51st of spring
lingering between twilight and morning
Once again, he awoke before dawn.
The crickets and cicadas were still grinding out their songs to a not-quite-gray sky when he slipped from his tent, shuddering in his clothes to warm them. The air was damp and cool in his lungs, heavy with dew and the scents of a thousand flowers that were not yet ready to face the sun. Above him, the dimmest stars had already faded, and while the brightest continued to burn, their brilliancy was muted by the thickening fog of the oncoming morn. These were the hours of silver, when the world’s absolute stillness created the illusion of an eternity, suspended serenely in the endless silence. Gone when dawn came, but here, in the time of half-seen shades and the deafening quiet when even the wind seemed not to caress the savannah, time ceased to have meaning.
These were his hours, after the night slept and before the day woke: the hours of emptiness. The hours of solitude.
Each step was measured, careful; his eyes flickered over the ground before him as he forsook his camp for the deeper grass, and his softly wrapped feet fell on only the open dirt or the mold-blackened grass of winter. Here, now, the world was almost ethereal in its mysterious silence; this was the time of spirits and the unknown, of half-waking dreams forgotten as soon as they appeared. They were sacred, these hours, and he walked through the curling mist with the utmost respect; to him, breaking this pure, unviolated serenity was a sin greater than waste. He moved step by painfully calm step, stride as slow as he needed it to be in order to remain silent. Though his progress was incredibly slow to build, it still bore its own rewards: nothing spoke of his passing but the footprints in the earth, followed by the barest, moment-long whisper of the grass.
His javelins were not on his back this morning, and the knife at his hip had been donned out of little more than pure habit. He did not fear the unguarded brush as he did in day or night, because here, now, nothing stirred save for the stray scorpions scuttling between the stones. Too late for nocturnal beasts, to early for diurnal ones; a city-dweller would call it an absolutely ungodly hour. He, however, thought it the most godly of all.
He found himself wondering briefly if the gods slept. Leth and Syna, it would be easy enough to imagine, but what of Laviku? Did he sleep? Did fish sleep? Or Zulrav? Semele? Lady Caiyha? What would a god dream of? Did they dream of mortal things, like home or their lovers or far-off plans? Or did they dream of something different, something beyond human comprehension?
He resolved to ask, should he ever come face-to-face with a deity. His own dreams had become darkened of late; the small, odd group of travelers had followed the Bluevein closely, and he knew that soon, very soon, they would have to attempt a ford of one of her parent rivers: the Ki. He had no knowledge of the Ki; would it be a slow river? A fast one? Would it have banks or massive cliffs? Water so turbulent that you could become lost beneath the waves if you fell in? So calm that the surface looked like glass?
He closed his eyes and took a breath, long and deep. If there was one thing he disliked, it was planning; thinking of the past and future too frequently would draw attention from the present, and the present was where he lived. He was a creature of instinct and intuition; he followed his gut, and while his intentions were often half-formed and vague, he had never fallen prey to them. He was still standing.
And so he would wait. He would hunt to feed himself and his companions. He would take care of them, and when they reached the Ki they would cross it. Then they would find the Serenity Tree.
Then they would find his name.
lingering between twilight and morning
Once again, he awoke before dawn.
The crickets and cicadas were still grinding out their songs to a not-quite-gray sky when he slipped from his tent, shuddering in his clothes to warm them. The air was damp and cool in his lungs, heavy with dew and the scents of a thousand flowers that were not yet ready to face the sun. Above him, the dimmest stars had already faded, and while the brightest continued to burn, their brilliancy was muted by the thickening fog of the oncoming morn. These were the hours of silver, when the world’s absolute stillness created the illusion of an eternity, suspended serenely in the endless silence. Gone when dawn came, but here, in the time of half-seen shades and the deafening quiet when even the wind seemed not to caress the savannah, time ceased to have meaning.
These were his hours, after the night slept and before the day woke: the hours of emptiness. The hours of solitude.
Each step was measured, careful; his eyes flickered over the ground before him as he forsook his camp for the deeper grass, and his softly wrapped feet fell on only the open dirt or the mold-blackened grass of winter. Here, now, the world was almost ethereal in its mysterious silence; this was the time of spirits and the unknown, of half-waking dreams forgotten as soon as they appeared. They were sacred, these hours, and he walked through the curling mist with the utmost respect; to him, breaking this pure, unviolated serenity was a sin greater than waste. He moved step by painfully calm step, stride as slow as he needed it to be in order to remain silent. Though his progress was incredibly slow to build, it still bore its own rewards: nothing spoke of his passing but the footprints in the earth, followed by the barest, moment-long whisper of the grass.
His javelins were not on his back this morning, and the knife at his hip had been donned out of little more than pure habit. He did not fear the unguarded brush as he did in day or night, because here, now, nothing stirred save for the stray scorpions scuttling between the stones. Too late for nocturnal beasts, to early for diurnal ones; a city-dweller would call it an absolutely ungodly hour. He, however, thought it the most godly of all.
He found himself wondering briefly if the gods slept. Leth and Syna, it would be easy enough to imagine, but what of Laviku? Did he sleep? Did fish sleep? Or Zulrav? Semele? Lady Caiyha? What would a god dream of? Did they dream of mortal things, like home or their lovers or far-off plans? Or did they dream of something different, something beyond human comprehension?
He resolved to ask, should he ever come face-to-face with a deity. His own dreams had become darkened of late; the small, odd group of travelers had followed the Bluevein closely, and he knew that soon, very soon, they would have to attempt a ford of one of her parent rivers: the Ki. He had no knowledge of the Ki; would it be a slow river? A fast one? Would it have banks or massive cliffs? Water so turbulent that you could become lost beneath the waves if you fell in? So calm that the surface looked like glass?
He closed his eyes and took a breath, long and deep. If there was one thing he disliked, it was planning; thinking of the past and future too frequently would draw attention from the present, and the present was where he lived. He was a creature of instinct and intuition; he followed his gut, and while his intentions were often half-formed and vague, he had never fallen prey to them. He was still standing.
And so he would wait. He would hunt to feed himself and his companions. He would take care of them, and when they reached the Ki they would cross it. Then they would find the Serenity Tree.
Then they would find his name.
