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Every Shadow Burns My Face
- Thread starter malins
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malins
Stumbling Seeker
Hmmm... there are many... but looking for 'root causes',
http://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/every-shadow-burns-my-face.5113/page-5#post-234135
Gosh, I wish I was able to write in German as you can in English!Thanks for the comments!
About writing in English vs. German, I've been writing all of this story in English from the start, there's in fact not any part of it at all that I'd written in german first and then translated. For some reason I'm finding it easier to write something like this in English than in German. This is probably because I'd be too censoring of it in German, while in English I care less. I can just go and mangle the language!
Hmm, the condition of her prior existence would probably make anyone somewhat timid in interacting with the world on her own. As for the rest, I'll be writing a bit more of her, and then there'll be other characters to (re) visit...
Anyway, a question to my small circle of faithful readers here. Sometimes I don't know if I'm overdoing it with hints, or on the other hand whether I'm assuming people are fanatical followers of the twisted plot and maybe I should be more direct. In Anrirathu's recollections of her past there's always a 'you' and a 'He'. Everybody knows who they are?
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Blind Sculptor (4)
“Ow ow ow! What are you doing? That hurts!”
“Dunderhead! It doesn’t just come off like that!” cawed another voice.
“Sorry. I have to dig a bit deeper. See what is underneath. That’s not really part of you, is it?”, said the sculptor.
“Ahhh come on she told you, didn’t she?” - the second voice again. “It’s the congealed spit of the Devil himself! Phlegm he hawked up and acid from his stomach, and the remains of whatever he wolfed down just before! Of course it isn’t part of her! She’s...”
“Don't say it, I know”, said the sculptor. “There, I can… Ah. I Now I have you. Oh that old saw about what's just skin deep. No, it goes down to the bone. "
"Now look up. Pretend it’s your face against the wind. Yes, just like that. There.”
Sister Noiramas had stayed outside of the chamber.
This was between the two of them, Anrirathu and the Blind Sculptor.
No, … the three of them.
You almost couldn’t help but think of the sculptor as one person with two heads.
His crippled wife was literally always looking over his shoulder, as most of the time he carried her on his back.
And anyway, two heads were better than one, she would point out.
The two of them seemed only a full person when together, and she wondered for how long in a day it was that he ever put her down.
In fact, they had never been joined in marriage by any ceremony.
Despite all her respect for the sacraments and the right order of things, one would have to admit they were so obviously made for each other by the Gods that any act of priest would only seem a mockery.
The two of them seemed only a full person when together.
Apart, each of them would only be half a person, or less.
Barely capable of life.
It hadn’t been anything from out of Doctrine that had guided her to bring Anrirathu to this strange and wondrous retreat in the woods - where the blind saw with their hands, and someone walked about with two heads and five limbs.
Now she understood it had been that Anrirathu was just that, a half of a person, split in two by a cruel blow, desperately seeking what would make her whole again.
A half-life lived in the dark, a hope crushed by the curse of turning into another soul's torment if she ended her own.
The chamber inside the sculptor's rickety house was darkened for the sake of Anrirathu, and just to make sure, the woman on his back was blindfolded.
Of course she had had plenty to say about that.
But no more mistakes like before.
And the sculptor saw with his hands, and Anrirathu could reveal herself in that safety.
“Who would do this, and why”, the Blind Sculptor asked.
Now, Anrirathu was whispering.
The sculptor remained silent as he explored the landscape of her face, committing it to memory.
It was only the… the other head that she heard talking now.
With pauses between, and Anrirathu’s low whispers, wordless to her ears.
Perhaps it was for the best, Sister Noiramas thought, that I can’t make out her words.
Because she’s confessing, but these truths were not for her ears.
Anrirathu let them flow out as soon as the sculptor had his hands on her, and found her true face.
But she couldn’t help hearing what the sculptor’s crippled wife said, in that dark chamber, where Anrirathu was safe, and her secrets were touched upon by one who, finally, could see her, and, it seemed, she let them out with abandon.
“So it was the two of you?”
“Now that sounds nasty. Nasty and sneaky.”
“Yes, I see it would have been … her idea. But she couldn’t do it?”
“Because he’d never seen you? I don’t understand. Unless you… you’re a bit like me. “
“All I have to do is pull my head in and a lot of people wouldn’t see me at all!”
“Oh. You let her do that all those years? To protect you? And then you did that? To protect her?”
“Oh my.”
“What they say, the worst way to go … that’s getting broken on the wheel or crucified. It takes so long, every part hurts, and it unsouls you. Getting burned up quick in a big fire wouldn’t be anything close. But that, that’s pretty close to it.”
“Lying there for a day and a night with every limb broken. Nasty nasty thing leaving someone like that. "
“Nasty nasty thing of you to do.”
“Even then you were too afraid?”
“It wasn’t enough?”
“That really does sound like a devil coming out.”
