father of the flower
The ground stretches towards the yawning deep in a defiantly eerie blue-white swathe as I inch my head, translucent crystals falling like diamond dust, from the charred rock beneath my cooling form. Svarog's breath comes crisp and sharp as toothed steel in swift procession from beyond the black veil of the west, keening and carrying it's grim whispers of defeat with every gust. Skin pale and slightly blued from countless days asleep atop the world I clench a fist and hear the cracking of my icy blanket join in Svarog's chant of desolation. Surrounded by the shattered stone of the great fist that had once tried to bar my path I raise myself to sit, a small dark spot at the gaping centre of a circle of jagged rock teeth seemingly born from this austere trough of land.
How long has the earth held me in it's lover's arms, stars dancing above along their own paths in graceful arcs like fish jumping across a still lake in the early twilight, I'll never know. The grace of gods will work it's way on time as well as will, and who am I to question when it's whims are set to light my way, to pull me up when all hands slip through mine like phantoms mocking my fevered grasp.
The stone beneath me sighs it's last breath of fire, now only a dream of a shadow of smoke, as I rise and turn toward the glittering of Perun's axe half buried in the snow and still unmarred despite it's bloody past. Around me the land lies quiet, unmindful or forgetting our recent history of conflict, in the gloom of the world's night. Pulling inward I gather my wits, draw tight my senses, steel the flesh to carry out it's task, call up will and madness of the whirlwind.
And I can feel the seed within me.
Here in the bleak infertile north where nothing grows but the wind and the hatreds of those long dead the bud of an ancient light has been nurtured and begun to open. The light of gods burning from inside to spur me on to action. Even in it's infancy I can sense it's potency, it's well of strength fed from the streams below the roots of Yggdrasil. Ember white but fading into pale orange and finally red before the flames leap out like warriors brandishing sword and axe, their bear sarks burning under angry skies on foreign beaches before screaming townsfolk. I want to split the stars, the axe blade of my rage sending the light spiraling outwards in a spidery kaleidascope of fading sparks. Grinning ear to ear as the void stares back with the empty gaze it wore before the spirit of the divine moved upon it's inky face.
On legs now steady but unused to working from such lengthy stillness, one hand clenched rigor-tight on the faintly humming handle of my axe, I push forward.
How long has the earth held me in it's lover's arms, stars dancing above along their own paths in graceful arcs like fish jumping across a still lake in the early twilight, I'll never know. The grace of gods will work it's way on time as well as will, and who am I to question when it's whims are set to light my way, to pull me up when all hands slip through mine like phantoms mocking my fevered grasp.
The stone beneath me sighs it's last breath of fire, now only a dream of a shadow of smoke, as I rise and turn toward the glittering of Perun's axe half buried in the snow and still unmarred despite it's bloody past. Around me the land lies quiet, unmindful or forgetting our recent history of conflict, in the gloom of the world's night. Pulling inward I gather my wits, draw tight my senses, steel the flesh to carry out it's task, call up will and madness of the whirlwind.
And I can feel the seed within me.
Here in the bleak infertile north where nothing grows but the wind and the hatreds of those long dead the bud of an ancient light has been nurtured and begun to open. The light of gods burning from inside to spur me on to action. Even in it's infancy I can sense it's potency, it's well of strength fed from the streams below the roots of Yggdrasil. Ember white but fading into pale orange and finally red before the flames leap out like warriors brandishing sword and axe, their bear sarks burning under angry skies on foreign beaches before screaming townsfolk. I want to split the stars, the axe blade of my rage sending the light spiraling outwards in a spidery kaleidascope of fading sparks. Grinning ear to ear as the void stares back with the empty gaze it wore before the spirit of the divine moved upon it's inky face.
On legs now steady but unused to working from such lengthy stillness, one hand clenched rigor-tight on the faintly humming handle of my axe, I push forward.