Just as the rain continues to drench my new reality with an ocean of neon tears…her anguish summons a flood of tangled, complex emotions. The sheer on-look of her visible suffering creates double...nay...thrice the turmoil; rather the invading presence return to resume pillaging my doctrine of how a logical world should function, or mayhaps ravage this flesh until the soul was forced from the harbor within it. Her unnecessary, unwarranted misery begs for comfort; I yearn to stretch out and convey my words without using our faultable noise. Embrace her suffering until the darkness fled from it -- until her heart could lighten and those unseen, festering wounds could at last find their healing
If she’d only let me...
Remorse isn’t worthy of this beautiful soul…
There is one aspect to her admittance that is sorely inaccurate; one that I refuse to leave alone; the misguided theory wouldn't pass without correction, “you?” there was nothing of skepticism, or mockery – rather, my tone becomes quiet. Brows arch, creating new pathways for those driblets of water to curl down my ashen snout, “seal his fate?” How/why she (or someone else) implanted the fault of those unfortunate circumstances is beyond my understanding. However...they would cleaved from this soul. Today. Not one single, skinny hair would be left behind to stew amidst the conflict. “Nay, child.” This crown sways, casting an arch of droplets, “I know him,” it faintly crosses the back of my mind that, she had no reason to believe me, the counterargument follows at heel, she didn’t have reason to doubt either. My head inclines -gesturing to the collar she lurched to avoid, as if the metal itself would come alive and scald her misery- “and the truth of his story.”
Definitively, “you caused no harm.” That previously immobile forelimb rises from the squishy mess below us. The tendrils of smog retreat – possibly losing interest, or choosing to wait until our conversation has grown tiresome. Pinions of ivory and gold resettle, managing (with effort) to curl loosely against my waist; sadly, their presence still feels entirely alien to me… Advancement comes slowly, purposeful – saturated ears rotate ahead. I pause (still comfortably apart,) squishing into the unturned sewage, “if he did live,” thoughtful knots cinch the folds in my throat and stomach; they glow warmly, like the first touch of sunlight…but are tight and hard, like iron, “and found you. What do you think he would say?”
He questioned her guilt, that plaguing, septic wound of recollection she felt and believed with every beat of her heart; while her voice failed to answer, she breathed, “yes.” Her thoughts submited to the mellow movement of his tone weakly, freely, as she buried her bloodshot stare into the soupy earth beneath.
"I remember it," larynx better stated, mumbled (still below that steady drone of the rain). But what did she remember? It was the wrath and ruin of the shrill, frightened voice which lashed so violently across the slumped corpse of gilt piebald, the crowd of sombre eyes that glared stupidly back, the golden-walled tomb and the huge stone which had sealed the Gallant inside. Zahra remembered the mare with the badger face who offered forth a beloved feather from his wing - images that had been seared into very lens of each eye.
Or had they?
To the weeping child’s astonishment, he, the stranger, smoothed the frayed air with a gently placed rebuttal - he mentioned that the once ruler had been his acquaintance, that he knew, the story. Unnerved and rightly intimidated (for her father was well loved, revered, ascended), feathered limbs forced in closer and her monochrome frame shrank by half; ears slipped rearward, curved crest sank and pallid tail tucked - all warily.
Guardedly she assessed the expression written upon those dark, chiselled features. There was a softness about him, in his posture, a queer strength and fortitude, that fed her very meek desire to linger; uncomfortable and confused, she fidgeted across muddy, mismatched toes, suddenly unwilling to meet his sun-scorched eye. Lies… Warring discord flared through her chest, hot and overbearing. Who was he to challenge the truth of her identity? Tears began again to amass in those lagging, raw reservoirs and as their lashed banks broke, she fastened a mask of contempt (a defensive, protective shield) across her face. She was vulnerable and this stake of acquittal which he brandished before her, felt awfully like a trap.
But her resolve, that buring ire, was once more challenged as he inched deliberately forward.
Warmth melded through the words that followed, that led his advance, and she swayed awkwardly, stiffly, with a face turned insecurely from his lure. Why was he asking? Why did he care? Her empty, angry gut twisted with anticipation, apprehension towards his unapparent motivation. Behind her, sodden threads swung, their yellowed ends licking across each coiled thigh.
