» Tue Aug 18, 2009 9:21 am As he awoke, the sounds of the dead caressed his pointed ear. He looked up, and saw the full guardian of his province, the land he dwelt, and the hand he dealt. As the sun peaked low, he realized that his passing was almost complete. The sounds he awoke to faded off, municipally echoed onward by the first streaks of blackness into the sky. As if he had just realized he was awake, he stood up quickly. The accomplice to the silence was looming just next to it, and he got the feeling that his life would never be the same again. He was dressed in a soft fiber robe, from the deranged plants of the shoreline. The lava hurt his eyes as he staggered out from his hiding place. The brightness of the magma candles were the first light he had seen in days.
The only food he had was his own thoughts, and their contingencies. Looming ahead was his goal point, the wound of the world. He slid on, his eyes fixating on the flares of moonlight heading off of the constructs ahead. He went on a mental page about his childhood and how it had thought him through the the terraces of the icy cold ravines. Not that he was a child, but the thought of what he once was, a sire-dipped lame. His mind was twisted around a bush of council, and it burned brightly with his own lust. He liked to dance in the flames every now and again, to touch the faces that burned off of the angelic branches, the coder of the philippic courses that swirled throughout his mind. In his mending, he almost blanked out and nearly walked straight into the closed door, the stone and metal door of destiny, of belittlement. He walked in and was tortured by litanies of prophetic binding, of haggard bounty.
He walked past the tall pillars; which within them held the souls of a thousand brethren; unto the mane of the underground network. His eyes shifted around the abstract libraries, the grounded guards, and the ones with rusted skin. Of course he had been thinking outside himself this whole time, as he waltzed right though, but it was just his inept ability as a thief, as a tainted proclaimer.
'For what more is a thief of words than that a thief of possessions?' he was always asking himself. To none that he asked he had gotten an answer. They were either repulsed by him, baning him to a ground of illness, or they simply did not know. He knew, however. And the answer was right before him. He stepped into the coal-lined ground and into the altar of the mandrake, the eye of the feint. Into the mouth of abandonment he drew forth, his breath visible with every rapid gasp. The air was poled down so far, his negative munition grasping at his legs. He again heard the sounds of the dead, but this time they were not neutral, they were sentient and glamoring to him. He followed with his ears sharply grasping back in and out, tensing and relaxing their many little muscles. He knew. He approached the object, the halogenated flickers from the fires below omnipotent to his body.
They reached up to him with their arms, their smoke-binded arms, coated with just and wight. The moans of the triune eye poked at him, though he could not bare. He felt like succumbing to the silver-tongues of the high fained, the molten waters below his feet, the only thing standing in the way of the two inbound cosmic lovers being the rickety bridge, an almost toothless endeavor. 'My feet would perish first.' he gleamed. But neigh could he look down any longer. The vast coffin of the abandoned heaven was molding, molding to his likeness. He threw straight ahead though, for he knew that what was sitting omnisciently stale right before him would awaken him much more. The world was playing tricks on him. He loosened his belt that bound his soft robe to him and it flew apart.
The ground seemed to tremble with the sight of what he joisted. A small dagger...and crystalline dagger...a homeward and dream-sought dagger. And next to that...a small hammer...a gracious and lamenting hammer which bleated its own rhythm out into the scale of things...it laughed in a harmonic phantasmal gluttony...and it's other half drew in the grand aroma of the gorged light...the light that drew forth from the iron-mended and solemn-trended hammer. On his right hand it waned. The golden hand that seemed to blend in with his own skin. The spiked knuckles and the runes that heated through him, they way they seemed to mimic pulsing with his heartbeat.
He felt a pull. A pull of dermal desire; once he grabbed hold of the hammer with his right hand. The knife begged to be absorbed into besmearing adolescence. As he held the hammer, the once-told and now-forgotten ides of Trinimac, change-anon-insight, the scorched words of his priests and his decayed savants, flowed through his mind. He struck. Then struck struck struck struck struck...and after a final close of his eyes and a final breath, he remembered all who he was and who he was not. His eyes filled with tears, but there was no going back. Struck. One last time. And the paths crumbled. He lifted up into the air, watching himself fly...and the spirit of the world reacted. So gone was the retreat of a botanical homestead, so gone was the melody of sparks and chains that arose from the sparks.
The night was over, the void of magick stumbled on, and it grew to encompass the new thought, the glacial abstruseness and abstract bone movements of the tendons of the beast of the new order of being. He had finally gotten to where he wanted to be, and from his new seat he beckoned his lover and his lover forth, to the climatic and ecstatic gulls of docked bastions.
In his eyes he felt a certain grief, a certain war-sickness. But there was no turning back...not then and not anymore, as it was quickly enamored off by the shining fires of truant idleness. He WAS the serpent of the middle-air. He who resides in the thrice-marked throne, who's base is entailed with mating barbs. He had broken the curse of mortal minds, twice perceived.
He was Him.
