[…]
Parvus, parvus pulsus
Cor mortem ducens
Vita mollis in stellam redeunt
Animam sacrificare necesse est?
Cur in gremio haeremus?
Cur veniam petimus
In terram fatali?
- “The Promised Land,” Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
The land breathes.
She breathes it in, letting its breath into her lungs. Her eyes flutter closed and she can see the stars, hear the wind, feel the trembling of the ground beneath her feet. In and out, in and out, lungs squeezing gently, until the sound of the wind is her own heartbeat, her blood rushing into her fingers and toes.
The land bends.
She bends with it, becoming whatever shape it needs. Her body is a conduit, bridge built of flesh and bones, a river of aether. Her muscles ache and her joints protest, struggling beneath its weight, until she finds her balance, the place where the two are one. When she finds it she can see for malms, she can smell the life and the decay in tenuous harmony.
The land burns.
She burns brighter, pulling the fire through her veins, into her throat. The heat leaves in whispers, in murmurs, in screams; a gift and a curse to those who hear, to all who would seek to snuff it out. She crackles, she roars, she sighs tenderly, and the warmth of the land caresses her as it burns from the inside out.
The land breaks.
She breaks upon it, begs its forgiveness, begs its relief. Her hands shake and her voice cracks in the dark, shattering like ice under heavy footfalls. Voices cry out, damning, shaming, pleading, thousands of weightless souls crushing her all at once, only to disappear into the smoke. Fragile specters remain behind her eyelids, urging her tears, demanding her to look upon them when she sleeps.
The land bleeds.
She bleeds, and she bleeds, and she bleeds. Steel and flesh are one, and the taste is bitter, spat onto the ground with a laugh. Her blood is red and it is black, purity and sin flowing from a single wound; it mingles and mixes with the land until she can no longer see the divide, no longer distinguish whose voice leaves her lips. She gives in, but she takes, and holds with white knuckled hands, with the only strength she has left.
The land scars.
She scars in its stead, her shoulders weary from the weight. She wears them inside her clothes, inside her mind, and on her tongue when she speaks. She holds her arms open to them, welcomes them as she curses them, smiles as her eyes fill with light.
Lisa be frustrating me with her "I want out!!" business like... girl, you just can't put your foot out in the middle of dabbling with magic and cursing someone, especially if you haven't fulfilled the conditions of making it a successful one!
