when the phoenix has finished a thousand years of life (and long lengths of time become painful to her), she flees her sweet, familiar nest of the grove and renews herself in time's turning spaces
// there she builds for herself some nest or sepulcher: for she dies to live, creating herself from herself
// so at last, upon her own funeral pyre, the spirit in her and around her and above her inspires her to die
[from de ave phoenice, lucius lactantius, trans. emmett p. tracy]
* SEND ONE OF THESE IN MY ASKBOX TO SEE HOW MY MUSE REACTS !!
HE CANNOT SWALLOW THE METAPHORICAL STONE sitting in his throat; cannot will muscled arms riddled with deep scars and bits of iron to stop cradling the unmoving, blanket-swaddled black lump in his grasp. To acknowledge the Hillbilly’s words would be to acknowledge the reality of their situation, and Evan isn’t so sure he’s prepared for that. Arms continue to bounce the small shape, head bowed in a combination of grief and anger, silently stewing in his own rage & misery. It’s not fair. All She’d done was try Her hardest to present him with a gift — what he’s always wanted, what THEY’VE always wanted… but like all the others, the Entity’s efforts to create something NOT OF THIS WORLD & THE NEXT have been fruitless. Empty. A brief glimmer of hope, only to be snuffed out like the spark of a hex totem. This infant has perished just like all those that came before, and She grows weaker every day. The VOID rumbles, the fog echoing with the distant threat of thunder; the distant cry of the webs of this world threatening to unravel. They cannot afford to keep doing this. They cannot afford to keep trying, for it only makes Her frailer, and him angrier.
“We are not loosin’.” He snarls roughly, sharply shrugs away his brother in bloodshed’s mangled hand upon his shoulder, turns the bulk of his body to shield the bundle in his arms as he makes to bend both knees, lower the blanketed shape into small, shallow grave he’s dug, aligned with the others, tombstones bits of rock and bone, whatever he can salvage to make their tombs known. This is the final resting places of his heirs; a makeshift graveyard for the souls Macmillan never truly knew, but loved with all his heart anyway, because they were apart of him. Apart of Her. But in this world, they cannot be. Only the resurrected & the living can thrive here, for nothing can be forged from salvaged genetics and whatever mega-essence fuels his queen. In their desperation, She has become weak. Weakness results in further hunger, further starvation. And as She starves, trials become harder. Rewards scarce. The pressure builds. His rage consumes. She seeks comfort in his arms. RINSE. REPEAT. RINSE. REPEAT. And on, and on, the wheel spins. They are loosing. THEY ARE LOOSING, no matter how hard he denies it; this a battle against nature, their true natures, and it is one they cannot fight alone. But it would appear the war against their ruination looks no closer to ending.
One would have to be blind or extremely ignorant to not acknowledge the things that have been happening in the fog; things happening to his home, their way of life, and most importantly, the effects things have been having on his beloved. The way of the fog is, regrettably, changing — and Evan fears it’s not for the better, as this is a way of life once so strong, now is proving it may not be very sustainable. It relies too heavy on the active fear of others to feed the eldritch abomination that keeps the fluttering flies wrapped up in tight sharp, sharp silk. But the regulars don’t know fear anymore. They don’t know it as well as newcomers, fresh pickings ripe and unknowing of their surroundings. New killers add flavor to the meat, but soon, that too becomes bland; the well grows dry. Yes, he’d be a fool to deny it, deny that repetition may very well be their downfall. But deny it Macmillan does, swallows his terror. He refuses to show even a crack of weakness, even as calloused hands take up shovel and make to bury the remains of his last child, THEIR last child. He knows they can’t keep trying. If She does this again, it might kill Her before the lack of dying survivors do.
That’s a terrifying thought. Everything; this world, his existence, his brother’s existence, his love’s very life hangs in the balance, precariously balancing on the fine line, ready to collapse in on itself like a fragile house of paper cards. But he won’t admit defeat, won’t show his fear — HE CAN’T SHOW WEAKNESS. He has to be strong, for the sake of the others; put on that grinning maw mask and let all emotion but the anger drain from him. Evan knows that he has to do something, because if not him, who else? Who else would risk their life for Hers? Evan doesn’t feel as if any of the others understand the complexity of the bond he shares with the Webspinner. To them, She is God; the superior force of the food chain that requires feeding, the strongest of all monsters lurking in the shadows. But to him, She is much more than that. If he doesn’t work himself to the bone to try and feed Her, who else will? The others, they don’t understand, and Billy — Billy’s gone through one shit existence already. Macmillan isn’t prepared to let the stress build upon his platonic sibling’s scarred shoulders, too. He doesn’t want to be honest with the slaughterer of Coldwind farm, no matter how accurate the younger killer’s statement is.
Macmillan flattens the ground with the curved side of his spade, squares his shoulders as he stands straight. He turns to discard the garden instrument, rubs his nose with the back of grime & blood flecked hand. “We can’t loose sight ‘uv what’s important.” He finally speaks again, words as dry as gravel in his throat. “We can’t look at this with — with NEGATIVE SIGHT!! We can’t loose, that’s impossible. We never loose! We just — we have t’try harder. That’s all it is. We have t’give it our all, one ‘undred — I have to try harder.” Even if it kills him, he has to keep feeding Her. He won’t accept defeat. Macmillan is far too afraid STUBBORN for that.
If you don't mind me making a musical suggestion, you might also enjoy Era. It's more choir than Crowley or Two Steps from Hell, but a lot of their music has that sweeping soundtrack-esque feel, and I suspect you might enjoy them if you haven't already discovered them.
I’ve probably heard them but I don’t remember. I used to listen to a lot of instrumental, orchestral stuff a few years back cause it really helped the writing I was doing (usually fantasy and fight scenes and such). There used to be a LOT more playlists on youtube and stuff full of the ‘epic music’ genre so i wouldn’t always pay attention to what was playing so long that it was and it kept me in that writing groove. But I’ll poke around!
