There's a collection of black birthmarks on my skin, splotches my mind wove as my soul fashioned its new, updated cocoon. Guess the last thing on it were stab wounds.
It's a weird thing, remembering the woman that I was, in a world where sorcery worked. Where words didn't need the medium of silicon and wires to make changes in reality. One could speak murder so long as one had breath enough to shape speech with their tongue.
Is this worse? Not necessarily. There are no dragons here, no vampire royals hunting peasants on the moonless night.
Living without magic seems like a fair trade, to be able make it to seventeen this time around.
And honestly? Between you and me? Having man bits is weirder than not being able to fly.
1. Loki's was a chaos dependent on the consistency of others. Yet the winds of time and change showed him new futures in bloom offering the scent of nascent possibilities and unforeseen betrayal:
2. They showed his wife leaving, walking away from his bound form, serpent venom free to drip into the caskets of his sockets, burning down to the hollows past the pupil darkness no longer curtained by his eyes, boring into divine gray matter but still he will not die and so must scream and scream for the eons between foretold capture and predetermined release, begging his own Being forcibly calcified into flesh to deliver him from agony to hallucination:
3. Screaming as he, Hero he was always meant to be, all the sniveling of Trickster archetype sloughed off, charging with giants of bathed in auras of Winter or Flame, hammer blows drowned by the howling of Fenris and Garm, meeting his end as Martyr murdered amidst the iridescent shards of a shattered Bifrost -
2. Yet those dreams are few are between, godhood has made him too strong to slip the leash of this hallucinated Present, and so he must scream until, hoarse only when the pitch of his voice has hammered cracks into surrounding stone, he tastes the blood in his throat -
1. He turns from the churning prophecies, and queries his heart, finding a hate that is as inexplicable in its depth as it is inexorable in its targeting of the Aesir. It troubles him that his Chaos is pinned down like a butterfly on velvet even as it soothes him. He is an actor on the Norn Sisters' stage, caught on a current plunging over a cliff. He is and was always bound, and what was his life if not a series of snakebites?
0. "Ragnarok", he whispers, in the way a man speaks on the way to visit a lover long-absent from the embrace of his arms.
A flash of flush ruby light, as if sunset has been poured through his pupils down into his retina. All senses are swallowed by the intensity of that consuming glare. He is a man struck deaf and dumb by the light.
A moment later redness fades and the snow driven darkness of night reforms, the miniscule flakes of ice settling on previously unexposed swaths of flesh.
The redness remains, and for a moment his addled mind thinks it is blood.
Relief then, to realize it is cloth, the vestments of his station. He stands, gathering his bearings, eyes flicking to the corpses of polar bear lycanthropes.
Ambushed in Elysium, so close to his home? And then awareness risen from stupor brings nightmares, as he watches the bestial figures retract into the lithe, almost childlike corpses of the long indentured Sidhe.
Just as he feared. Traitors amongst the Toymakers.
A red will o' wisp, nuzzling his torn and bleeding arm.
Rudolph. He recalls when the majestic figure before him, the very warrior who cleaved his enemies with a natural weapon of light, was a scrawny fawn rejected by the rest of his herd.
The stag is right. This is no time for woes or worries.
It's the Eve of Yule, and the childhood hopes of a thousand thousand worlds await to be fulfilled.
Enjoy this life, Archenemy of Mine,
as the Norns say the final reckoning approaches,
when you and I will at last meet on a vast plain of wolf's fur,
striding toward battle on a lupine corpse so grand its jaws could swallow the sun...
Dozens of small creatures shuffle across the Abyssal tundra on stubby but fast-moving legs. Covered in curly brown fur and bearing expressions of happily dazed wonderment, they could be a pack of childrens' playthings but for the sawtooth fangs that fill their gaping jaws. A sudden blizzard sweeps over the landscape, but the pack holds its ground with quiet determination. When the storm subsides, they are no longer alone. Towering over them is a great beast of snow and stringy white fur. It howls a blistering greeting of dominance and landslides erupt on far-away prime worlds.
Dozens of small creatures shuffle across the rolling Arcadian hills on stubby but fast-moving legs. Covered in curly brown fur and with expressions of happily dazed wonderment, they could be a pack of childrens' playthings but for the sawtooth fangs that fill their gaping jaws. The giant unicorn had been following them for some time and the determined little creatures might not have noticed it at all had the gleaming beast not given itself away with a single delighted chuckle.