“If you had to do it you should have done it quickly!”
“What became of her?”
“Oh. It… I said … it... unsouls you...”
“I… I couldn’t imagine being alone again. Feeling so helpless, so worthless. So easy to just throw away.”
“So… that Devil, he bit down on something that he couldn’t chew.”
Then, the sculptor’s wife too, was whispering.
Sister Noiramas thought she knew why.
She suspects I might be listening.
And I think what she will say is, … the Devil can’t take you, Anrirathu, but the Gods won’t help you either.
But then, who could?
“Ow ow ow! What are you doing? That hurts!”
“Dunderhead! It doesn’t just come off like that!” cawed another voice.
“Sorry. I have to dig a bit deeper. See what is underneath. That’s not really part of you, is it?”, said the sculptor.
“Ahhh come on she told you, didn’t she?” - the second voice again. “It’s the congealed spit of the Devil himself! Phlegm he hawked up and acid from his stomach, and the remains of whatever he wolfed down just before! Of course it isn’t part of her! She’s...”
“Don't say it, I know”, said the sculptor. “There, I can… Ah. I Now I have you. Oh that old saw about what's just skin deep. No, it goes down to the bone. "
"Now look up. Pretend it’s your face against the wind. Yes, just like that. There.”
Sister Noiramas had stayed outside of the chamber.
This was between the two of them, Anrirathu and the Blind Sculptor.
No, … the three of them.
You almost couldn’t help but think of the sculptor as one person with two heads.
His crippled wife was literally always looking over his shoulder, as most of the time he carried her on his back.
And anyway, two heads were better than one, she would point out.
The two of them seemed only a full person when together, and she wondered for how long in a day it was that he ever put her down.
In fact, they had never been joined in marriage by any ceremony.
Despite all her respect for the sacraments and the right order of things, one would have to admit they were so obviously made for each other by the Gods that any act of priest would only seem a mockery.
The two of them seemed only a full person when together.
Apart, each of them would only be half a person, or less.
Barely capable of life.
It hadn’t been anything from out of Doctrine that had guided her to bring Anrirathu to this strange and wondrous retreat in the woods - where the blind saw with their hands, and someone walked about with two heads and five limbs.
Now she understood it had been that Anrirathu was just that, a half of a person, split in two by a cruel blow, desperately seeking what would make her whole again.
A half-life lived in the dark, a hope crushed by the curse of turning into another soul's torment if she ended her own.
The chamber inside the sculptor's rickety house was darkened for the sake of Anrirathu, and just to make sure, the woman on his back was blindfolded.
Of course she had had plenty to say about that.
But no more mistakes like before.
And the sculptor saw with his hands, and Anrirathu could reveal herself in that safety.
“Who would do this, and why”, the Blind Sculptor asked.
Now, Anrirathu was whispering.
The sculptor remained silent as he explored the landscape of her face, committing it to memory.
It was only the… the other head that she heard talking now.
With pauses between, and Anrirathu’s low whispers, wordless to her ears.
Perhaps it was for the best, Sister Noiramas thought, that I can’t make out her words.
Because she’s confessing, but these truths were not for her ears.
Anrirathu let them flow out as soon as the sculptor had his hands on her, and found her true face.
But she couldn’t help hearing what the sculptor’s crippled wife said, in that dark chamber, where Anrirathu was safe, and her secrets were touched upon by one who, finally, could see her, and, it seemed, she let them out with abandon.
“So it was the two of you?”
“Now that sounds nasty. Nasty and sneaky.”
“Yes, I see it would have been … her idea. But she couldn’t do it?”
“Because he’d never seen you? I don’t understand. Unless you… you’re a bit like me. “
“All I have to do is pull my head in and a lot of people wouldn’t see me at all!”
“Oh. You let her do that all those years? To protect you? And then you did that? To protect her?”
“Oh my.”
“What they say, the worst way to go … that’s getting broken on the wheel or crucified. It takes so long, every part hurts, and it unsouls you. Getting burned up quick in a big fire wouldn’t be anything close. But that, that’s pretty close to it.”
“Lying there for a day and a night with every limb broken. Nasty nasty thing leaving someone like that. "
“Nasty nasty thing of you to do.”
“Even then you were too afraid?”
“It wasn’t enough?”
“That really does sound like a devil coming out.”
“If you had to do it you should have done it quickly!”
“What became of her?”
“Oh. It… I said … it... unsouls you...”
“I… I couldn’t imagine being alone again. Feeling so helpless, so worthless. So easy to just throw away.”
“So… that Devil, he bit down on something that he couldn’t chew.”
Then, the sculptor’s wife too, was whispering.
Sister Noiramas thought she knew why.
She suspects I might be listening.
And I think what she will say is, … the Devil can’t take you, Anrirathu, but the Gods won’t help you either.
But then, who could?
