a twine of threads
|
It is the dead of winter. I am coming closer to you, and already, I miss you. And already, it is a distant ache. Am I detaching to protect myself, I wonder? Or is this ... another machination of fate... "I thought for certain I'd fuck it up as usual, go on like a bit of a prat and then pull my amazing swallowing foot technique. But it wasn't half bad now, was it?" "...It is time for Avalon to return to those who need it most. This body is theirs, I give it to them. With it my soul. With it, my being. For this land and I are indivisible. I am Avalon..." "Hindsight is clear-sighted," Davydd exhales, cigarette crushed and the fire is out. "And all the things I have done, there's not a single one I'd repeat but one, and that was lodging the king's sword in Mithras' chest." Davydd ap Owain moves within the white void. What has he to fear? If the floor falls away, he will become a bird. If it rains water, he'll become a fish. If it turns to fire. Well, if it turns to fire he's fucked, but at least it will be quick. From crescent to quarter to full, the moon will show its variable face, donning one mask after the other. So, too, myself, but in terms opposite. "I love you both equally," Davydd drawls out with a grin straight from the Devil. "Drop your robe," the Welsh is deep, earthy, sensual and soft. "When the Maiden stood before Death," his mouth threatens a smile, "...she begged for her life..." "I'm not lazy," Davydd contends. "You were right the first time, Fiona. I am afraid..." "...Without Life, Death has no meaning. Without Death, Life has no lure..." "...I've learned a lot about my own choices recently. They haven't been the best. The trick is not to repeat them. There's only the potential of forever. Forever... really only exists if you're God. And I'm many things, but I'm not God." Before, where proficiency of centuries collaborated openly with musical passion there is now virtuosity. And he is the music that he plucks, and he is the notes he plays, solidified. Davydd stands upon the third terrace down, the Aviary Terrace, the flowers blossoming behind him, the birds flying in and out, calling to the evening, calling to their mates, and he is the stillness amid the blossoming, orgasmic world, standing beneath the flowering vines, his hands upon the red stone of the terrace's railing. Hazel fruit fall from the pregnant trees to the swollen, running river. A land that sings of Death and Harvest, but everywhere there is Life. Life not in its beginning but in the fullness of its power, in the wealth of it, a land in bounty, limitless. The more peaceful on the exterior, the more tumultuous the internal. The more hectic, war-crazy the exterior, the more peaceful he is within. That is your man there...in all his paradox... A single starling lifts from his rest, a single starling takes to the wing, a single starling flies to an open window. The herald, the totem of the Holly King... There is a smile. That is all I want. It's all I want and it's good enough for me. Davydd follows the path made by stags long before him, by the passing of the breeze knowing the depth of the wood and the location of the brooks that cut within it. You have only to listen. "The Never...has no place here," Edward begins, not really sure of where he goes with this. He isn't dead. One such green and silver wonder lands beside you, skitters along the stone and slaps against a rampart, leaving behind a paler, but no less charismatic and balls-to-the-wall Welshman, hair disheveled and clothing rumpled. Only one horse? What do you suppose such young men do out in the woods needing only one horse? And with an extravagant amount of hounds. Clearly, they are sleeping together. Beauteous the crowned head that tilts to the voice of the salmon. The water sloshes as he walks within it, becoming in mere moments, a salmon himself. Trying to prove? What makes you say so, Gwydion the Blessed?
Like a circle in a spiral Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning On an ever-spinning reel |