Across planes and planets, countless identical creatures speak as one.
"You are very large."
On an unremarkable prime world, sleepy priests jump to attention and begin scribbling, feverishly capturing every nuance of content, inflection, and tone coming from a pit where seven of the odd creatures wander in lazy circles.
The great snow beast roars as if caught in a trap in reply, but its snarling jaws betray a grin - these traveling creatures smell nothing of delicious, delicious fear, and would amount to little more than a garnish anyway.
The duruch'i-lin fills the air with musical laughter. "I'm certain you are large of heart, my curious little friends. I am Usajii. Welcome to Abellio. You have been walking for so long. Will your travels permit you a respite for food and fellowship?"
"Hungry Hungry Hungry!" exclaim the creatures.
Priests hand off pages of parchment covered in text and symbols to acolytes, who rush them to sages for analysis.
The Abyssal snow monster's grin widens as it gestures towards a rock face, where the blizzard has revealed a shimmering, hazy portal. Frolicking halflings and pseudodragons are barely visible on the other side.
"Wonderful! Then rest your tired legs while I make us a picnic of the best leaves in the forest," Usajii replies before flying into the treetops.
"Let's eat," announce the creatures.
Acolytes rain fruit and bread down into the pit as the priests add precious new pages to their holy book.
Golems made from garbage, wasp swarms resistant to pressure and force, a rain of bacon shards.
These are the messes he leaves me, things to be cleared up with the locals.
Games he plays, to slow down the inevitable passage of my knife through his heart.
The farther from the Center we go, the more ambitious he'll get. Everything's so...malleable out here. It's been awhile since I could see the silver sphere of Order, but now I can't even taste its battery tickle on the surface of my tongue.
I look back and see a the corpses of giant wolf-spiders, their flesh rotting to reveal an internal scaffolding made of something resembling cartilage. I look forward, toward my brother, and see indigo thunderheads stretched across the horizon.
The wind delivers his invitation, carrying the scent of tree sap and wet dog.
My brother has left all glory to me, taking the role of villain for himself. Even before he comes they know him for the Devil, for it is he who tell-warns them in their dreams. He steps through their towns, their cities, their villages, bruising reality before passing on.
Each time, I am the Savior he prophesies. I have saved children I could never have, men and women who I could never love. Each time he gifts me new forms of happiness, new lives to slip into. Harems, hometowns, sacrificial altars and even normal lives where I could act with an invisible hand.
I approximate the pre-damaged physical and metaphysical, best as I can, trying to heal reality before I move on. Children call out my name, begging me to stay. "Come back, come back!" they cry.
One night stands curse me or ignore me or weep into the wind.
This time, I don't even engage. If I take these people out of their hardened syrup prisons, if I heal their exsanguinated sky scraping trees, all of them will die. I don't have energy to waste on resurrections, so I bear witness to my brother's ingenuity and quickly move on.
The Wolf Wave crashes around me, a thousand jaws snapping at me as two thousand baleful yellow eyes bear witness. Fangs break on skin as hard as diamond, flame radiates outward from my sternum, blazing out of every orifice.
I burn and burn and the smoke of singed fur and cooked flesh fills the air but still the Wolf Wave scratches its claws against my now naked skin. Gold thread rags lie at my feet for a moment, then melt into scattering aurum rivulets.
Snarls and howls and whimpers fill my days, I am star blazing under the depths of a lupine ocean.
When its over, all that remains is a single cub, just old enough to walk.
I keep to my path, feet upon a bridge of ice i craft from the falling ink rain. The animal chases after me.
It's full grown paw prints stain the grass on the Other Side of the chasm, while my own steps leave no trace at all. (I am an Ouroboros, I feed on my history.)
I stop and look back, and the animal stops and returns my inquisitive gaze. I take a few steps forward and it mirrors this action. A companion for my quest then.
I keep to my path, and the animal follows, unable to see the smile on my face.
The path of my knife does not veer, but it's nice to know my brother still loves me.
To be king you must be wise, and strong, and courageous. You must be worthy of all this luxury.
These are the words his mother, The Rose-Handed Queen, had told her eldest son even before he could walk, even before he knew what the words meant. "Courage", "Strength", "Wisdom" - each taught definition brought on recognition, and he could actually remember the weight of learning each one.
Yet sometimes strength is not enough, and wisdom must be forsaken so that others will rally around your strength.
