Mad disquietude in a lifeless sky (part 2)

A change of scenery; though the uneasy quality remains surprisingly identical. Grey, blanched; monotone foreshadowing...Still...the lackluster beach is greatly preferred over the extreme, over-saturated wood behind me. Like the vine laden, smog infused glade, this atmosphere is filled to burst with moisture; engorged, sweltered humidity. Clammy fingers slime up every square inch of dripping skin. My gut contorts...voicing strong retribution against the horrible acclimation. Much like a newborn child discovering the world for first time, I'm grossly inadequate in the experience department. The coast is mostly bare, it runs adjacent the mouth of tooth-like cliffs which accent the length;neither are obviously secure. The ocean remains constantly turbulent. Beyond the reef, those great funnels of water ascend; cycling like slender tornadoes as they waver and bend. Despite its tropical influence, there is hardly any species of vibrancy which I can draw comfort from. Where razor slat and gravel didn't persistent, the occasional tower with it's pale face and wrinkled, fan-shaped leaves would jut with mighty arms reaching toward the overcast abyss. Once...a massive, sluggish fiend came across my path. Dragging its oversized carcass across the sodden grit. Though a wide girth is given, the beast still turns; hauling its armored body and uncurling a dribbled, frothy mouth. Just before darkness sets, ear piercing, blood curling trumpets would erupt from some unexplained source. Their agonized screams always brought frantic, desperate heat to the surface of my quivering skin. I ventured into a grove of tangled green on one particularly brave night...aiming to inspect...but found naught in the bleak, cringing darkness. Downcast and slumped by the continual harassment of this never-ending water logging typhoon. I'd taken leave of the forest in a futile effort to find an end to these oppressive storms. Absent the rise and fall of yon sun or moon, days blur and time feels skewed...disproportionate. The brittle, foaming shoreline is lined with brackish water; above, the sky insistently crackles...snarling with envy at the living world below it. Dribbling irises rise, scanning for an overhang of any capacity. Around my neck, the metallic collar pulses; a comforting solidness which clicks gently to rhythm of deft footfalls.

image credit

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

Why did she even care?… when barely one week before (had it been that long?), she’d wanted nothing at all to do with him. 

Was that even true…?

So many confronting, confusing thoughts and emotions had been stirred to the surface of her cess-pool mind, gnawing, corroding the wretched soul underneath. Zahra had needed some time to think, to process the phenomenon which was his reincarnation; to adjust the basis of her understanding, to suit a whole new philosophy…

Perhaps it was hope, yearning and relief, sentiments that had been so lost in disease, that they were easily overlooked, undermined. 

The winged girl had slipped from his company into the breath of those swirling, unfeeling shadows, intending entirely to descend into the refuge of isolation. The decision had come easily for the coward; it meant running, abandoning the cold, complicated face of reality and hiding from all that penetrated her brittle exterior to wound and scar her inner psyche. What she had not expected, was the rude slap of guilt forced down upon her before the sound of her own drumming heartbeat had been given a chance to settle. 

She had left him there, weak (undeniably), vulnerable, without offering any insight into the unpredictable dangers that loomed beyond the face of that neon landscape - the breathing, walking forest and the intoxicating plants stretched beneath their towering arms, flesh-eating creatures and others whose strident screams turned the blood cold. Some small, stubborn piece of her, just couldn’t leave him to fall to the merciless hand of this treacherous world; she couldn’t let him die again. 

And so from a distance she followed, stalked, watched. 

As the time passed, they - he, seldom beyond the reach of her culpably attentive eye - descended still deeper into the bizarre contours of the rift, further even than she had been. There was a moment too when the resonating tone of her beloved sister’s voice rose above the turmoil in her mind to severe the ravelled web of noxious thought; ‘do not go on living…’ she'd murmured softly, weakly through their sickly, uncertain bond, ‘in the ashes of dead happiness.’ Ilham, ever the quiet mentor in her life (little Bird had been the brave), knew of, felt, and agonised over the torturous reunion, and sought to comfort as best she could. 

Together they began to weave, concealed well from view by large golden leaves and breathtaking, velvet-grey trunks, sowing through the sticky, sun-spared days and long sleepless nights; the tiny bark spider compelled her older sibling to learn a new pattern, one that delved beyond the superficiality of just skill.

