Nothing is ever certain (Part 1)

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.”

image credit