And that is how the Queen's third son ending up taking the throne. Conceived rather late, and from the loins of a concubine no less, the third son of the beloved Rose-Handed Lady of Quall had learned little of wisdom or strength due to being weaned on bitterness and neglect.
Courage was a by-word for force in his mind.
What the rule of Liam would be bring the Empire, the once loquacious street augurs smiled wanly then murmured that the omens were silent and our future was our own to determine.
Of his eldest brother, his body was lost on the contested Northern border. All scrolls with his name were burned, all statues struck down, all paintings too beautiful to destroy were "corrected" to depict the face of Liam where his brother's once was. Of his second brother, who stood up to the third child of the Queen, there was at least some physical remnant.
This remnant was a discoloration upon the white tiles of the throne room, just under the statue of the nation's Rose-Handed Lady, dressed in simple robe of white jade and a scarf of rose quartz. There was a stain where the son had keeled, looking into eyes of his now divine Mother, marking the place where her second son had prayed for his life and his kingdom. And it was the exact colour of her scarf.
Sparrows squabbled over mates on the rooftop, oblivious to the dying woman on the other side of their roof tile arenas.
The vehemence of the competing males caused this soon-to-be-corpse to raise her eyes to the ceiling, an action that would later be misinterpreted by her attending grand^5-children as their mother making peace with God, a figure who their mother had had her own rather public squabbles with via the Lord's intermediaries more inclined to death and aging themselves.
The truth of the matter was the woman's blurred gaze in truth looked through the lens of memory, piercing through not just the roof but the blue veil of sky and grey shaded shell of the moon.
(Again, keep in mind that she looked into her own past, and thus realize that there is no need to point out - with the snide cleverness so popular among those who think themselves clever - that even had she been in possession of far more powerful eyes her line of sight would have failed to touch that natural satellite which was at the time illuminating the other side of the world.)
It was in the lunar caverns of that rock pinched off from earth by an Artist or perhaps Mere Causality in Earth's fetal era that she'd contracted the disease that was both fatal and life prolonging, the illness that carries its victims through centuries yet invariably kills them. The illness that put paid to the cheeky aphorism that had never rung true to her ears: Death always comes as a stranger.
Your sigh is lush, dew-drenched grass that I have never walked through.
Your skin, on my skin, is that cool breath of evening I have longed for in twilight.
The taste of these wrists that I'm kissing?
Close kin to honeysuckle, coaxed into bloom by a springtime that I have never known.
The earth parts literally mountainous thighs, peaks leaning in opposite directions, the valley between them yawning chasm wide.
The heat is too much to draw analogies to the blood warmth of a human mother, and the stark distance between mortal and Gaia is revealed in the plumes of smoke, and the crowning head covered with lava drenched scales.
"This", I say to my son as we watch from the safety of a metal deck floating in the starry void, "is how Cosmic Dragons are born."
Standing with the other slaves, he watches the demons ravage everything on the other side of the palace moat, everything not circumscribed by that sacrosanct lake.
He thinks of how he strangled the man who was Chosen, choked the life out of the Empire's salvation.
His lover is a step ahead of him, allowing him to see the grooves, veritable canyons, askew stripes laid out on the younger man's back.
The elder man is strangely at peace with the decisions he made.
He sits there, in quiet meditation, holding onto the reins of the planet's Weave, the ley lines on which history hinges.
Holding them as tightly as he can, with the thousands of others across the world, ensuring that none may break the fragile peace. Someday, he is sure, one faction will falter and myths will once again rise to devour the soft bodies which house all human souls.
Meanwhile, those ignorant of this titanic tug-of-war go about their tiny lives, a few believing that magic died long ago but most doubting that it ever was.
Alone and unloved, bereft of any memory of his pups having once given the moon and sun a run for their money, foresaken by his father, Fenris breathes his last in an animal shelter's gas chamber.
I feel relief at the aversion of Ragnarok, even as I cry for the passing of Myth.
Where my tears fall, silvery dandelions will grow but be quickly weeded from the cracks in the asphalt, their coloration all but unnoticed.
Where have all the dragons gone? Their eggs were stolen away as delicacies, their bones were ground down into medicine.
Where have all the unicorns gone? Their heads were mounted in the throne rooms of emperors, their horns were shorn off for our medicine.
Where have all the phoenixes gone? Apparently resurrection has a limit, when you try to mass produce a body whose parts can be made into all sorts of medicine.
The world is dry and mundane now, and we still haven't healed the sickness that requires a different kind of cure.