When it was finished (perhaps hours, maybe even days later), meticulous and without flaw, Zahra stepped at last from the murk of that evergreen jungle, hoof sinking through the clingy caress of sand as she made a slow path down his beach. 

"Da?" She called softly, hesitantly, unsure whether the suddenness of her own appearance - now - would, in turn, be well received; never had she lashed out so brutally at another living soul and the fact that it had been her father that received the trueness of her hate, filled her all the more with shame. Those last hours had been spent too engrossed to follow his movement, and she wondered now, as wistful eyes drew a path both up and down the pale coast, whether her repentance had come too late…

Image
Note to Admin: Crafted: 1x tiny plush phoenix

Scratchy, waterlogged grains aim to inhale my every step; in an effort to avoid sinking into the impregnate floor, these churning feet learn expeditiously to press gingerly and without lapse.  Aside from the constant noise of water as it rushes inland (and the occasional, heart quickening wail beyond the outcrop) there is little disruption in the lumbering, uneasy silence. Yon drizzling, blue-green sky is absent the feathered things one might find along the sea-shore. I’d seen naught one screaming gull or puffin. Even the knife-like rocks -which jut from the water at random- are clear of crustaceans. Additionally, there have been no sightings (or trace) of anyone...familiar or otherwise. While my weary, unenthusiastic attention continues to inch evenly along the shale wall -- above me, the sky proceeds to weep larger goblets of sorrow and effectively hasten these efforts to find that elusive dimple in the rusted barricade. When at last, a bare juncture between opposing pinnacles is found, my jaded expression brightens. The overhang is barely deep enough to house someone pressed alongside the wall -- but it was (mostly) escaping the majority of these oppressive elements. The right half of my body settles against the rigid wall; pressing both feather and skin into the glossy, moisture laden surface. While heaven continues to drizzle beyond that shallow mouth, my fatigue accumulates…despite visible exhaustion, true sleep of any measure is hard to obtain. Since my impromptu arrival in purgatory...this flesh has desperately craved it… ---- I awake suddenly, hot…sticky. Bloodshot pupils are dish-shaped in their sunken nest; the horrid recollection which jarred me into awareness still lingers…a nightmare of slimy, alien feelers and yawning, crusted mouths. Needles of pain marathon down these numbing contours as my slumping body rights itself. Irises cast a wary glance along the vacant, misted shoreline – compulsions speculate that a bathe would relieve some measure of discomfort. Fringes emerge from their dank shelter resentfully and when at last I pull clear of the protrusion and step into the open…A choking lament of disbelief surges from these yawning brims. She (there is no mistaking that pale face and rivaling tinge) is here…ambling in my direction! Apprehension disrupts my melancholy expression and inspires the clammy follicles on my nape to erect. Ears incline warily. The lashing of our previous encounter throbs vulnerably. Sun-stained hollows return to their scabbard, hanging loosely against my sleek waist. Despite the conflict of emotions churning inside -- my compassion (even when torn and bled) is as inexhaustible as the salt beside us. Turbulent and protective. It unfurls, strengthening my paternal resolve. This neck uncurls, straining beneath the hash of unkempt thatch. These painted forelimbs churn with snail-like slowness; despite the will of my heart, the flesh is wary to rush headlong into another pass at consolidation...lest, those doubt warn, our intentions become opposing. "Hile," brims deliver softly as we near…irises pass gently over her expression; and what they find is kindling for my naive, tattered ambition. This humble, trembling muzzle extends – inhaling her potent essence and welcoming the child -- nay, woman -- beside me. “Walk with me?”

image credit

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

Torrid, remorseful tears are already bleeding from those downcast honeyed eyes when she stops before his beaten impression. Productive time has been spent in the days (surely), gone by, scouring the reservoir of faded, foggy memories, pursuing those which shed light on the relationship once held. Snippets, flashes of light and mirth – for a damp blanket of filth laid upon them - returned over time to soften her opinion and sever that loathing. Her felony was needless and unjust, and the expression now possessed, was riddled with that truth.