"Wh…who are you?" She retorts with a sniff, and though she worked to resist the strange charm about him, his dominant stance begged for more. "I..." I Don’t know? His gaze was resilient, unwavering; waiting…
Zahra drew a shallow breath.
As she began to speak, that preoccupied focus, vested away in the distance (anywhere but the present), slumped to the ground with all of the force of an avalanche; so cataclysmic was the pain he seemed so intent to discover, to unleash, that she felt a sense of fatigued surrender wash through her. It was all too much. "Da wouldn’t know me," she mewed finally, sorrowfully, hopelessly; ashamed of the creature - the shell - that she’d become.
Drizzled nares flutter and suck, indulging upon the stale perfume of stirred agitation. Gold flecked irises retain their position, unyielding (a timeless quality) as they patiently abide; even when her unrest encourages those honeyed mirrors to abandon…resist. Her logical inquiry disrupts the fragile flame within me – it stirs the embers from their newly kindled hearth.
Who am I?
A discarded specter? A father who’d willingly shed tradition and broke through the impossible veil of reality -- driven by a paternal yearn to ensure there was refuge for his lineage? To say the least, this misadventure hadn’t gone as intended.
But who am I?
Once upon a time, the answer to her question had been simple -- there was never doubt (even in fault) as to whom I was. That internalized question of uncertain identity couldn't directly interrogate my history – nay, there wasn’t cause to rediscover those aspects of a life that had already come to an end. Spirits forsook their mortal achievements…trading glorious (meaningless) names for unmeasurable joy; passing their torch of earthly burdens to the youth. Their lineage. How sweet is that undisturbed peace, the disburdened clearing at the end of the path.
At last, her ebon, dribbling lips surrender the cold, callus infliction that has sickened inside her. Attentive regard takes note that the edge in her voice has fractionally eased; mayhaps giving unspoken permission for me to ease us further into our reunion of obscurity and self discovery? Forelegs stiffen, resenting those icy pellets as they beat down without cease. My neck curls, elevating the drenched accumulation of soggy fur and quivering skin. I'd delayed that inevitable concession for the sake of her sanity (attempting to avoid unnecessary suffering) but...it did no good.
She writhed...all but screaming her torment to the tainted witnesses of this unholy place. The revelation of my identity is bulging -- clamoring to fulfill a hardening desire to bring our truth into the light. Though not the expected outcome of an impromptu visitation, “I am,” anxious knots constrict, warning and throbbing; they prod with the sword of doubt, piercing my ironclad constitution, “he that was scorched...betrayed,” Vocals trail off, temples narrow -- continuing despite the possibility for rebuttal or worse...rage. “The one the people called, Gallant,” unwavering vocals skip, softening into a murmuring whisper, “before death I was called, Midas.”
Ashen lashes angled harshly down across her otherwise, now, ascending eyes. Within them manifested perceivable doubt, shock, astonishment; she almost laughed aloud. "You… ha... for a second there, I thought you said…" Across the way she glared at him with new, different heat broiling in her belly.
"How dare you…"
There was a dangerous undertone, a brooding, blistering rage that spewed through her veins. Zahra, as she observed him (blindly), scrutinised and ravaged that shadowy, masculine mask of deception, writhed internally against a blaring urge to attack; hatred so intense, so fresh and frightening, driving her irrepressible need to lash out.
And she did.
All of the slowness and tact that delivered his crude, cruel and confronting revelation, did nothing to soothe the manic monster screaming within her. Pre-coiled and long anticipating, those thighs unleashed their tension, forcing her trembling, irrational frame forward, towards him. Feathered arms extended instinctively, flaring left and right around her like enormous, stained-glass sails - nets - exaggerating both her size and fury; so too did the crest arch brazenly between shoulders and skull, wielding the furious façade at the top like a riled snake.
The exterior was nothing but savage.
Mud splashed about her wildly, like a frenzy of rain reversed, and the thunder of her sprinting hooves across the slippery sod resonated high into the murky atmosphere; the confused, conflicted creature cared little who the victor would be. Teeth unsheathed from the snapping ivories beneath, and the soft bridge of her sooty black maw creased awfully under the flux of exploding aggression.