Half a revealing conversation, giving us more ideas than knowledge, if we really even want to find out. A tantalizing, and potentially frightening mystery.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Blind Sculptor (5)
On the journey back, they exchanged few words.
The sculptor had explained he’d need a few days to work, he couldn’t say how long, though he seemed very intent on starting right away. It would be best, he said, to send the finished piece along with the next person who came by on the way to the monastery. After all it was half a day’s footmarch.
“They will bring you your head,” the sculptor’s wife had joked from her perch on his back.
On the way, Anrirathu would hum and trill and fall into songs half of words and half of heart-stirring sound that had no letters.
Like she was when she’d first arrived at the monastery.
She was deep in thought, but walked swiftly. She went over the rope bridge crossing the ravines with no hesitation.
As they entered the forest which was turning with autumn she began to speak.
She would be leaving soon. She could not stay. It filled Sister Noiramas with apprehension but she had suspected this would be Anrirathu’s decision.
Would she go to live out in the wilderness like the Sculptor?
No, she answered – he isn’t alone there; the two of them live like king and queen of their own little world.
He has found his completion.
She would be alone though. Alone with unclear memories and half-forgotten stories and dreams rushing out of her like flocks of birds deserting barren stubble fields underneath the leaden clouds.
So, she too must find that completion.
There was the child, the babe she had found abandoned. For the sake of whom she carried the precious chain clasped around her neck, the pendant of rejoining. She would like to see the child, hold it once more. The little girl would have learned to crawl by now.
Then she would have to build up her courage to meet the curse.
She will have to find her counterpart.
One who is also willing to face his curse. One who’s ready to tear out the demon that’s tormenting him and meet it eye to eye.
The one that is willing to face her. Perhaps I will know him when I see him, she said.
Sister Noiramas shuddered.
Would such a one not kill her?
Would she not be an effigy for him to burn, to drive out his own devil, to clear his own conscience?
“What price are you willing to pay, Anrirathu?”
Anrirathu recalled the scream that never endend, the sound that never quite left her ears.
And the moment when she herself couldn’t scream, when she froze in terror.
It was strange that there was no blood.
As if that body had not any blood of its own.
It was strange that she could not scream.
As if she had not any breath of her own.
She thinks of her guilt and her failure and the price of it, the dread of the unsouling, and of what the sculptor’s wife had said, about the worst way to go, crosses to hang from and wheels to be broken on, the broken thing at the foot of the stairs and the black snake uncoiling. Serpent, where hides your bite.
“Any price,” she said, “any price at all.”
Sister Noiramas didn’t know how to respond, so reached out to clasp her hand.
Anrirathu picked up her song again. It was what she did when she’d rather not speak.
Sister Noiramas had seen when Anrirathu went to her purification that she was a bearer of burdens. Wet red streams across her back, she had carried her heavy load. Her ankles sank in and chafed between the stones in the ice-cold creek that tumbled down from the glaciers. So cold that just putting your foot in would send fire up your shins. Slipping, falling, bruising, spraining, spouting, rising again and picking up. Splinters in her shoulders as she stumbled sideways into the nettles.
She sang as she’d done when she first arrived.
Fragments of lullabies and legends, lines from fairy-tale songs. Whatever phrasing came to her mind, it seemed – never the song of an entire story.
Of course in a fairytale it would be simple.
She’d be a princess afflicted with a curse who had to break from her captivity and wander the woods.
Until she’d find the prince who’d look past the scars on her face and he’d love what lay beneath and dare to kiss her, and of course then she’d be freed and they’d wed and live happily ever after.
That’s how stories like that were supposed to end; that’s how the story of the girl locked in the tower was supposed to end. She would be the true bride. But Anrirathu’s song never got to that part.
Whoever passed those stories on to her had changed them.
Or, in her darkness, she’d forgotten how they were supposed to end.
It was late as they came down to the monastery.
The night vigil let them in, there was still light in the High Priest’s tower.
Burning the midnight oil again.
* * *
Later, when it had been brought down, Sister Noiramas would weigh the wooden carving in her hands, a likeness little less than life-size. It flared out a bit at the neck to suggest the outline of shoulders, so that it did not invoke a severed head from the execution grounds.
That would bring bad luck.
Anrirathu herself was away then. Singing in Verdesgord town.
The great festivities of Autumn were coming up.
The town, full of nobles and merchants and all sorts of travelers from near and far.
Her voice, touching every heart; some would grit their teeth and turn away because they couldn’t bear the stirring in their soul, her song so honest that it hurt. Some people guarded their heart closely and did not want it touched. But most, rich or poor, young or old, would be amazed and enthralled. Bright-eyed and thankful for the gift that was shared with them.
So it was not much a surprise when two days before she’d shown them the letter that bore the seal of the King and invited her to perform at the festivity. It was not hard to arrange as there’d be a choir from the Order anyway and so she would open for that.
The feast would dazzle with marvels and oddities.