Shoulders rolled freely as each heavy step pulled her a little nearer, liberated in absence of the metal collar now adorning him, yet ironically burdened with all the more weight. The neck sprouting from their smoky-black midst was sunk low in submission, respect, and the gaunt-looking face (still, perhaps better familiar to him now), wore not the savage lines of that previous ill-temper; while miserable, there was a sudden soft openness, with ears set forward above, rather than flush against tangled mane.

Do not fear…

Though the warmth of her sister’s gesture was readily felt, Zahra could nary help the wrath of anticipation from trembling down through her core – she shook violently.

Without trace of contempt he came forward, covering the sloppy sand without the hesitation she’d expected; it only fuelled those frigid, cold nerves thrumming wickedly within. Did he not fear her? She did… Without a doubt the cold-hearted creature had proven her worth.

Eyes wandered across his bold black front from their dismal elevation, daring yet south of that endless golden gaze; there was perhaps a limp, hindering that fore, bruised sinew at the point of her brutal impact - she too suffered the aftermath, though worked hard to conceal burning hurt. He moved in slow motion and her tenacity began to waver as the seconds crawled by; too soon, her heart pounded, but Ilham hummed through her mind with ever steady confidence.  

Once… these, reunions, had been won with vigour and childish glee.

"Hi, Da…” Dull voice quivered out lifelessly from those whiskered, ebon lips.

He welcomed her without reservation, extending plush, warm maw and a fuller tone than before, so that she might too, extend her own; a test? The introvert moved boldly (for the empathy seldom ventured out from those dark prison confines), brushing against the realness of his skin tensely, timidly, for he was no ghost…

Wings clenched snug against lean, hot framework and she moved alongside him, walking, matching his similar stride without effort or regard. Chin swept unsurely to earth, grazing the silent sweep of salty sea as it rushed along the shore. "It’s…” she tried softly, demurely, striving for tenderness that had long been broken, "it’s no Hidden Falls…” A cheap, fleeting smile crossed her lips, but tears all the same, still pulsed from tired eyes. 

Image

Her haunting suggestion of a smile and damaged fortitude can’t help but summon an outbreak of quiet strength; vitality inflates, seeping into these anxious pores with a fresh spurt of masculine bravo… The lukewarm hearth of tenderness warmly flares with renewed empathy, nourishing that inherent desire to alleviate her obvious discomfort…and conceal any implication of my own.  “Aye,” brims murmur quietly in response… Mournful visions arise from their earthen graves. These forests beyond the skeletal, gargantuan trees and deteriorating crags are nothing like the untamed wood where vine laden curtains would filter tawny, dappled light in the coming dawn. Where glimmering particles of dust did glisten through an impossibly tangled overgrown canopy; lush, beautiful foliage accenting the moss-covered rocks beside clear fountains. The air (though saturated heavily) was sweet with life…fertility.   Delicious, thundering water – tumbling in a mighty cascade from dozens of points. This soul remembers…though the reflection has become overcast… those long, birdsong eves. Patrolling cliffs and crowded pathways for newcomers; bearing the weight of responsibility for our people in those valleys of lore and mist. My mind/heart fixed on the image of a lovely, grey skinned woman…who was nesting close by…our sweet child tucked beneath her flaming embrace. Molars labor in the back of my mouth; temples scrunch beneath the gravity of emerged ghosts and the sense of helplessness they provoke. My skin quivers, –in spite the humid, feverous environment—goose chills reinvigorate the damp quills. Restlessly, those sun-kissed feathers loosen and resettle against my waist. Irises ascend, glancing upward impulsively; keeping watch for trouble as we transverse, though our beach appears vacant. My family is scattered. Like dust in the wind. They have become specters or worse…a refugee in this…this, “Have you lived here…alone?” Aside from Zahra, I’ve seen no one that even remotely resembles our likeness; our kind is built for social interaction and without the adjacency of kinsman…tis safe to assume our minds would unravel, decaying over time. This brief sample of her world lends sympathy, I can’t imagine the pain and terror she has endured…the untold misery she is still enduring. This neck curls, angling in her direction – offering comfort with my proximity as she openly weeps…

image credit

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

Grooves, trenches left in wake of each step forward (progression in every possible respect), lay merely for moments before the hungry tide of water rumbled ashore to wash them away. Like them, it would have been so much easier to vanish into the aether and continue a miserable life unchecked and unbroken. Things had changed though, taken her by surprise - watercolour skies after the storm - and perhaps there was some small spark of hope pinging through the bleak chemical imbalance in her brain. Undoubtedly, the heart throbbing a nervous tempo beneath her breast felt it.