When its brethren dig themselves out and going looking for brains, the pacifist zombie stays under the earth.
Eventually, starved, it dies a second time.
Its hunger strike goes unnoticed by its brethren.
There's blood on the carpet, sweet teeth on the floor
Blood of two hard bashers who broke in looking to score
Two battered berks who didn't count on a harder Hardhead
Running the Hive Ward's new candy store
Eros's arrow struck deeper and wider than is usual for that power's domain. I realize that now, watching you teach and tend to the children in your orphanage on the rim of the Outlands, under the protection of guardinal missionaries, just outside the reach of the Blood Wars. Those deep crowsfeet are proof of all your sleepless nights, proof of all your compassion.
You are my shepherd, when you take me inside yourself, you make me Whole, and I have no need for any other savior.
By loving you, I have learned to love the Multiverse entire.
As the elves walked into our world, I bowed before their Queen who raised me up and then struck me hard enough to split the right corner of my upper lip.
"You've brought Magic back into this world. Our kind nearly extinguished ourselves so you could live apart from all the nightmares, all the horrors of the Spirit. Why have you done this?"
I bowed my head and answered.
"Because all Meaning is threatened, and the science you gave us makes corpses of our dreams..."
Quetzacoatl, He who once ruled over a Dream Time Maztica in a forgotten reflection of Toril, sails away from His homeland, turning back only once to look the sky. The smoke from the fires has risen up into a sneering face that takes on a reflective quality, a tarnished silver haze that mirrors the ruin below it, the razing being done in Tezcatlipoca's name.
One day, Quetzacoatl promises Himself, he will return, a living god reincarnated through the ages.
He prays, to what or who He does not know. But still He prays for Memory, prays He doesn't forget who He is.
I grasp the hilt, and remember the woad stained madman who came to my farm three days ago.
Anyone, he promised me, anyone can be king if they have the heart for it.
I think of glory, and nothing happens. The blade stays within in its womb of stone. Jeers tell the pig herding, bucktoothed girl to step aside.
I think of my name echoed through the ages, and still the blade shows no sign of being unsheathed. Some rotten vegetable strikes my head and bursts against my teenage acne.
I think of my family, our land caught between two warring chieftains. I think of children staring at burned down homes, of women used as pleasure for men. I think of my own stolen virginity.
Tears run from my eyes. I hear the brutish laughter of men and the dam breaks in my memory...
Goddess, I just wish for peace, and a land where people like me don't have to hate themselves anymore.
Finally I hear the scrape of a whisper, and the sword's weight lightens as if it were a pail with water leaking out of the bottom....
Alone at the core of the world, the dragon sleeps. Once it burned the countryside, and made sport of human lives.
Now it is older, and wiser, and promises itself it will be slain by a hero worthy of the name, a leader of nations who numbers among the best of them.
Still it sleeps, for the best of us have yet to take the reigns of power.
The giants are the mountains, the dryads reincarnated through generations of acorns and twirling maple seeds, the sea serpents the ocean currents that wind around the world.
Dare I open the gate for the Elves? Dare I wake the Magic that slumbers in the folds of Earth's bones and veins?
I look back at the factory belching smoke, I think of the silos full of missiles and all the victims of cruelty who are told there is no such thing as salvation.
Raise the rune stone up to catch the first rays of red twilight bleeding on the fields. I feel the Veil begin to strain, but lower my hand before it tears.
I just don't know. I just don't know if I can do this, or if I should.
Why was it put on my shoulders, to play midwife to the Ending that is the Return?
God's blood on the soil packed on a serpent's coil, this is how a world is born.
Ice melted by dragon fire, watering crops called up by a song wed to the lyre, this is how a world is made.
Hearts offered up to the Sun, harvested from survivors when the war is won...this is how the world is sustained.
A dragon's shadow passes above us. I pray.
A siren sings in a public pool, threatening to lure our youngsters away. I pray.
Teenagers in basements have become alchemists, supplying gangs with wasted healing and weapons of war. I pray.
Magic has returned to the world...but the gods?
The gods are still silent.
Ever since the return of Magic to the world, I find the landscape reshaped when I awaken.
Stone turns to mist, revealing palaces lit by will o' wisp swarms.
Oceans recede, and great mansions of coral rise from reefs long bereft of arcana.
Shadows flicker and grow watchful, loyalty to their makers no longer guaranteed.