There would be flowers of flame thrown against the sky and a fire-breathing dragon – a thing of bronze fueled with spirit-vapors. There’d be jugglers, jesters and sword-swallowers, dancing bears and dwarves. And among them all, there would be Anrirathu.
Her face as the sculptor had brought it out of gnarled wood – it looked very young, far younger than what she’d given as her age. The sculptor had looked past the scars of her curse and also past any trace of time, to a young girl’s face beneath.
‘Your face against the wind’, he had said.
The face as such, it was that of any other stranger for Sister Noiramas. It was no one she had ever seen before, why would it?
But now Anrirathu was someone, and she was sure to know her, if she ever saw that face again.
She didn’t want Anrirathu to wear the face of someone’s demon, she wanted to see this one in the flesh. Her face against the wind. Free and smiling. Perhaps gently kiss her.
The expression so different from what you would imagine from the fate of one who wore that face underneath the crust of a devil’s curse.
A distinct face that was relaxed, calm, unashamed, looking out toward the unclaimed distance, self-assured, proud of where she stood, but humble against what she saw before her.
Her face against the wind.
Tell a peasant woman to turn her face against the wind and will she not imagine herself toiling on the fields as a storm draws near, and look strained and worried and squinting.
You to turn your face into the wind and you look as if you’re standing at the helm of a ship sailing to… what did you call it?
The great beyond. The face of glistening glaciers, the rise of challenging cliffs, the haunts of endless forests. Humble before the greatness of what’s before you, but proud of what’s behind you, the distance you have traveled, the hurdles you have overcome.
"Yarinareth."
Sister Noiramas had memorized the word because its melody fit so well with the name of her charge – by now she would say, her friend. Whom she was afraid to lose among the torrents of fate that would sweep her away from here, from safety to where ever.
"Yarinareth."
So far, truth be told, she could know Anrirathu only from her voice. If she had gone forth, changed her clothes and lost her voice but won back her face, Sister Noiramas would not have known who it was that returned.
Even if her breath left her, now she would still know her, and not forget.
With only the slightest of moans slipping from her lips, Sister Noiramas would know her, cradling that face in her hands, puffed up from the beatings, blood-streaked and bruised. Raising her face to the caustic sky and letting out that cry, hoarse and ragged from her heaving chest, Sister Noiramas would be one who'd still say then: I know, I know who you are, even if you forget yourself. Anrirathu.
“Any price at all”, she’d said.
On the journey back, they exchanged few words.
The sculptor had explained he’d need a few days to work, he couldn’t say how long, though he seemed very intent on starting right away. It would be best, he said, to send the finished piece along with the next person who came by on the way to the monastery. After all it was half a day’s footmarch.
“They will bring you your head,” the sculptor’s wife had joked from her perch on his back.
On the way, Anrirathu would hum and trill and fall into songs half of words and half of heart-stirring sound that had no letters.
Like she was when she’d first arrived at the monastery.
She was deep in thought, but walked swiftly. She went over the rope bridge crossing the ravines with no hesitation.
As they entered the forest which was turning with autumn she began to speak.
She would be leaving soon. She could not stay. It filled Sister Noiramas with apprehension but she had suspected this would be Anrirathu’s decision.
Would she go to live out in the wilderness like the Sculptor?
No, she answered – he isn’t alone there; the two of them live like king and queen of their own little world.
He has found his completion.
She would be alone though. Alone with unclear memories and half-forgotten stories and dreams rushing out of her like flocks of birds deserting barren stubble fields underneath the leaden clouds.
So, she too must find that completion.
There was the child, the babe she had found abandoned. For the sake of whom she carried the precious chain clasped around her neck, the pendant of rejoining. She would like to see the child, hold it once more. The little girl would have learned to crawl by now.
Then she would have to build up her courage to meet the curse.
She will have to find her counterpart.
One who is also willing to face his curse. One who’s ready to tear out the demon that’s tormenting him and meet it eye to eye.
The one that is willing to face her. Perhaps I will know him when I see him, she said.
Sister Noiramas shuddered.
Would such a one not kill her?
Would she not be an effigy for him to burn, to drive out his own devil, to clear his own conscience?
“What price are you willing to pay, Anrirathu?”
Anrirathu recalled the scream that never endend, the sound that never quite left her ears.
And the moment when she herself couldn’t scream, when she froze in terror.
Looking down.
A hundred heartbeats you’d counted out before each tiny creak as you slowly extended a bare foot to touch the smooth wood of the next step down, hollowed by wear. Then slowly shifted your weight on, and followed with the other foot.
Chalk on your sweaty soles.
Waiting.
The thing at the foot of the stairs, now it’s silent, it’s still.
Dead, dead, dead, must be dead now.
Shivering from the cold inside, trying to stop the chatter of your teeth, so you could listen closely, if in the stifled air anything still breathed, that must not.
Must, must, must not.
Watch motes of dust dance, and wait.
Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, you collected all your courage and took a long stride, setting your foot down just once, before you pushed out through the door.
But the thin black snake that had slithered forth from the broken body, you stepped in its coils, it caught you round the ankle, and you dragged it along with you. It followed you. It slipped out the doorway with you.
A hundred heartbeats you’d counted out before each tiny creak as you slowly extended a bare foot to touch the smooth wood of the next step down, hollowed by wear. Then slowly shifted your weight on, and followed with the other foot.
Chalk on your sweaty soles.
Waiting.
The thing at the foot of the stairs, now it’s silent, it’s still.
Dead, dead, dead, must be dead now.
Shivering from the cold inside, trying to stop the chatter of your teeth, so you could listen closely, if in the stifled air anything still breathed, that must not.
Must, must, must not.
Watch motes of dust dance, and wait.
Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, you collected all your courage and took a long stride, setting your foot down just once, before you pushed out through the door.
But the thin black snake that had slithered forth from the broken body, you stepped in its coils, it caught you round the ankle, and you dragged it along with you. It followed you. It slipped out the doorway with you.
It was strange that there was no blood.
As if that body had not any blood of its own.
It was strange that she could not scream.
As if she had not any breath of her own.
She thinks of her guilt and her failure and the price of it, the dread of the unsouling, and of what the sculptor’s wife had said, about the worst way to go, crosses to hang from and wheels to be broken on, the broken thing at the foot of the stairs and the black snake uncoiling. Serpent, where hides your bite.
“Any price,” she said, “any price at all.”
Sister Noiramas didn’t know how to respond, so reached out to clasp her hand.
Anrirathu picked up her song again. It was what she did when she’d rather not speak.
Sister Noiramas had seen when Anrirathu went to her purification that she was a bearer of burdens. Wet red streams across her back, she had carried her heavy load. Her ankles sank in and chafed between the stones in the ice-cold creek that tumbled down from the glaciers. So cold that just putting your foot in would send fire up your shins. Slipping, falling, bruising, spraining, spouting, rising again and picking up. Splinters in her shoulders as she stumbled sideways into the nettles.
“Oh nettle-plant, little nettle-plant what dost thou here alone,”
She sang as she’d done when she first arrived.
Fragments of lullabies and legends, lines from fairy-tale songs. Whatever phrasing came to her mind, it seemed – never the song of an entire story.
“I have known the time when I ate thee unboiled, when I ate thee unroasted,”
Of course in a fairytale it would be simple.
She’d be a princess afflicted with a curse who had to break from her captivity and wander the woods.
Until she’d find the prince who’d look past the scars on her face and he’d love what lay beneath and dare to kiss her, and of course then she’d be freed and they’d wed and live happily ever after.
“The walls are thick and will not break. The stones won’t move for heaven’s sake.“
That’s how stories like that were supposed to end; that’s how the story of the girl locked in the tower was supposed to end. She would be the true bride. But Anrirathu’s song never got to that part.
Whoever passed those stories on to her had changed them.
Or, in her darkness, she’d forgotten how they were supposed to end.
It was late as they came down to the monastery.
The night vigil let them in, there was still light in the High Priest’s tower.
Burning the midnight oil again.
“My maid, my maid, I must go and see,”
“for it’s she, who keeps my thoughts for me.”
“for it’s she, who keeps my thoughts for me.”
* * *
Later, when it had been brought down, Sister Noiramas would weigh the wooden carving in her hands, a likeness little less than life-size. It flared out a bit at the neck to suggest the outline of shoulders, so that it did not invoke a severed head from the execution grounds.
That would bring bad luck.
Anrirathu herself was away then. Singing in Verdesgord town.
The great festivities of Autumn were coming up.
The town, full of nobles and merchants and all sorts of travelers from near and far.
Her voice, touching every heart; some would grit their teeth and turn away because they couldn’t bear the stirring in their soul, her song so honest that it hurt. Some people guarded their heart closely and did not want it touched. But most, rich or poor, young or old, would be amazed and enthralled. Bright-eyed and thankful for the gift that was shared with them.
So it was not much a surprise when two days before she’d shown them the letter that bore the seal of the King and invited her to perform at the festivity. It was not hard to arrange as there’d be a choir from the Order anyway and so she would open for that.
The feast would dazzle with marvels and oddities.
There would be flowers of flame thrown against the sky and a fire-breathing dragon – a thing of bronze fueled with spirit-vapors. There’d be jugglers, jesters and sword-swallowers, dancing bears and dwarves. And among them all, there would be Anrirathu.
Her face as the sculptor had brought it out of gnarled wood – it looked very young, far younger than what she’d given as her age. The sculptor had looked past the scars of her curse and also past any trace of time, to a young girl’s face beneath.
‘Your face against the wind’, he had said.
The face as such, it was that of any other stranger for Sister Noiramas. It was no one she had ever seen before, why would it?
