"Last thing I remember, I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave'"
Hotel California, Eagles
{Part II: When We Came and Went, Chapter 10: Claimed}
WC: 3859
CW: vision loss, violence, sexual content, blood, alcohol use
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East as east could be before Wixla By the Sea and the jewel in her Emperor’s coronet, Marva-Vehx. Jewel not because it was beautiful, indeed what beauty could be found at the bottom of trench after trench? The land here was cut with them, as though Kava herself scarred the earth just to remind her people she could. No, beautiful then, because each crevice represented oh so many ways the enemy could lose sight of the Emperor and his men. Might they collapse into the folds of a rippling mirage? Perhaps fall with the sun over the horizon? Together they’d shift, grains of sand over sand, sweeping and diving into the terrain they called home, the souls of their brothers and fathers clutched between their teeth.
A quiet shifting, a whisper, announced the soldiers as they marched about camp. Words were only exchanged at first light, and even then only in the softest of voices, as squadron leaders gave the day’s orders to their men. A testament to the careful way they emulated Kava’s creation. But their mimicry began and ended with their silence.
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Hantaph had a strange profile. There were no great walls or gates, instead, its people lived in their wood-woven homes, scattered between the thick trunks and the thin, as though they were part of the Heartland’s verdant undergrowth. The only indication of the settlement’s beginning and end were the Watchmen of the Hantaphian Reserves, robed in their sacred earthen-colored habit and placed at intervals upon its invisible border. They faced ever outward, their eyes and all their senses keen for anything on the horizon, and were so still, they might be mistaken for trees, grown in the form of man.
In his younger days, Quye’ck could only reason them as living statues, lying in wait for the blink of darkness which came as the day shut its weary eyes and was replaced by man’s poor, orange rendering of a star field. Only then could they stretch their limbs and mouths—the objects which they used to Consume—sight unseen. Then, as the dark and firelight’s glow intensified, their silhouettes elongated, their yevlla-thick arms took on the shape and shade of the real thing, and their faces disappeared, becoming plain tree bark. Someone, in the right light and in the wrong frame of mind, might swear the ordinary trees before them had just been men. Another might laugh at the notion of such an active imagination.
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Gray mists shrouded the mornings, warm lamplight lit the nights, and the hours in between bathed themselves in shadows, spotted with diffused sunlight, pallidly shining through the clouds and trees. Heavy rains swept over the hilly, densely clustered terrain on most days, pelting the reaching trees and thick undergrowth—her gluttonous lovers. Framing their passionate cries were the rapacious calls of fauna. Shrieking birds, trilling insects, occasional heaves of large creatures, and the screaming of furry little things called chavya—-monkeys.
They, in particular, howled into the space as if it were their own private theater. And they fought often. Dozens and dozens of those interposing voices echoed between the trees, exhorting a most wicked violence from their chosen combatant. And on the rarest of occasions, momentary silence, introduced by the menacing roar of a jungle cat. Sometimes the quiet lasted just a few minutes, other times nearer an hour, as if this remote place, and all in it, held a collective breath, anxiously waiting for the danger to pass.
"No se puede corregir a la naturaleza
Palo que nace doblao
Jamás su tronco endereza"
El Gran Varon, Willie Colon
translation:
(Nature cannot be corrected. The tree which is born bent, may never straighten.)
A favorite song of mine that is as tragic as it is beautiful, read more about it here.
{Part I: When We Were Young, Chapter 1: Favorite}
WC: 1758
CW: None
M.O.W Taglist: @moonluringfrost @writeblr-of-my-own @illjustpretend @sparatus @outpost51
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Daybreak. Mandatory sunning for at least an hour. Then lessons. First in private lecture with his siblings, then outside their home for the passersby of Miranx to see. Under Pa’s instruction, of course. Then books. So many books. Books as far as the eye could see and pages turning. So many pages turning. In contest with a neighboring reader? Probably. And if it was midweek, a prayer to Kava, then to Ishva, lest one grow jealous of the other, followed by a meal. Large, usually uncarved. Maybe freshly slaughtered. Well, not maybe. Definitely. Then to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
But now it was time for books and what a stack he’d gathered already! Many humble brown-black covers, some painted, some not, though all weathered, lay atop the table he’d selected in this silent hall. ‘Silent’. Softly, so softly, the world vibrated around him. Bassy, concentrated mutterings of those close by, the gentle flip and scratch produced by parchment across tabletops, and the scritch-scritch-scritching of quill tips all tickled his stapes. A reminder that silence need not equate to lifelessness. And not just around him, but in his hands too. Between those humble covers, upon those delicate pages, but most of all, along the spines.
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“Yeshenda malewya!”
The group stirred.
“Yeshenda malewya!”
Louder now.
They rose.
The order arrived in the same manner it had each morning, given by the gruff-looking man called Major Xvya and carried on the dry breath of the Holtepian desert’s wind. On some days, the orders found their limbs and attention quickly. On others, it forced them upright, much like the stubborn will of life pushing seedlings through muck and filth. But orders and life were both unaware, or willfully ignorant, of the hapless world and baneful sun that awaited the commanded.
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The seal of Lord Talga was a distinct one. Poured in milk white wax and sunken with his initials, it ensured the enclosed decree would not be ignored or disobeyed. And his missives were always opened on arrival, even if the hour was a late one, so the clan elders could expediently enact his orders. A senior-most member would then relay the missives contents to the rest of the clan, usually via a reading each morning after sunning hour. The organized nature of it all, while important, created a frightening balance of monotony and dread.
His communications were not varied, let alone personal. There was never mention of missing home. He never sent love to his children, nor expressed to be reunited with his dear wife. Strange, considering they’d always been lauded as the forces behind his staunch moral center and everlasting sense of duty. Or at least that’s the way Eiph’ck remembered it. Perhaps no longer. Or perhaps it had never been. There were only two constants: the number of dead and of the war that each day slipped further and further out of their control. Occasionally reports of success. But only very occasionally. Usually only death and loss, loss and death. Today was no different.
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Quye’ck’s practice sword went flying as he fell back into the mud with a grunt and a splat. The cadets that surrounded the sparring ring laughed and lobbed whispered jabs his way. He frowned. Assholes. He propped himself up with a sigh, shivering as the breeze cooled the mud on his back. Admitting that their laughs and this waterlogged ground were his closest companions of late was kind of pathetic, even if it was true.
“On your feet!” Warden Ophax circled him, waster sword in hand. “Or do you think the enemy is going to give you the chance to collect yourself?!”
“I can count on it if they’re anythin’ like you…” Quye’ck muttered as he pulled his tail free from the soaked earth with a squelch.
“You smarmy little bastard—!”
“Enough, Sir Ophax. Enough.” Warden Eraj stepped forward, clapping a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Let the boy on his feet.”
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Seventy-two. The figure remained seared in Eiph’ck’s mind from his younger-than-now days. It was a favorite number of Son Lampa, somehow always coming to punctuate his claims of maturity and readiness for more. More what? Eiph’ck didn’t know, but he remembered how it made their Ma flinch anytime he brought it up, though she seemed to flinch at everything, and how their Pa always reminded him he had a long way to go. But go where? It seemed all men had a number and were transported somewhere because of it. Where? Who could say.
All Eiph’ck knew was that he had no number, therefore not admitted to that secret destination. But could he have one? And could he go to that place too? He’d asked once and met with no answer. The men only laughed and patted his Pa on the back for a job well done. But what job had he done? Eiph’ck didn’t know. So the figure and place both remained immaterial. Elusive. Determined to stay that way because the men would only laugh if he asked. In truth, it was not for him to know yet, but such was not enough to sate him then…
