perhaps, a millenia ago, before all of the world had become what it is now – glaciers might have covered the entirety of lanayru, crackling in deep blue fissures from the northernmost point of upland zorana to the necluda sea.
it certainly seems as though the region is linked by more than simply location; as mipha climbs lanayru mountain, breath fogging ahead of her and snow dusting her head, she recognizes the crisp coolness of the air that so permeates zora’s domain, notes the purity of the crystalline ice formations, how they hiss and run with clear water under her elixir-warmed hand.
she comes without an escort.
but then – one isn’t needed.
the climb gets steeper, her steps slower – when she rounds the last gentle slope that leads to the shrine of wisdom, the lady mipha lets her shoulders slump with relief.
it will be a while yet before the being she wishes to have an audience with arrives; locating a boulder that juts from the mountainside at an extreme edge, she clears the surface of snow, sets her cloth-covered basket down, and lets her feet dangle over the side as she sits. then:
she will have to wait longer yet, for the day wanes ever
steadily, unwilling to release the heavens, even as
sunlight melts and carves a path for a dusk that falls
in slow, creeping waves. for even as the night peaks,
the cold deepens, the mist thickens, and the snowfall
hastens, her audience remains unseen, unheard —
disappointingly absent.
but then, hark! as the moon climbs its highest and the
stars cast their brightest: a call, a cry, a bellow from
above! they sunder the clouds with a burst of star-
plucked snow, sweep the brume away with a huff of
glacial wind. I AM HERE, they trill, all rich rumbles
and sonorous tones, I AM HERE, COME TO BLESS
YOU, COME TO BLESS THIS LAND OF HOPE.
they land 'pon their perch with a gentle thump, claws
clacking ‘gainst god-touched ice and scales glistering
beneath pure bonelight. their soul bleeds into the land
then, kisses and hallows it as it always has: swirling
crystals stretch ‘cross the earth, furling tangled
patterns with each delicate fold and curve; quaking
ripples and holy frost line the waters of their well; life
freezes over and time treads gently — it is the coming
of winter few are fortunate enough to witness.
❛ you have bided well, water-dancer, ❜ the thrum
of their soul, muted now that their blessing is
given, chirrs, ❛ come, child. tell me what it is that
you seek. ❜
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
vaporwave
jacobvanloon
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