But now Anrirathu was someone, and she was sure to know her, if she ever saw that face again.
She didn’t want Anrirathu to wear the face of someone’s demon, she wanted to see this one in the flesh. Her face against the wind. Free and smiling. Perhaps gently kiss her.
The expression so different from what you would imagine from the fate of one who wore that face underneath the crust of a devil’s curse.
A distinct face that was relaxed, calm, unashamed, looking out toward the unclaimed distance, self-assured, proud of where she stood, but humble against what she saw before her.
Her face against the wind.
Tell a peasant woman to turn her face against the wind and will she not imagine herself toiling on the fields as a storm draws near, and look strained and worried and squinting.
You to turn your face into the wind and you look as if you’re standing at the helm of a ship sailing to… what did you call it?
The great beyond. The face of glistening glaciers, the rise of challenging cliffs, the haunts of endless forests. Humble before the greatness of what’s before you, but proud of what’s behind you, the distance you have traveled, the hurdles you have overcome.
"Yarinareth."
Sister Noiramas had memorized the word because its melody fit so well with the name of her charge – by now she would say, her friend. Whom she was afraid to lose among the torrents of fate that would sweep her away from here, from safety to where ever.
"Yarinareth."
So far, truth be told, she could know Anrirathu only from her voice. If she had gone forth, changed her clothes and lost her voice but won back her face, Sister Noiramas would not have known who it was that returned.
Even if her breath left her, now she would still know her, and not forget.
With only the slightest of moans slipping from her lips, Sister Noiramas would know her, cradling that face in her hands, puffed up from the beatings, blood-streaked and bruised. Raising her face to the caustic sky and letting out that cry, hoarse and ragged from her heaving chest, Sister Noiramas would be one who'd still say then: I know, I know who you are, even if you forget yourself. Anrirathu.
“Any price at all”, she’d said.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Attachments
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Feathers and Blades
Carefully she untangles herself from the gently breathing bodies, drifting deep in sleep, and rises to follow the call.
Circling, demanding, impatient now.
She opens the heavy flap of the tent and looks back with a smile.
Never does she see as clearly as in these moments.
Silver cascades over them. What an unlikely love.
Sensing the lack of her heat, the girl stirs, mumbles something and rolls over, reaching out until she calms herself at the older man’s chest. The rope-marks still deep on her arm. Instinctively he gathers her to himself.
Barefoot she pads into the grass. Further out, passing through the perimeter where the guards are posted.
White in the moonlight. Naked and almost without sound. Almost.
A sentry head turns; she catches his gaze in her hand and twists it away. His head follows.
Nothing to see. Strain your eyes to find the intruder, not the eloper.
She slips through and up the hill. Her face against the wind. The last veil-wisps of cloud fall from the moon's face.
The homecoming bird sails on silent wings.
On the cusp of the hill she stands with her left arm outstretched, offered as a perch.
Obsidian claws. Striking wicked, sinking deep.
A hollow, haunting cry; she grits her teeth, then her jaw slackens, the tense arch of her back goes limp, her knees give; black plumes enfold her as she rolls backward.
On the cusp of the hill she lies looking up at the velvet of the night, strewn with the riches of all jewels.
Never has she seen as clearly as in this moment.
Diamonds, rubies, blue sapphire and golden topaz; the crimson garnet that is the fulcrum of the celestial sphere.
The only gem the sky lacks, is the one of her eye, the emerald.
Each gem a slowly pulsating disc, expanding, until they freeze, and fade.
She lies spread out and pinned.
The raptor folds its wings.
Carefully she untangles herself from the gently breathing bodies, drifting deep in sleep, and rises to follow the call.
Circling, demanding, impatient now.
She opens the heavy flap of the tent and looks back with a smile.
Never does she see as clearly as in these moments.
Silver cascades over them. What an unlikely love.
Sensing the lack of her heat, the girl stirs, mumbles something and rolls over, reaching out until she calms herself at the older man’s chest. The rope-marks still deep on her arm. Instinctively he gathers her to himself.
Barefoot she pads into the grass. Further out, passing through the perimeter where the guards are posted.
White in the moonlight. Naked and almost without sound. Almost.
A sentry head turns; she catches his gaze in her hand and twists it away. His head follows.
Nothing to see. Strain your eyes to find the intruder, not the eloper.
She slips through and up the hill. Her face against the wind. The last veil-wisps of cloud fall from the moon's face.
The homecoming bird sails on silent wings.
On the cusp of the hill she stands with her left arm outstretched, offered as a perch.
Obsidian claws. Striking wicked, sinking deep.
A hollow, haunting cry; she grits her teeth, then her jaw slackens, the tense arch of her back goes limp, her knees give; black plumes enfold her as she rolls backward.
On the cusp of the hill she lies looking up at the velvet of the night, strewn with the riches of all jewels.
Never has she seen as clearly as in this moment.
