Visiting
Title: Visiting
Word Count: 410
Notes: Written for a writing meme challenge.
Summary: A hundred years after the story of The Winged Ones., a traveler stumbles across a piece of their culture.
For michael_collins
Visiting
The Highlands were full of rumors and foggy uncertainties. Voices crept through the high grasses, whispers of pain and death that kept most of his people away. ‘The shades of sinners left in ruins of their own making’ was one of the most common explanations. And there were many ruins, beautiful white stone buildings caked with sand the colour of blood, sometimes radiantly intact; sometimes only the slightest impression of greatness peering out from the mist. It frightened his people, and they kept to the Lowlands, ignoring the prime farmland and keeping their native lolling hills.
He was different though. There had always been something that called him here, and it brought courage that he hesitated to use at first. The first time he explained this to the elders, they had looked down at his five-year old self sadly. “You must resist the urge.” They said. “Resist and you will not suffer the same fate as those who came before you.”
So he stayed in the village, cultivating the land that let him grow strong, strong enough to face what nobody else wanted to. “I need to know why.” He told himself, eyes scanning the rocky shadows around him for any kind of predator. Nobody returned from the heart of the Highlands as they were before. Madness. Illness. Loss of limbs. ‘All consequences of youth’s folly.’
But as he entered one of the intact-looking buildings, he saw many paintings on the walls, worn with time but still distinguishable. A beautiful female, stood in the centre, her mouth open in song as her eyes bore into him. He stepped closer, running a hand over the outline of wings, pure white and feathered like a bird’s. “People of light.” He named them, knowing that this was the Fallen’s true nature. “People who were blinded and now lie in shadow.”
The painting seemed to have its own soul for just one moment, colour returning to it so the winged creature looked blissfully alive, and he felt pain stab into his shoulder bones, just above the birth scars that his elders also refused to explain. Then the pain retreated, and the painting became lifeless once again.
The wind picked up, whistling through the tower’s broad windows and the ruined town. Regretfully, he left the place with a soft song of regret. It had almost felt like home for that moment, but his people were right. One cannot intrude on a place of sorrow.
Word Count: 410
Notes: Written for a writing meme challenge.
Summary: A hundred years after the story of The Winged Ones., a traveler stumbles across a piece of their culture.
For michael_collins
Visiting
The Highlands were full of rumors and foggy uncertainties. Voices crept through the high grasses, whispers of pain and death that kept most of his people away. ‘The shades of sinners left in ruins of their own making’ was one of the most common explanations. And there were many ruins, beautiful white stone buildings caked with sand the colour of blood, sometimes radiantly intact; sometimes only the slightest impression of greatness peering out from the mist. It frightened his people, and they kept to the Lowlands, ignoring the prime farmland and keeping their native lolling hills.
He was different though. There had always been something that called him here, and it brought courage that he hesitated to use at first. The first time he explained this to the elders, they had looked down at his five-year old self sadly. “You must resist the urge.” They said. “Resist and you will not suffer the same fate as those who came before you.”
So he stayed in the village, cultivating the land that let him grow strong, strong enough to face what nobody else wanted to. “I need to know why.” He told himself, eyes scanning the rocky shadows around him for any kind of predator. Nobody returned from the heart of the Highlands as they were before. Madness. Illness. Loss of limbs. ‘All consequences of youth’s folly.’
But as he entered one of the intact-looking buildings, he saw many paintings on the walls, worn with time but still distinguishable. A beautiful female, stood in the centre, her mouth open in song as her eyes bore into him. He stepped closer, running a hand over the outline of wings, pure white and feathered like a bird’s. “People of light.” He named them, knowing that this was the Fallen’s true nature. “People who were blinded and now lie in shadow.”
The painting seemed to have its own soul for just one moment, colour returning to it so the winged creature looked blissfully alive, and he felt pain stab into his shoulder bones, just above the birth scars that his elders also refused to explain. Then the pain retreated, and the painting became lifeless once again.
The wind picked up, whistling through the tower’s broad windows and the ruined town. Regretfully, he left the place with a soft song of regret. It had almost felt like home for that moment, but his people were right. One cannot intrude on a place of sorrow.