10-25-2019, 09:57 PM
no matter what they say, I am still the king
It is something wild, to be so old. A creature of the past - a decaying and dying thing. You carry memories of once was, were, is, has gone - a history of layers woven through your hair (your skin, your bones, your blood). You have created what is now - you were a cog in the wheel, the oil slickened mechanics, the blood roved meadows - you saw what it took to be.
And still you returned.
She is fickle like that; always calling you back. A ghost song that threads through the chambers of your heart, that curls itself into the cortex of your mind - come back she will call (although she will no longer be the same). And we do (we must) because there is no other choice. There are eons and acreages to explore, but this is where we chose. This is where we landed, our history laid thick like an oil spill, our ties (or lack thereof) so intricately placed. We would like to say we chose - we wanted to return, we decided on our own. But where else would we go?
---
The air is thick with the scent of old magic. (Yes, you can tell, I assure you). It settles like a blanket, a thick fog, a heavy stench that weaves into his nostrils and will not let go. There is another here who has seen the days he has - he can feel it. There are so few now, who choose to return. Some fear there is nothing left, some think it far too different, some simply know there is no more for them to do. And we? We came back. But why?
---
It is not hard to find you; the gaping maws and the shifted eyes - the woman shrouded in white. You are a sight to behold - a goddess from the mountains, a siren from thin air, an angel who chose to land. There is no shame in the way you step from the atmosphere - a shake of your hair, a knowingness that parades as innocence. You smell of something as old as ancient earth and as new as the dew that collects in the morning. You are unabashed - certain in your steadiness - careless in your nature that everyone is lookingatyou.
You are a mirror image in everything that is opposite - a glaring mirror of what He is not (could never be). A sheen of blinding white - all curls and flecked snow skin and a haunting purity that cannot be replicated. And He, something so dark and vast - a black hole of sharp things and wings and a dark dark sky. Yet there it is, that parallel line; that acknowledgement that you both were once there.
“Epithet.” He pulls your name from his tongue like spun candy (so easy - too easy - when the world is at your beck and call). His darkness comes forth from the bright spitting trees - and it is a puzzle of color; and lack thereof, and too much. “Home again?” He approaches closer, your bright to His dark something tangible and he can taste it in his mouth; a sickeningly sweet thing that you cannot spit out. “What has brought you back?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in