creator_raven (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
creator_raven) wrote2006-12-11 05:06 pm
creator_raven) wrote2006-12-11 05:06 pm
The price of being settled
Ace's persistence is unsettling.
Moiraine's interference is unsettling.
The silence inside his head is not unsettling, but the fact that he feels as if it should be is.
And it is with this in mind, perhaps, that he goes back to the rock by the lake, leaning against it, head tilted back, watching the stars.
They do not sing.
It is unsettling to realize that he feels as if they should.
And then
of course--
They do.
And behind the song is the sound of waves.
Under his feet, bare again, is the rough grit of cold damp sand.
In his nose is the smell of sea, and of stone.
The sky is overcast.
The tide is coming in.
He watches it for a time, as the waves crest and crash on the shore.
Eventually it begins to rain.
When he turns away from the waves, putting them at his back, he can see footprints in the sand.
The encroaching sea does not wash them away.
He follows.
They seem to go on forever, but he does not much mind.
The rain is a veritable torrent, now.
The tide is still coming in.
A voice comes from behind him, rough and amused in his ear.
"You are very slow, I think."
And instead of water droplets stinging his face, he feels
--feathers.
They fill the sky.
They fill his eyes.
They fill his mouth.
Soon, they might fill the world.
He chokes, gagging.
There is a hand in his hair, ruffling it.
He cannot see.
He cannot breathe.
"Very slow. It is almost irritating."
Then there is a jarring thud, and his eyes fly open.
He is still choking.
The stars are no longer singing.
And in his hand, slightly damp and bedraggled, is a black feather.
He is not afraid.
You say I am repeating
Moiraine's interference is unsettling.
Something I have said before.
The silence inside his head is not unsettling, but the fact that he feels as if it should be is.
I shall say it again.
And it is with this in mind, perhaps, that he goes back to the rock by the lake, leaning against it, head tilted back, watching the stars.
They do not sing.
Shall I say it again?
It is unsettling to realize that he feels as if they should.
And then
of course--
In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are
To arrive where you are
They do.
to get from where you are not,
And behind the song is the sound of waves.
Under his feet, bare again, is the rough grit of cold damp sand.
In his nose is the smell of sea, and of stone.
The sky is overcast.
The tide is coming in.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
He watches it for a time, as the waves crest and crash on the shore.
Eventually it begins to rain.
When he turns away from the waves, putting them at his back, he can see footprints in the sand.
The encroaching sea does not wash them away.
In order to possess what you do not possess
He follows.
They seem to go on forever, but he does not much mind.
The rain is a veritable torrent, now.
The tide is still coming in.
A voice comes from behind him, rough and amused in his ear.
In order to arrive at what you are not
"You are very slow, I think."
And instead of water droplets stinging his face, he feels
You must go through the way in which you are not.
--feathers.
They fill the sky.
They fill his eyes.
They fill his mouth.
Soon, they might fill the world.
He chokes, gagging.
There is a hand in his hair, ruffling it.
He cannot see.
He cannot breathe.
"Very slow. It is almost irritating."
Then there is a jarring thud, and his eyes fly open.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
He is still choking.
The stars are no longer singing.
And what you own is what you do not own
And in his hand, slightly damp and bedraggled, is a black feather.
And where you are is where you are not.
He is not afraid.