Post by lardydar on Oct 29, 2010 14:09:05 GMT
Nothing moves on the hill save me.
A red bale-wind all around, a dull ringing in my ears…
something came to pass here, something wrong,
something elemental and harsh.
The taste of blood is on my tongue, and it is not mine.
Susurrant breezes lift me from the earth
and the bruised sky is brought into my view.
My heart is breaking, I do not know why, and tears
spring unbidden down my untouched cheek.
I can feel the air, slice it with my movements –
it is thick with cries and blood.
Awake now, after seeming millennia, senses beset
by lost time and happenings,
things I should have seen,
would have heard,
could have prevented
for want of carnality and ferocious thirst.
I am out now, unlashed and spared.
As the white balance of red sky settles
the knolls of battered men display their
horror and anguish.
They pull me, not with hands but
with thoughts, pleas – to end the
tearing and gruesome pains of a demon’s
torturous grip.
There is no demon, it is gone, leaving this
waste and depravation in its wake,
a scarlet grin left hanging in the cupric air.
Purpose reaches me, claims me,
and I know I am meant for things.
There is work I must do,
souls I must free.
I wipe the saltwater from my face
and feed the silvermist from my eyes
to cover the dead circling me.
Sounds, movements – metallic and mournful –
crest the ridge behind me;
There is no sense of evil, of demon,
but a caged rage, wary and vengeful
seeping up my spine.
All my will is summoned, the silvermist
returns and wraps loops around my legs
lifting me in its soughing current.
The anger washing toward me tinges
with confused weariness, a wish for
this to end, an end of war, an end of fury,
an end of travail and misery.
It is him. He is here.
My animus, my crux.
My lord.
I turn, he disarms in all ways.
Oh lord –
how long you have known and not known.
I carried you, swathed you,
warmed you, harboured you –
and your father,
your father’s father,
his father’s father -
until demonic and lithe
hands stole me away
turning me to flame-eyed,
furnace-breathed agony
and destruction.
More metal and maniac sweep
catlike toward me, twisted
rancour and grief pushing
steel against flesh.
Not a threat, more a needling
pinprick irritation and the ice-blast of
my silvermist dismisses the
commonplace blade.
Its swift dissipation means
my lord sees me, truly – an old fear
creeping stealthy and not unloved
into the steely, confounded eyes.
Summoning the ages’ memories,
tales, trials and loves, through a
touch I show him peace, my lord,
my soul and all, show him what the
world can be, will be, with me again.
Seeing, not seeing, my lord begs who,
pleads what, am I - this form, this siren –
this love of ages who has held him fast
to his world without his knowledge;
a tie so mighty no blood-borne, rock-hewn
demon could ever wrench it asunder
and the Heavens have mercy on any
who may dare to show their wrath
against my lord, my wielder, my love.
Can you truly not know?
The time for killing will end, believe me.
But there are still more who must know
their transgressions.
We have much to do in your
family’s name.
You are Deathbringer…
I am Widowmaker.
My flame reflected in him,
silvermist rushes to us and
engulfs his disbelief with a
soft, true and blissful kiss
as I lift his tired and
wondrous eyes to mine –
he is my lord,
I am his sword -
I am Isileth.
This is something I wrote after re-reading the Peter Morwood Book of Years series. First read it when I was about 15, and it's stayed with me ever since. Bloody loved it.
A red bale-wind all around, a dull ringing in my ears…
something came to pass here, something wrong,
something elemental and harsh.
The taste of blood is on my tongue, and it is not mine.
Susurrant breezes lift me from the earth
and the bruised sky is brought into my view.
My heart is breaking, I do not know why, and tears
spring unbidden down my untouched cheek.
I can feel the air, slice it with my movements –
it is thick with cries and blood.
Awake now, after seeming millennia, senses beset
by lost time and happenings,
things I should have seen,
would have heard,
could have prevented
for want of carnality and ferocious thirst.
I am out now, unlashed and spared.
As the white balance of red sky settles
the knolls of battered men display their
horror and anguish.
They pull me, not with hands but
with thoughts, pleas – to end the
tearing and gruesome pains of a demon’s
torturous grip.
There is no demon, it is gone, leaving this
waste and depravation in its wake,
a scarlet grin left hanging in the cupric air.
Purpose reaches me, claims me,
and I know I am meant for things.
There is work I must do,
souls I must free.
I wipe the saltwater from my face
and feed the silvermist from my eyes
to cover the dead circling me.
Sounds, movements – metallic and mournful –
crest the ridge behind me;
There is no sense of evil, of demon,
but a caged rage, wary and vengeful
seeping up my spine.
All my will is summoned, the silvermist
returns and wraps loops around my legs
lifting me in its soughing current.
The anger washing toward me tinges
with confused weariness, a wish for
this to end, an end of war, an end of fury,
an end of travail and misery.
It is him. He is here.
My animus, my crux.
My lord.
I turn, he disarms in all ways.
Oh lord –
how long you have known and not known.
I carried you, swathed you,
warmed you, harboured you –
and your father,
your father’s father,
his father’s father -
until demonic and lithe
hands stole me away
turning me to flame-eyed,
furnace-breathed agony
and destruction.
More metal and maniac sweep
catlike toward me, twisted
rancour and grief pushing
steel against flesh.
Not a threat, more a needling
pinprick irritation and the ice-blast of
my silvermist dismisses the
commonplace blade.
Its swift dissipation means
my lord sees me, truly – an old fear
creeping stealthy and not unloved
into the steely, confounded eyes.
Summoning the ages’ memories,
tales, trials and loves, through a
touch I show him peace, my lord,
my soul and all, show him what the
world can be, will be, with me again.
Seeing, not seeing, my lord begs who,
pleads what, am I - this form, this siren –
this love of ages who has held him fast
to his world without his knowledge;
a tie so mighty no blood-borne, rock-hewn
demon could ever wrench it asunder
and the Heavens have mercy on any
who may dare to show their wrath
against my lord, my wielder, my love.
Can you truly not know?
The time for killing will end, believe me.
But there are still more who must know
their transgressions.
We have much to do in your
family’s name.
You are Deathbringer…
I am Widowmaker.
My flame reflected in him,
silvermist rushes to us and
engulfs his disbelief with a
soft, true and blissful kiss
as I lift his tired and
wondrous eyes to mine –
he is my lord,
I am his sword -
I am Isileth.
This is something I wrote after re-reading the Peter Morwood Book of Years series. First read it when I was about 15, and it's stayed with me ever since. Bloody loved it.