It is as if all of human history since the leaving of the Elves was Winter, and now we are greeted by the vibrancy of a new and terrifying Spring.
The Time Lost (A variation of the Feywild version here.)
Hermits and pilgrims of sundered timelines, expatriates literally bereft of their pasts, the Time Lost come to wandering demiplane of Titania in hopes of finding glimmers of their erased civilizations and histories. Some desperately seeking a way to retrieve at least a few loved ones, if not their entire societies, from the alterations in the flow of Time. Others simply come to bask in memories and ghostly recreations of what they've come to accept that can or at least should not seek to recover.
Among the Time Lost, the Le Shay are readily welcomed into the societies of the fey given their relation to both elves and fey. However, the relationship between these beings and the Seelie Court varies as many of the wizened fey are wary of those Le Shay seeking to undo the event that replaced their past with the current timeline of the Multiverse.
Similarly, other Time Lost have varied relationships with the Seelie, though non-Le Shay oftentimes end up being utilized as pawns or indentured servants strung along with promises of resurrecting loved ones lost to shifts in the temporal currents. The more powerful of these are left largely to their own devices, and end up as hermits - or if their numbers are sufficient, settlers - in areas of Fairyland watched over by minor nobility who enjoy being the center of attention and perhaps even scandalous worship
The way they walk through Sigil, demon and angel alike, I can't help look askance at them and the viscous current of crowded bodies that parts then seals itself around their winged forms.
All around them are beings from varied worlds and planes, in all sorts of garb conversing in all sorts of languages. Are Heaven and the Abyss filled with such Gnosis that both seem so inured to the wondrous diversity?
I admit I am but a humble chronicler, yet I am older and more...ubiquitous than either member of this pair that has drawn my inquiry and critique. Still I find myself surprised by the sensory feast offered on every block of the Cage's streets. How, then, can I accept that these two are so nonchalant at the wonder around them?
Yet let it not be said that I am any less disappointed in those who bustle around them. Yes you are late for work and yes you are on your way to meet your lady love, but do you not see that Evil and Good are treading upon the very ground you walk on? That you breathe air that has cycled through the lungs of morals made flesh?
And is it not worth an intermission in your dullard existence to acknowledge the subtle glance that flashes between them as they pass by one another, each clearly made uncomfortable by this unintended revival of memory? Don't you wonder if perhaps here is an angel almost fallen, along with a succubus who was, at some point past, a thin cliff's edge from being saved?
Me? I'm just glad that of all the places in the Multiverse it is this one that I haunt, I thank all the gods that I was mugged and murdered in the Hive instead of some Prime back alley...
Ice coats the trees in crystalline garb, the wind making every creaking branch into a tinkling chime.
It was like this every Winter, even before Magic returned. Even before I ended the world.
But now, with the accompaniment of the elves and their avian wails of mourning, it feels more fitting.
A proper dirge for passing modernity.
"So there are spirits...where? On the other side of the sky? We already got pipes out - take out some of your peyote or whatever and let's all have a puff. I wanna see all these genies and fey."
The words are already dusted with slurs, and the sun has yet to surrender the sky.
"I can't take you", I say as I gesture toward his glass of whiskey.
"You're already possessed by a demon."
Instead of getting angry he takes the admonishment with a semblance of graceful resignation, and that more than anything extends the jagged crack in the acre of heart I reserve for this man.
When it appears in the center of the pentacle, the incubus is too youthful, too strong, too gorgeous.
He doesn't look anything like you.
When I take him to bed he is thin, fragile, mere wisps of hair rise from the top of his age spotted crown.
This is madness, this magic, but I can't imagine Lathander will damn me for loving you so much that I can't let you go.
We look at the corpse of Our Maker, and wonder at the enormity of Our sin.
Patricide of not of a, but *the* Father.
The First Giant, the First living thing born from fire and poison. How long did Ymir sit in His loneliness, how long before His need for love summoned Us into being?
Odin's sigh breaks Our reverie. And when He commands We, echoes that We are, begin to carve.
First murderers, now butchers.
With Our crimes We make the World.
I grab the back of his neck and pull him kissing close. I bite his neck, ignoring the fists that hammer my face, my head, the force with which he pushes away from me.
Where bruises should appear there is nothing but the slightest darkening of my alabaster skin, and even that vanishes as I feed.
When I let go he falls to the floor, sobbing, forcing breath slowly through what must feel like clay in his lungs.
