09-03-2020, 07:11 PM
it was a blood-soaked feast
that never ceased
that never ceased
There is nothing left of her, surely; he wonders pensively if anyone had mourned her death (murder) or if the children had survived to carry on in her rememberance. Even if they didn’t, perhaps the ghost of the once Ischian queen would find solace in the fact that he remembered her.
He remembers all of them. Fondly, too.
And perhaps that is one reason he returns to the still and silent forests of Sylva, with its fire-glowing canopies and dark, damp undergrowth - where the blackness of its lakes are as dark as pitch and slick with algae. The stallion attempts to be just a shadow; a nobody beneath the winter’s blue sky that is hidden beneath thick and fiery foliage, returning to a place that once held the semblance of a home for him. A place where he had once found a true sense of belonging.
His body is covered with a watery sheen, eternally damp and dripping as he creates rivers of moisture that cut carefully across each patch of pearlescent lavender and dark evergreen on his skin. Despite the water-logged appearance, he finds that the bitter cold that bites at his skin is pleasant.
When he comes to the familiar body of water, the stallion only comes to a halt when the pearled color of his legs reach knee-deep. The water is as chilly and black as he remembers; stagnant and seemingly bottomless. He, the Poseidon, knows better. In a blink his entire body loses all color and solidity; for a moment he wavers there, completely paused in time as a watery stallion, black and dark as the lake’s water gives him his shape. Then, he disappears beneath the surface.
There is nothing left of her.
Only bone and waterlogged scraps of skin, unrecognizable to any besides the one that had so carefully laid her to rest. He wonders if her body had poisoned the lake in which he had drowned her, but so many years have passed that she now is simply marrow and sunken eyes, unseeing and wide. He stays down there for some time, a beast that is somewhere between reality and fantasy, the shape of an equine but fully water. He reminisces, finding comfort in her empty sockets and that deep hole in her forehead as his tendrils of water sweep over the bright green shell that remains beside her, twirling it in his grasp thoughtfully.
He remembers all of them. Fondly, too.
And perhaps that is one reason he returns to the still and silent forests of Sylva, with its fire-glowing canopies and dark, damp undergrowth - where the blackness of its lakes are as dark as pitch and slick with algae. The stallion attempts to be just a shadow; a nobody beneath the winter’s blue sky that is hidden beneath thick and fiery foliage, returning to a place that once held the semblance of a home for him. A place where he had once found a true sense of belonging.
His body is covered with a watery sheen, eternally damp and dripping as he creates rivers of moisture that cut carefully across each patch of pearlescent lavender and dark evergreen on his skin. Despite the water-logged appearance, he finds that the bitter cold that bites at his skin is pleasant.
When he comes to the familiar body of water, the stallion only comes to a halt when the pearled color of his legs reach knee-deep. The water is as chilly and black as he remembers; stagnant and seemingly bottomless. He, the Poseidon, knows better. In a blink his entire body loses all color and solidity; for a moment he wavers there, completely paused in time as a watery stallion, black and dark as the lake’s water gives him his shape. Then, he disappears beneath the surface.
There is nothing left of her.
Only bone and waterlogged scraps of skin, unrecognizable to any besides the one that had so carefully laid her to rest. He wonders if her body had poisoned the lake in which he had drowned her, but so many years have passed that she now is simply marrow and sunken eyes, unseeing and wide. He stays down there for some time, a beast that is somewhere between reality and fantasy, the shape of an equine but fully water. He reminisces, finding comfort in her empty sockets and that deep hole in her forehead as his tendrils of water sweep over the bright green shell that remains beside her, twirling it in his grasp thoughtfully.
m a u g r i m.
@[dark]