Post by Halethala on Apr 10, 2009 0:53:54 GMT -5
(A tale in answer to a challenge to come up with an explanation for red moons . . "Blood Moons" as they are called by some)
Red Moon
Pitchfork creases fanned outwards from the corners of her dark golden eyes, the lids down-turned curves, a perpetual squint from decades of brilliant sunlight. The coppery leather skin no longer stretched taught across her towering frame, but neither did it bunch in folds since there was no excess beneath it. Whether her normally and naturally lithe and graceful movements had been slowed by the advance of time or accumulation of grief, it was only very barely noticeable, most keenly evident at times such as this.
She had stood vigil the traditional span of time, in reverence and absolute silence. Whatever tears begged presence were not granted audience, and the shuddering threat of them stilled only under the perfect discipline ingrained so deeply into her. There were no longer any to hear, and she had long ago forgotten the taste of them.
Her scalp was protected by a cap of sand-colored hair, a snarl of tight curls kept closely cropped and massaged vigorously with the same white fat that kept her from scratching to distraction when she could least afford it. She ran her thickly calloused hand through the tense curls now as the sun dragged the day down behind it towards the horizon. Her massive legs, thick as the lower branches of the white oak, stood splayed apart, tapering down to disproportionately large feet that sprouted webbed toes. She had not been the only one to have them.
There had been attempts, halfhearted at best, to procreate, to preserve the line. Yet the more desperate the need to do so, the more desperate each was needed to defend. No one wished to be left behind, to be singled out for special protection. Their training had been so thorough that circumventing it, even for a reasonable cause, seemed impossible. And so . . no pregnancy ever made it full term.
Thus, today, she had watched the very last beside herself fall. They had, with ever dwindling numbers, become all the more discrete. The small ones they were charged to Guard had no eyes to see them, although there seemed to be a scattered few that sensed their presence, or at least the presence of something more than themselves. More often than not, they prided themselves with the impossible and inexplicable kill. "It was as if my arrow were given breath by the gods themselves . . it could not miss!" But it did, and often. The Guardians were careful to aim only where the small ones did.
And yet evil suffered no similar blinders. Their aim was not always errant, and one by one, the great ones were lost. Never, not once, did a slayer escape, and not without a hundredfold of their dark brethren as well for good measure. Their numbers, too, were no longer as abundant.
Yet they still outnumbered her.
The Archer gripped the Blood Arrow as if it would take flight on its own if she relaxed the aching hand even slightly, and watched for the silvery curve of moonrise. Each breath measured to calm and smother the very smallest of strayed emotion. To duty. It came, a ghostly bream that slowly simmered upwards, yet still beneath the horizon’s distant surface. Sinewed arms drew back the polished wood as the bowstring grew impossibly taut. The blackened quiet had a weight to it that she had never felt before, pressing against her chest like the embrace of death itself. She hadn’t the slightest fear of missing her target, though she could never have explained how it could ever fly true.
It had to be timed so precisely, just as the very first sliver emerged. Her right eye squinted close, one last breath drawn in, jaw tensed as the one single word escaped her clenched teeth and barely parted lips exactly as the crisp hiss brushed past her cheek. Her arms lowered so slowly that it seemed time had been wrenched and altered, and she began the silent count inside her head. The thought tumbled lazily through her breathless mind that perhaps the counting was nothing more than a ruse to keep you from forgetting to breathe again.
A blossoming of rose began so faintly she had to blink her painfully dry lids together, as she had since the very first time she had been called to bear honor. As the color grew, her spirits withered, flickering for one selfish moment. All the world would know something had shifted, for the red moons were not common any longer. Their rarity alone guaranteed them a mystical place in the songs of those who saw such things.
And finally the tears rose as she permitted the sadness to envelope her that had been barricaded safely for long years . . for who would there be to pierce the moon’s heart for her.
Red Moon
Pitchfork creases fanned outwards from the corners of her dark golden eyes, the lids down-turned curves, a perpetual squint from decades of brilliant sunlight. The coppery leather skin no longer stretched taught across her towering frame, but neither did it bunch in folds since there was no excess beneath it. Whether her normally and naturally lithe and graceful movements had been slowed by the advance of time or accumulation of grief, it was only very barely noticeable, most keenly evident at times such as this.
She had stood vigil the traditional span of time, in reverence and absolute silence. Whatever tears begged presence were not granted audience, and the shuddering threat of them stilled only under the perfect discipline ingrained so deeply into her. There were no longer any to hear, and she had long ago forgotten the taste of them.
Her scalp was protected by a cap of sand-colored hair, a snarl of tight curls kept closely cropped and massaged vigorously with the same white fat that kept her from scratching to distraction when she could least afford it. She ran her thickly calloused hand through the tense curls now as the sun dragged the day down behind it towards the horizon. Her massive legs, thick as the lower branches of the white oak, stood splayed apart, tapering down to disproportionately large feet that sprouted webbed toes. She had not been the only one to have them.
There had been attempts, halfhearted at best, to procreate, to preserve the line. Yet the more desperate the need to do so, the more desperate each was needed to defend. No one wished to be left behind, to be singled out for special protection. Their training had been so thorough that circumventing it, even for a reasonable cause, seemed impossible. And so . . no pregnancy ever made it full term.
Thus, today, she had watched the very last beside herself fall. They had, with ever dwindling numbers, become all the more discrete. The small ones they were charged to Guard had no eyes to see them, although there seemed to be a scattered few that sensed their presence, or at least the presence of something more than themselves. More often than not, they prided themselves with the impossible and inexplicable kill. "It was as if my arrow were given breath by the gods themselves . . it could not miss!" But it did, and often. The Guardians were careful to aim only where the small ones did.
And yet evil suffered no similar blinders. Their aim was not always errant, and one by one, the great ones were lost. Never, not once, did a slayer escape, and not without a hundredfold of their dark brethren as well for good measure. Their numbers, too, were no longer as abundant.
Yet they still outnumbered her.
The Archer gripped the Blood Arrow as if it would take flight on its own if she relaxed the aching hand even slightly, and watched for the silvery curve of moonrise. Each breath measured to calm and smother the very smallest of strayed emotion. To duty. It came, a ghostly bream that slowly simmered upwards, yet still beneath the horizon’s distant surface. Sinewed arms drew back the polished wood as the bowstring grew impossibly taut. The blackened quiet had a weight to it that she had never felt before, pressing against her chest like the embrace of death itself. She hadn’t the slightest fear of missing her target, though she could never have explained how it could ever fly true.
It had to be timed so precisely, just as the very first sliver emerged. Her right eye squinted close, one last breath drawn in, jaw tensed as the one single word escaped her clenched teeth and barely parted lips exactly as the crisp hiss brushed past her cheek. Her arms lowered so slowly that it seemed time had been wrenched and altered, and she began the silent count inside her head. The thought tumbled lazily through her breathless mind that perhaps the counting was nothing more than a ruse to keep you from forgetting to breathe again.
A blossoming of rose began so faintly she had to blink her painfully dry lids together, as she had since the very first time she had been called to bear honor. As the color grew, her spirits withered, flickering for one selfish moment. All the world would know something had shifted, for the red moons were not common any longer. Their rarity alone guaranteed them a mystical place in the songs of those who saw such things.
And finally the tears rose as she permitted the sadness to envelope her that had been barricaded safely for long years . . for who would there be to pierce the moon’s heart for her.
See......told you so! Enchanting! xxxx
My words are prefaced by those of another: "Silence is at once the most harmless and the most awful thing in all nature" ~ Melville)