How could he? As if the burning pain of loss and guilt wasn't crippling enough...
07-27-2017, 05:47 AM (This post was last modified: 07-27-2017, 05:49 AM by Eleos.)
Mayhaps gladdened with the heated change of mood, our neon spectators become lively. Encouraging us with their sick delight; adoring the turmoil and anguish of our continual misfortune. Onyx ears rotate, meshing within the seething curl of flattened thatch. They sense the oncoming storm of apprehension as it escalates. Untamed hate drips venom from that coal stained mouth, accenting the furious bolts of lightening that crack...igniting a crazed pyre. Demons snarl behind those molten eyes. Hindquarters respond intuitively, becoming stone-like; her triggering words signal my defensive stance just before the bitter expression of grief contorts into something nasty. Wounded despair morphs into that expectant rage; the very thing I’d bet against.
A flash of hardened resolve douses my subconscious with instinctually desire – defend – self preservation pleads within this rain beaten skull. Honey tipped pinions strain weakly from their alien sheath. She comes in -- a cold burst of color and rain. Hindlegs contract, bundling inward to absorb the force of her impact. Shoulders brace just as the first wave of hot meat come slamming home. This crown tucks, naturally attempting to shield the fragile pulse beneath my latch. Her metallic collar beats solidly into my chest, summoning a painful spasm to rocket outward. Ivories clench, failing to drown the agonized groan that she wrenches from my aching gut. Gold stained feathers crawl their way up and forward to embrace the lash of uncoiled fury. One painted forelimb rises, (swift with intent) aiming my bony knee into that well-known juncture, the camouflaged gem which could relieve the cruel metal between us.
Neck muscles jerk my head upward, abandoning thought toward defense – displaying vulnerability without retaliation. Allowing her to rape whatever mark she chose. Gold stained irises roll behind the shield of my eyelids. Hindtoes sink, pushing into the mud gradually as the weight of her impact wears on my ability to stay erect. Lips slip apart -- gasping. Deliberately, my crown tilts near the coiled, damp contours of her neck and mane. Using what little energy afforded me…I strive to drive this frantic tornado closer.
“Z-zahra…” her name emits from my anguished core as it wheezes, begging for another frantic draw of air. “Tis alright.” Those sun-stained corners burn as the dam of unshed tears bulge and scream; their sensation and the solid tightness in my chest feels strange...heavy, "I'm..." rasping, straining, "s-so glad." Eyelids pinch...her skin...it felt alive, trembling and warm...a beautiful miracle. Even when stained with fury, "I got to see you again."
Violent, impulsive anger engulfed her - ugly, wracking sobs, uncontrollable emotion (three years in the making) - as she collided against his sizzling, mortal flesh. With every ounce of the strength left in that withered, wretched frame, she thrust her trembling shoulder in, against him, while sodden quills recoiled and tucked flush against her side; exhaustion loomed, threatened to steal away that moment of vain indulgence.
Retribution!
To her surprise, and her relief, the transgressor remained fixed firmly in place, like the hard wood of an oak against a brittle burst of wind. Skull swung clear, neck bent up, askew, allowing the fullness of her oncoming weight to drive victoriously home, and as she slammed, his enormous wingspan splayed to accommodate their combined energy. He was solid, deceptively so, and jarring pain ricocheted through both sinew and bone in those painfully slow seconds which followed.
With throbbing eyes winced closed, and teeth ground down together - stone against stone - she sucked wildly, winded, desperate for air; fastened-back ears barely heard his pained groan. Neither was she aware of that interjecting knee, as it rose swiftly through turmoil below the smear of bruised flesh, to nudge the button that would, in turn, set her free. The collar broke loose and cool rivulets of rain slithered instantly into those blazing contours which had lain for so long, untouched beneath.
It fell with an audible slap into the mud.
Though golden blood seethed like molten lava beneath rippling, saturated skin, the sudden absence of weight, of pressure - that chill - cut through her rage like a glistening knife’s blade, robbing her suddenly of that maddened momentum. The warmth of meat drew near against the burn of her risen neck, and words wheezed weakly from his lips in the same moment (it all happened so fast).
