02-27-2022, 09:02 PM
T U M U L T
He had changed, and with the change he knew less who he was than before.
He has always been a thing made of storms—colored like churning clouds, wings dark with thunder and dripping with rain. When he had dreamt that he could control storms it had not been entirely surprising, for what else would a man made of storms dream of? It was not the dream itself that changed him, but rather, the physical changes that happened upon waking from the dream.
That he awoke flickering with lightning.
That he could touch things and send a ripple of shock into it, like his body had become electrified.
He dreamt he could control storms, and he awoke changed, only still not in the way he needed to be.
The storms he conjured remained difficult to control. There was nothing that he could create that remained within his grasp, always spinning from his control, his clouds blown away by the wind. It was a frustrating thing, to dream what you thought you always wanted, to awaken with something yet it was still not what you needed.
It felt like a taunt, and considering the source of the change—a task completed for a man, a god, that he didn’t know—he now can only think himself a fool.
He wants to go back to the mountain, to spit this magic back into the hole he had dug it from, but he does not. He clings to it stubbornly, waits every day for it to change, for him to get better at it, even if the thread of power has no anchor and he knows this is something he will never accomplish.
And so when she catches his eye, the reason is obvious.
She is colored like him, cloaked in fog and flickering with lightning, and his own flashes in a silent response. He recognizes her power, the way she is calling the rain, but even from where he stands she can see she has more control over it than he ever will.
When the lightning glints across his face this time it is almost with jealousy, and he swallows the bitterness of it away, where it lodges somewhere in the very pit of his chest.
He walks towards her, two storms rolling to meet, and instead of saying any one of things he could say, he says absolutely nothing, standing in the silence of her rain shower.
He has always been a thing made of storms—colored like churning clouds, wings dark with thunder and dripping with rain. When he had dreamt that he could control storms it had not been entirely surprising, for what else would a man made of storms dream of? It was not the dream itself that changed him, but rather, the physical changes that happened upon waking from the dream.
That he awoke flickering with lightning.
That he could touch things and send a ripple of shock into it, like his body had become electrified.
He dreamt he could control storms, and he awoke changed, only still not in the way he needed to be.
The storms he conjured remained difficult to control. There was nothing that he could create that remained within his grasp, always spinning from his control, his clouds blown away by the wind. It was a frustrating thing, to dream what you thought you always wanted, to awaken with something yet it was still not what you needed.
It felt like a taunt, and considering the source of the change—a task completed for a man, a god, that he didn’t know—he now can only think himself a fool.
He wants to go back to the mountain, to spit this magic back into the hole he had dug it from, but he does not. He clings to it stubbornly, waits every day for it to change, for him to get better at it, even if the thread of power has no anchor and he knows this is something he will never accomplish.
And so when she catches his eye, the reason is obvious.
She is colored like him, cloaked in fog and flickering with lightning, and his own flashes in a silent response. He recognizes her power, the way she is calling the rain, but even from where he stands she can see she has more control over it than he ever will.
When the lightning glints across his face this time it is almost with jealousy, and he swallows the bitterness of it away, where it lodges somewhere in the very pit of his chest.
He walks towards her, two storms rolling to meet, and instead of saying any one of things he could say, he says absolutely nothing, standing in the silence of her rain shower.
CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?