With nought but a show of grace and kindness to pillar her wobbly path to forgiveness (traits first startling, hardly unrecognised), he welcomed her white flag with a soft, validating voice. Her skin crawled uncomfortably, rivulets of sweat - both induced by nervousness and the sweltering air - irritated that dishevelled canvas, but his offering was just enough to smooth that sharp edge beneath her balance; not too little, not too much, and her skull ventured bravely in subliminal response from the dull sand to half-mast.

A moment of silence ensued and ticking thoughts merged to harass that puny scratch of confidence.

Still-damp feathers ruffled where they were pulled against bold ribs, and the tail slumped jadedly between turning hocks lifted to flick once… twice. The pastel eye nearest, turned quietly to scan that glossy forehand, his breast shoulder and even feather, all nestled properly around their long-missed companion; the collar never slid about as it always did her own body, it rested there, as though it belonged. A pensive sigh engorged her lungs, before her gaze again descended, distracted by the utterance of more words.

"Uh..."

The answer was easy - yes.

The swirl of thoughts within her head was not easy to wrangle (in truth they more easily spewed from those lips on their own accord, dry and derisive), and the golden-bellied girl was working hard to produce with some tact. After a moment, even pausing stride to centre her focus, she replied gingerly, quietly, "it's for the best..." She was so used to the consistency of her beloved bond that it didn’t occur to suggest that the little spider stood alongside.

"We…"  

In a startle of movement, black maw fumbled away, back into the cloak of feathers behind.

"We uh, made you this…"  

From the warm, dry depths she’d plucked a tiny gold-infused bird - silk, plush, stuffed with soft down of her own - tied to the stiff quill of a little orange feather - Ilham's touch, it was the right colour after all. Timidly, awkwardly, she placed the gift down upon its water-proof base where the sand looked to be less drenched. "It's… a Phoenix…" She added quickly, drawing back too quickly, in case the look of it failed to propose the fact.  

An emotional tempest broiled behind the flimsy facade of courage and she bit her lip with a furrowed brow, desperate to withhold it.

Image
Note to Admin: Gave Eleos 1x crafted phoenix and 1x feather of Fina's

Ashen brims smash into a grim, uneasy line… her ambiguous reply awards little in the way of insight. Additional questions fall upon the swelling heap of unspoken inquiries. She baits my curiosity, forsaking it to plead for clarity -for the stories she held in- but I don't have the boldness to press into those tender subjects which might upset our fragile balance. Instead, my paternal heart aims to offer comfort via the form of enduring silence. Though, when she speaks again…that bemusement can't help but spike higher; circling the word, ‘we’ like a famished scavenger. The plural definition wavers as my daughter disappears into a swath of peppered fibers. When she reemerges, these painted limbs curiously pause their momentum. Eyelids flinch apart, there was no mistaken the origin of the amber quill she places before me …Fina…her memory invokes a warm mix of adoration and grief. In my mind's eye, her flame laced arms are spread, arcing powerfully above her sun-fire engulfed expression. These coal stained lips quiver warily as they dip and brush with certain fondness against the plush edge of a fragile, silken wing. Tis no wonder she remembered…Fina adored children, the ember sired avian usually preferred their company over mine. “Fina,” vocals murmur, a soup of complex forlorn emotion, “you honor her.” Even though my bonded are safe from affliction and this horrible place…their guidance and comfort is sorely missed. “Thankee,” golden irises flick up, aiming to catch her eye. “She is beautiful…” With meticulous care, these lip slip across the breakable frame. Gently, they pull the precious bauble from those saturated granules and carry it backwards, twisting to place it beneath a protective swath of ivory hair and downy feather. “Who is the other that deserves my gratitude?”

image credit

Zahra & Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

Lost in the dankest, darkest recesses of Zahra’s seldom spoken subconscious, was hidden a myriad of stories and memoirs stemming from finer, brighter life-moments when she had been but a fat and taintless whelp under care of doting, loving parents. Many of these had been layered over by the filth and failure of the Starry-Eyed’s cold version of her own philosophy; cold truths and hard learnings which needn’t have become the reality of the pure hearted babe. Though there was effort made to conceal that suffering (at least sturdy enough to stand through those first few years of her life), the dying mare had promised her daughter a lifetime of confused, perverted memories, a history that was hardly her own, and a curse of cognitive dysfunction, imbalance. 

