The Soulsmith
Oyva sees.
Two souls of old: fiery and fleshy, bloated and withered, dead but not dead. Father but not Father. Flayed to ruin and twined together with the strands of their screeching remains until they are one. Until they are Other.
A soul of youth: flickering dimly in the Other’s orbit of searing greed, spinning, spinning. Twisted too. Twisted, yet tender. A soul of soft wet clay, fresh from the banks. Fingernails mark deep its parched flesh.
And beyond both, a soul of gold.
But not the gold of kings. The gold of heroes.
The glint of dawn on a blade raised in mercy. Winter sunlight scattered across clear ice. A wild bloom that holds fast in blackness, when even the high meadow withers away. It is courage and virtue, innocence and eternity. It is the light that mighty Death himself cannot extinguish. The last defiance in the dark.
“Beautiful,” Oyva breathes, and the word tastes like hope. When she opens her eyes, there is only cold black forest. Still, she swears she can see the sun flash in the distance, blinding bright. Warm as Marzanna’s embrace.
Sister, the wind calls, mourning. Doom is coming.
Yes, she thinks, and smiles. But so is Destiny.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Snippet from The Soulsmith. Happy 19th anniversary, DF.
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