Diamonds, rubies, blue sapphire and golden topaz; the crimson garnet that is the fulcrum of the celestial sphere.
The only gem the sky lacks, is the one of her eye, the emerald.
Each gem a slowly pulsating disc, expanding, until they freeze, and fade.
She lies spread out and pinned.
The raptor folds its wings.
Meanwhile tree is still thinking...
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Feathers and Blades (2)
Her eyes roll back into her head. A beast such as this must be nourished, but it is best not to witness its feeding.
Her soul slips away.
It's because she can slip away like that, being so evasive and escaping, that she even knows she has a soul. Something that separates.
But there is always that last look.
The hill is transformed, no more of dewdrops glistening in moonlight, no more of sparkling gems; it has become a dry, desolate skull-scape scorched under the suns.
Where there are two shadows for every living thing, but never a stop for rest in merciful shade.
Where among the soaring towers in the distant haze, spider-legged lackeys scurrying, the King pounds his scepter on the floor, His golden cloak in tatters, crying for a chalice of fortified potion, something thicker than blood.
Where the mad drummer drools but never misses a beat.
Ripping and tearing through muscle and gristle, ribs spread out to the sky, a sharp beak diving into a still-beating heart.
"I am a cheater!", she thinks.
Has he even noticed?
That I’ve learned to grow it back?
Although the scars remain, and His name will always stay to stain.
Her eyes roll back into her head.
She deserts her shredded body and the place of many deaths.
Then her eyes are no longer all white, but around her all is black; and it’s not the blackness of the infinite beyond, but the closing darkness of a narrow passage.
For a moment she panics, as she remembers the twisting narrow stone pathways looping back on each other, a way she went a thousand times but still could never find.
But that’s not where she is.
This is a path that leads somewhere, hewn into the rock by human hands.
There is light ahead.
She begins to move carefully.
Everything, every touch of her palm against the rough walls, feels more real than it should, as if all her skin was freshly scrubbed, or just how it is when the scab comes off a freshly healed hurt and it’s so soft and pink and sensitive, or that tender tingling after the nail finally peeled off her big toe after she’d dropped something on it and it’s been blue for weeks. There’s a smell of damp rock which is not unpleasant; the air is not stagnant as there’s a sharp draft, it’s very chilly, but she’s warm from the inside, and it’s all certain to be a dream. Because somewhere she is a carcass that willingly hand-feeds her fated vulture.
She comes to the source of the light.
It’s the lamps in a room where two men, knowledgeable and determined, sit over plans and papers and ponder their options. They are grim, grey-haired and serious but not afraid. She instinctively knows them to be truly noble, not by their appearance but by their calm in the face of adversity. They will prevail against the onslaught, it is exactly here were the wave is destined to reach its highest and break futile against the rocks. The battle they lost will only lure the enemy to certain doom. They are men of insight who learn from mistakes, who know their foes will fail exactly because triumph seems too close at hand.
She leaves the men to their deliberations and moves on.
Another gap in the masonry.
Two girls, huddling together, only candlelight now, their faces close, their hair warm dark gold. They whisper fearful imaginations to each other. Death hovering near, the threads of their fate almost visible, so easy to cut. If she wanted to, she could reach through and touch the thread. They must and need trust in those men but they are drowning in despair. What does it mean to be born noble; you are blessed with gifts that you did not earn, but also you may be cursed with punishments you did not deserve.
She leaves the girls to their susurrations and moves on.
A long way in the dark. Down, down, down now. Then another gap in the masonry.
Very dim now. Torchlight from somewhere in a hallway. Curious, waiting for her eyes to adapt, until she sees the man in the dungeon, shackled to the wall. Feeble light streams in through the arch of the entry into his cell – there is no door, no lock, for what reason should there be, once she makes them out she knows those shackles and chains are impossible to escape from. He has crawled to the limit of movement that they allow him but it is not enough to reach the bowl of water. He does not care for the moldy bread, he could go another week without that, but he’s dying of thirst. He is sentenced to death, and they are killing him slowly.
She knows he is innocent because it is only the innocent who have such cruelty done to them.
Only they need to be entirely broken. Anyone who would be guilty enough to deserve such suffering – he would be such an abomination that no one could bear anything other than to remove him from the world as quickly as possible. They need to destroy all hope in him because his rebellion carried hope in itself.
She cannot leave him to his suffering and move on.
She does move on, but now to find an entrance, and it is there. She grasps that she’s inside the castle. She can look into these rooms, and some way further, there is a passage to enter them. She moves carefully, which is strangely embarrassing to her, as she knows that she is only a spectre, she is drifting in a dream, it is that kind of dream where you know it’s a dream but still can’t stop it.
But you can choose, and she chooses to turn left, and left again, and again, and then enter his cell.
Her eyes roll back into her head. A beast such as this must be nourished, but it is best not to witness its feeding.
Her soul slips away.