’Z-zahra…’
The sound, so close, the taste of his breath, stale,pungent, spurred those clenched, yellowing teeth to part and inflict upon him a merciless bite. A hive’s worth of stinging wasps swarmed suddenly, materialising as if from nowhere around them; him. Again those whiskered lips snarled back, driven to punish and maim.
But they fell short this time…
Lulled by that last trickle of his tone.
Instead, her stiffened frown slid away down his girth.
"Why are you doing this?" she hissed suddenly with a voice so hoarse it was almost unrecognisable; ripping herself harshly from that warmth which had risen like freak wildfire between them. Immediately she turned from him, the stranger, wrapping herself in the comfort of familiar isolation and setting long feathers like a barrier between them. Still those tears spilt, and her head ached horrifically. "Why now?"
Pain blossoms, darkening tender skin where that punishing mouth left unchecked imprints upon my upper nape. Soggy wrinkles react, contorting, bracing against that forgotten sensation of needling incisors. There was naught for me to do but embrace the fever she rides, surrender to her damnation...unlike the smog infused darkness (which was unworthy of compassion)... my core, the deeply grounded soul, readily acknowledges her fury. It greets hatred with tender acceptance; limitless mercy.
When at last she jerks away; these sun-dipped hollows retract and permit her swift retreat. Limply, they fold backwards – loosely held against their dripping shelter. Lungs gasp, relieved of the pressure they'd been forced to endure. Hindquarters straighten, their pillars tremble with fatigue, but they support me regardless. Irises elevate, lashes unhinge and reveal the sharp, bloodied gold from its cocoon. Grief is potent...deadly...she cowers behind her despair; wielding it like a weapon when provoked...and a shield when pressed. Saturated ears remain posted toward the rear; wary of her shifting mood...and that of our invisible audience.
Her questions -nay, desperation- flies hither like the sting of a lash! Provoking internal conflict as another wave of dismay crashes upon me, 'would she bear the weight of an explanation?'Did it even matter now? Innards bristle in response; their desire for life isn't so complacent as my acceptance for whatever she chose to do next. Still panting, catching up. Quiet attention shifts, redirecting itself behind me. To that kaleidoscope silhouette. It was still there (of course) – shimmering, rippling like the waves of heat hovering above a brittle, sandstone floor in the desert. “That,” brows narrow, “I entered it.” Images flash by, a decaying world...a corpse of unimaginable proportion lay just beyond it...or so tis assumed.
“Father Earth is gone…” the briefest flutter of concern flutters against my expression. He (same as the other deities) hadn’t simply lost his life – nay, he vanished. Divine presence, guidance and power has forever been snuffed from existence. “You…” I pause, debating for half a beat before deciding to deliver that additional tidbit of information, "nor your siblings," a weary, torn become the essence of what remainds, “were in the clearing at the end of the path,” irises rotate center, “but neither were you living among the ashes of destruction.”
Brows pinch, “I had to see.” Hindquarters flex, anticipation builds in my loins, “but... something happened when I entered..." Memories fail to provide key information, their aid is bleak and without the picture, I'm unable to form a clear story. My left, painted foreleg elevates; revealing the soiled metallic gilt “Nar," it incomprehensible (especially to me,) unexplainable, “I woke up here...alive.” In this wicked place. "You...and this…” words fade off, optics scan the curling smoke in the near distance. “What…is this place?” an elder word escapes, a word for describing hell itself, “Na’ar?”
That faceless, robed skeleton and his harshly hooked scythe.
He wasn’t kind and he certainly showed no remorse; he snatched with cold caress wherever he could, taking the sick, the young and the old… He didn’t discriminate, didn’t care. Death was infinite, definite, ravenous, but all the same gentle, quiet. He claimed without rudeness or pain, severing earthly binds and carrying the soul to cool rest, devoid of greed, hurt and the insufferable living world, behind.
For Zahra - at first – death meant the infliction of pain, loneliness - both immeasurable, and newly perverted perspective. He left her soul frigid, cold and aggrieved, brimming with cruel worldly burden. As the years cycled by, however, death and his ultimate effect had become more a cause for curiosity, rather, yearning, for a life without light was quickly too much for her youthful heart to bear. She began to realise the error in her judgement – that death in fact, was her friend.
