fathom what could’ve so easily destroyed her. Combing through her visual wounds, so trained and focused, he almost doesn’t notice the other woman stepping forward until the sound of her voice shatters the quiet pause. He regards her curiously, but she confirms her good intent. Are there really so few that wand to mend Beqanna’s wounds? Are there so many that are now infected? The questions pool and overflow the crevices of his mind as he weighs the situation. ”Yes,” he agrees with a slow nod, ”I want to heal Beqanna.” But then he breathes and calculates the magnitude of the situation. Their entire world is crumbling, but immediately in front of him, he sees two victims already. With a ruffle of his wings, he adds, ”But first, you two need to heal.”
TIPHON
STARLACE AND INFECTION