It's because she can slip away like that, being so evasive and escaping, that she even knows she has a soul. Something that separates.
But there is always that last look.
The hill is transformed, no more of dewdrops glistening in moonlight, no more of sparkling gems; it has become a dry, desolate skull-scape scorched under the suns.
Where there are two shadows for every living thing, but never a stop for rest in merciful shade.
Where among the soaring towers in the distant haze, spider-legged lackeys scurrying, the King pounds his scepter on the floor, His golden cloak in tatters, crying for a chalice of fortified potion, something thicker than blood.
Where the mad drummer drools but never misses a beat.
Ripping and tearing through muscle and gristle, ribs spread out to the sky, a sharp beak diving into a still-beating heart.
"I am a cheater!", she thinks.
Has he even noticed?
That I’ve learned to grow it back?
Although the scars remain, and His name will always stay to stain.
Her eyes roll back into her head.
She deserts her shredded body and the place of many deaths.
Then her eyes are no longer all white, but around her all is black; and it’s not the blackness of the infinite beyond, but the closing darkness of a narrow passage.
For a moment she panics, as she remembers the twisting narrow stone pathways looping back on each other, a way she went a thousand times but still could never find.
But that’s not where she is.
This is a path that leads somewhere, hewn into the rock by human hands.
There is light ahead.
She begins to move carefully.
Everything, every touch of her palm against the rough walls, feels more real than it should, as if all her skin was freshly scrubbed, or just how it is when the scab comes off a freshly healed hurt and it’s so soft and pink and sensitive, or that tender tingling after the nail finally peeled off her big toe after she’d dropped something on it and it’s been blue for weeks. There’s a smell of damp rock which is not unpleasant; the air is not stagnant as there’s a sharp draft, it’s very chilly, but she’s warm from the inside, and it’s all certain to be a dream. Because somewhere she is a carcass that willingly hand-feeds her fated vulture.
She comes to the source of the light.
It’s the lamps in a room where two men, knowledgeable and determined, sit over plans and papers and ponder their options. They are grim, grey-haired and serious but not afraid. She instinctively knows them to be truly noble, not by their appearance but by their calm in the face of adversity. They will prevail against the onslaught, it is exactly here were the wave is destined to reach its highest and break futile against the rocks. The battle they lost will only lure the enemy to certain doom. They are men of insight who learn from mistakes, who know their foes will fail exactly because triumph seems too close at hand.
She leaves the men to their deliberations and moves on.
Another gap in the masonry.
Two girls, huddling together, only candlelight now, their faces close, their hair warm dark gold. They whisper fearful imaginations to each other. Death hovering near, the threads of their fate almost visible, so easy to cut. If she wanted to, she could reach through and touch the thread. They must and need trust in those men but they are drowning in despair. What does it mean to be born noble; you are blessed with gifts that you did not earn, but also you may be cursed with punishments you did not deserve.
She leaves the girls to their susurrations and moves on.
A long way in the dark. Down, down, down now. Then another gap in the masonry.
Very dim now. Torchlight from somewhere in a hallway. Curious, waiting for her eyes to adapt, until she sees the man in the dungeon, shackled to the wall. Feeble light streams in through the arch of the entry into his cell – there is no door, no lock, for what reason should there be, once she makes them out she knows those shackles and chains are impossible to escape from. He has crawled to the limit of movement that they allow him but it is not enough to reach the bowl of water. He does not care for the moldy bread, he could go another week without that, but he’s dying of thirst. He is sentenced to death, and they are killing him slowly.
She knows he is innocent because it is only the innocent who have such cruelty done to them.
Only they need to be entirely broken. Anyone who would be guilty enough to deserve such suffering – he would be such an abomination that no one could bear anything other than to remove him from the world as quickly as possible. They need to destroy all hope in him because his rebellion carried hope in itself.
She cannot leave him to his suffering and move on.
She does move on, but now to find an entrance, and it is there. She grasps that she’s inside the castle. She can look into these rooms, and some way further, there is a passage to enter them. She moves carefully, which is strangely embarrassing to her, as she knows that she is only a spectre, she is drifting in a dream, it is that kind of dream where you know it’s a dream but still can’t stop it.
But you can choose, and she chooses to turn left, and left again, and again, and then enter his cell.
Tree never treats women like this!!!
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Oh for sure you don't; possibly for lack of black-feathered wings and a cruel hooked beak, but maybe this one half-deserves half of what she gets. Anyway, probably she'll end up on a tree. No, not a tree by a brook with a songbird in it.
shastar
Tribune
shastar
Tribune
Well Malins, all I can say is 'WOW', and again 'WOW'. You write your fantasies as a Goddess would... Many, many thanks
shastar
Tribune
A dream only? She feeds her bird friend. Is she good or evil, or just a product of her experiences, trials, and tragedies? How much control does she have - agent or just a pawn of the dream that gives her power. What will she do when she reaches his cell? So many questions.