01-17-2019, 08:59 AM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
For the first time in over a hundred years, He doesn’t give a damn about anything.
The land is riddled with ghosts; those that are here, and those that are gone. He has found Beqanna wanting and waiting - adrift in the universe with strangers milling on her lands. So many faces streamed by him, unknown and new, like fresh pink skin waiting to be marked and marred. So many ghosts lurking behind that bleary wall of life/death, here/there, then/now. He had been gone far too long to be known around here anymore. (And perhaps, that is just the way He likes it. Forget the things He’s done, the name He has picked out for Himself, the way hHe has ruled and roiled and ruined.) For the first time since He could stand - He does not give a damn about anything. Not war, nor usurping crown; raising a kingdom or raising hell; fucking or fighting.
How strange - to feel something, be something, that you have not been in far too long (or ever, maybe). You, His lily white apparition, can see again. The world is your kaleidoscope, no longer are there shadows where faces should be. No longer is sound the beacon of what is where and which step to take. No longer are you in an endless shifting night, adrift in the unknown, marked forever as an invalid and incapable. No, no, now you can see.
Is it any different than before? Is it an assault to your eyes? Were you expecting something different -- better? Brighter? Beyond the scope of this small rustling river and the listless souls temporarily inhabiting it? Are you standing there thinking this is it? Of course, this isn’t the first time the wool has been pulled from your eyes - you could see before. But were you really seeing? Or were you taking it for granted -- not taking advantage of something the gods can give and take away.
He knows you are coming. He can see it (a sense that is in no way new to Him) in the milky ripple of the dark sky; your translucent body trekking none so timidly (bolder now, with your vivid vision in tact-- your eyes seeing what wasn’t there before) from that womb of a cave, into the thick, black night. Is it only under the blanket of tenebrose night that you feel secure enough to come out? An alabaster baby, shedding the cocoon of to create her world again. That’s what you are doing -- no? One hundred years of darkened solitude, building Beqanna brick by brick in the cavern of your mind. And now -- now you are building it again, piece by glaring piece, the truth unshielded now that you can see.
“Hello Ryatah.” There is no surprise as you moor softly next to Him, a small slip bumping in the waves of the vast ocean. ”You’ve come out to play again then, hm?” He does not turn to look at you - there is nothing new for him to see there. He knows the curve of your body, the hot white stretch of your skin, the snowy tangle of your mane; he does not need to see you to know you.
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in