Why would anyone return to this?
Disgruntled, and hardly moved by his plight, Zahra held a long, steady silence; albeit bristled and still detached in appearance. This, his re-emergence?
Revival?
Return... defied logic.
It challenged the very meaning of life.
What hope was there if death wasn’t eternal?
Stuck in the morbid swirl of meditation one thought led to another and, ignoring his own question, she muttered rhetorically, "and what of my mother? Is she here too?" With a hollow expression she glanced about in exaggerated gesture; Zahra didn’t care, wouldn’t force it, couldn’t even remember the face. "…You shouldn’t have bothered," she sighed dismissively, emptily, stepping then away to leave.
My beloved mate...Africa's brilliance comes to mind; amber and gold -- her warming radiance fractionally offsets the pessimistic effect of this cool, dewy place. She (thankfully) remains in the clearing; an untouchable, beautiful specter. "Aye," dribbling, whiskered brims liberate her pry for verification; warily though, unclear of what would come next. Their square line matures, clenching when Zahra swings aside. She attempts to cut the quick...lashing with an utterance that inflects more fiercely and with greater effect than any physical affliction thus far. Shock -- hurt, both can be seen flash into view upon these weary engravings. Rage could be soothed, bitterness might be reasoned...but total indifference? Callousness? Brows narrow, imprinting deeply into my expression.
Uncertainties become reality...Still, the front half of my body instinctually leans forward -- with one disobedient knee starting to elevate, intent to follow. Ears flatten, warring with that mixed desire to crawl after her, or glower in their cover. Adversity, hot and potent, it surges against torn motivation -- bleeding compassion. That irritable limb settles for dragging it's blunted edge against the oozing floor below us, between us.
Shutters cast aside the hazy tint, clearing a disruptive sheen momentarily while her two toned frame starts to disappear into a plume of grinning fog. The rain, still icy and continuously present, begins to seep into my pores like venom...clouding this mind with sour emotions; suddenly chilling me to the bone. Those inky shadows whisper, mayhaps taunting, mayhaps laughing; reminding me that this wasn't the first time my effort had been thrown to the ground...forsook...betrayed. Molars clench, resenting the new and abrupt disruption of those grieving sensations. Uneasily, my gaze angles to the floor; allowing the drench to fall upon the mud splattered metal at my feet. That beloved heirloom... left in this unholy, saturated purgatory...
It was a consequence of that turbulent cloud of conflicted emotion that she moved to flee the scene (and the… her father), set upon the portal-point’s eerie, fluorescent foreshore. That catastrophic tsunami of feelings, of confusion, hurt, shock - and somewhere, below the all encompassing smog of depression, love - was more destructive, painful, than any physical, tangible wound. Not a load either, able to be spread, thinned, across the shoulders of many.
More than anything else, the golden-bellied girl was exhausted - emotionally and physically spent - and for the first time since her own unexpected arrival on this shadow-licked plane, she felt little inclined to return.
With listless strides she worked to place distance between them, between the shame his reincarnation imposed - the hate for herself, the unconscionable disappointment he must surely suffer - and each sucking footfall seemed to shatter the pounding heart within her a little more.
Zahra, the demon-child, born from the loins of beautiful love.
The collar was gone; the weight of expectation and remembrance was dissolved from her being, she was free! A shadow of built up filth and old, matted grey hair marked the place where it had rested ill-fittingly against her shoulder, for two years and a half. Rain drizzled down to soak and cleanse the warm, odorous skin, and the soft, saturated ball of her nose ghosted across stark, strange nakedness. In all honesty, there was a sense of loss in its absence, an inexplicable sorrow; like a vital piece of herself was gone.
Heavily, she sighed.
Eyes winced tightly as she took those last, clinching steps through the wet, and though subliminally she shuddered with hesitation, she could no more force a turn back, then will this putrid underworld to swallow her whole. There was no mention of chase from behind, no slip or splutter of movement - anything - through the hum of the dreary weather, and for the most part, she was glad, relieved to withdraw into that sanctuary of solitude which had sealed her safety through many seasons in Helovia.
The Portal