Until their turn comes, the cattle never understand - we take so much more from you than blood. Only the kissed can know what it means to endure Us.
When he looks up I see a remnant of the man I knew but an hour before.
Unfortunate, but necessary. Sometimes the injuries we sustain can only be cured by the bloodlines that spawned us.
Thankfully this retarded thing wheezing at lost comprehension is no longer the boy I sired before turning, thankfully this cattle bears no resemblance to the man I called son.
The centipede uncoils
Walks itself into a hang man's noose
I almost crushed it with my foot
Rushing to the temple where you were born
We roasted your placenta with rosemary and myrrh
Devoured it with the relish of parents wanting to be done with ceremony
Suppressing our impatience in hopes it might go unnoticed by the gods
But our eagerness and impiety burned bright enough to be seen from the stars
-Inscription in a Mausoleum
Vac is the Bovine, She is the Word, the spark of creation retrieved by Indra at the behest of the Brahmins.
She is the cows, the cattle of Logos, awaiting the Vedic gods in the Void.
How did She come to be there, in the watery blackness of the Cosmic Ocean?
I led Her through the eye of the needle, the wormhole, the livestock of the Sun that I enchanted with my pipes and drew into a cave, a universe encompassed by stone made by the beating heart of the World.
Gods tricked into quests with no resolution - how does the Divine murder Chaos?
Gods tricked into fighting each other - how does Fire defeat the Wave?
A graveyard of gods is his gift to Mankind.
Finally Trickster appears, holding no tablets and offering no blessing save for the knife that he plunges into his own sidereal Heart.
"Now", he says with a bitter, wry smile, "now You are Free."
I was an elf in a past life. I know this like one knows mathematical truth, but there's no way to prove it.
I meet others sort of like me - Some say they were dragons, some say they were animals, and a few say their lives inspired everything from ancient scripture to modern cartoons.
I don't know if I believe all of them, or if all of them believe me.
But how can I deny their truth, when the truth I feel in my marrow has no proof?
And so here we are, together, a family of believers forced to accept beliefs not their own, biting our tongues lest someone pierce our own faith with arrows of doubt.
There's blood under my fingernails.
I raise my hand to my lips but my second mother slaps it back down. Her fangs are bared and slow fading human instinct causes me to recoil but I draw closer when I see the hurt in her face.
After a few minutes of quiet, the vast desert trampled by wheels and hoof beats, she speaks.
"We've 500 miles to go and we can only travel by night through this wasteland. Save it for later baby."
Keeping her eyes on the road, the same hand that slapped mine away squeezes my knee with a gentleness that floats between sexual and maternal.
"Save it for later okay? The horses can only give so much."
The moon was made of cheese, for 600 years during the time of the aboleths....
If I can believe, I can make peace with my family. If I can believe, I will be saved.
Why Pelor? Why do I doubt your holy revelations? I kneel before your altar, I fast, I take up the scourge against this rebellious shell...
My hands are a vice locked tightly 'round my brother's throat, my weight keeping his youthful locks below the surface of the river.
I'm wild with rage, and so at first I don't know notice the smile on the face of my wife's murderer.
He's laughing. Under the water, he's laughing as he dies.
He knows the kinslayer is damned deeper than a man who kills a woman who doesn't share his blood.
I should let go, I should save myself, but when my fingers begin to slacken I hear my lover's laughter, see the tear worn eyes of my children.
My hands are a vice, locked tightly 'round my soul....
Grandmother grabs my arm just as I stand up from her bedside.
"You think they are rebels, that they offer freedoms long denied to...ones such as you.
I know you have it hard, but I beg you to see - the demons won't stop with our bigotries.
They'll drag it all down and dance in the ruins. Can you see that? Can you wait a little longer for freedom?"
How did she know? How long had she known the secrets in my blood?
I want to sneer, to cry, to ask questions and to lecture. To tell her what it's like to drown every gods damnd day of your life. When my lips part I could almost believe fire would pass between them...but then nothing.
No fire. Not even words are carried on the back of my exhalation.
An invisible stone is lodged in my throat and it is all I can do to breathe, let alone speak.
Instead, as tears fall from my eyes I take her hand in mine as I lie with a nod and a smile.
Inside they are as beautiful in the fallen world as they were on the other side of the Veil, their souls still shine with unseen light....
I loved them, I remember loving them, I want to love them here....but their flesh....it's as human as mine.
Once upon a time their beauty would have upturned the air from your lungs.