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And on the first day of summer, he appears in the abandoned threshold of the gods, coat damp with sweat, fatigued but determined.
Carnesîr pads forward quietly, moving in such a way he is more reminiscent of cat or wolf than horse. A rain falls, the thick, soupy warm rain of summer, consistent and quiet, a welcome change from the blistering heat of late spring, dampening his coat. One might think it would be cold with the drizzle, but the day is hot and humid. The horizon is tinged with the faint pink of the dying sun, hardly discernible among the dullness of the gray clouds swallowing the sky. Gray rock has been washed black, turning a detestable shade of charcoal; in the more craggy regions, pools of glistening water has accumulated. With each step the stallion douses his lower legs, soaking through the thin wisps of feathers deep to his bones. Luckily for him, his cloven hooves are better than, perhaps, solid ones, having adapted to grip and not crack in sudden changes of weather.
It is the foreigner's first time in this cracked island created for the gods home on earth, and he takes in the ruined shrines to the mightiest of divine creatures with wonder in his eyes. There are four. One is buried beneath tendrils of black vine, but their ugliness is tempered by the beauty of budding violet and cream blossoms. Who were the gods again? Earth, Wind, Time, and Sun? Certainly the flowers were a sign of hope for the mortals, gifted from the Earth God. Had they ruined their own shrines? Why would they do such a thing? The next is blackened, crumbling charcoal and drifting, soaked ash, still not dissipated despite the weather's attempts. The Sun's. The third in sight is odd, covered in glyphs and runes that reminds Carnesîr faintly of his elvish home's writing. How intriguing. Lastly is one split in half- no doubt the other remnant is destroyed, perhaps lost somewhere in the foaming ocean flanking the peninsula.
With the grace of a leaping gazelle, the stallion jumps effortlessly over a slow trail of blue lava dribbling from the volcano. For the moment he is suspended above it, he can feel it's heat searing his hooves. Then he has landed on the stone, and he moves closer to the shrines.
Where is Onni?
Would they answer his calls, even if he was a stranger to Helovia? How should he pray... beg, cry, speak normally, reverently? His chest quivers as he inhales deeply, lungs expanding until they push against his ribs, almost as if they want to break free.
He waits for Onni.
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[P] The Mourning Hour