She stood there, upon the beach, confident to observe the queer painted man beside her while his attention was caught by the measly gift she had offered. 

It was a strange discomfort that swept through her; both resignation and resistance, for she remembered not a stallion so tall-looking or haggard. Of course, Zahra wanted to believe that this was her father, the Gallant, the conscionable warrior who instilled a love of prayer and heavenly faith in her heart; he who’s reputation shone with all of the radiance of a strong and fair leader, who she loved so dearly. This one, this skeleton, seemed not the same; there was something not right. There was a skeptical, hurt part within her - judging, and mistrustful - that wanted him to prove himself; to shake the earth beneath her feet or turn those lapping waves into gold. She wanted to see him rise from whatever squaller had impaired him, to stand broad and burly, like she knew he had been. 

Nevertheless, she hid on beneath a valid mask of thin-lipped remorse, and smiled quietly (for her intention, in that respect, had been very honest); in turn, the mysterious man murmured the word - the name - she had baited for, and a sliver of warmth carved its path into the icy relic of her soul. 

His gracious murmur ventured through the stagnant air stiff between them and his golden, depthless eye snared her own black-centred copy for a split second before it fled out to sea. "Aye..." she returned simply, softly, feeling the press of obligation more so than sociability. 

As the moments ticked by - while he collected the delicate craft from the sod, and stowed it as he wanted - Zahra strained to crack through the chaos of her past and discover some other tidbit that might assist their plight. It was meditation which never brought peace, and she preferred by all measure, to push the flood of suffering back into the corners out of sight; thankfully, his voice severed her concentration and she pulled back her distant eyes to examine his face. "Who?" she queried vaguely, unsure where or not her father had been alive to meet her beloved siblings. "Ilham," carefully, slowly, but the more she pressed the skewed memories from that time, the less inclined she felt, to believe that he had. "She came after…" 

Image

“Ilham?” I repeat quietly and since she wasn’t forthcoming in vivid details…intuition takes a tentative shot, “your companion?” query brows arch and whiskers quiver, flinging droplets of moisture from their length. Grumbling accusations wail their internal remorse; they flood my inquisitive side with the urge to find relief from swollen penitence. Disappointment wasn't a strong enough adjective to measure my sorrow for this...broken, twisted world. This isn't the life we envisioned for her. An inheritance of purgatory certainly wasn’t the legacy we pained to secure… The mystery of her life weighs heavily; how many years worth of stories? Fate has obviously skirted the traditional sense that eternity was to be our destined palaver ground; and despite how my reemergence into flesh has summoned further anguish...I'm selfishly unapologetic for stumbling on the curse of mortality. Beholding the child of our union with mortal eyes, sampling her damp fragrance on the arid breeze…tis breathtaking...additionally, there is much in that previous existence that begs closure. Irritably, my thoughts resist venturing further along those unexplored pathways...for the moment, they choose the less cluttered route…nar, a cowardly escape. “Where are the birds…?” that cast-off inquiry leads into further remarks which unveil an entirely different struggle…panic, “nothing here...is...” golden optics shift, angling to catch her within their scope, “familiar…” A fresh recollection of the toothy, humongous slugs reappear while my logical subconscious attempts to continuously rationalize our situation. It wasn’t just a habitat change, foreign plants and animals…nar...every living thing that walked in the woods, swam or flew below those gloomy, weeping clouds…they weren’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. “Zahra,” irises lift, imploring, “what have you learned of this place?” Aside from the obvious plague of perpetual rain; or how the native creatures wail at twilight…or that the oversaturated smog pulses like a heartbeat. Writhing and baring unseen fangs – draining lifeforce and magic. @Zahra

image credit