| RISHIMA
I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky,
And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.
There is something to be gained in brushing against death, something beautiful and painful and purer than any other experience could possibly offer. Thrice, since my birth, had I brushed close enough to death to feel it push back, egging me closer and sinking deft claws into the tender spaces beneath my joints and behind my eyes. It left filled pages in the novel of my life, patches of color in a world of conflict, passages of profound poetry amongst the drivel that makes up everyday life for you and me.
Twice did those brushes include the warm lick of lucid flame, a tender embrace that stifled before I could escape, suddenly hungry and intent on consummating our union with a fiery kiss. How greedily it laced against the darkness of my skin, singeing away stray hairs that stood between it and the mare it loved, the supple curves of a flank that it could roast so tenderly and with such earnest fervor. Why did I shy from its embrace, it wondered with all the innocence of a child. Was it the billowing smoke that singed my nostrils? It only emitted that to envelope me closer, to wrap around where it could not reach and share the sensations with my nostrils, my eyes. Was it the bite of the earth left barren and dark? No, says the fire, I left that there to warm your steps, to creep into the frog of your hoof and spire through the marrow of your bones.
It's a wonder I don't have arsonphobia.
Once, that beautiful brush with death happened in this very place. It haunts me now as I float across the crater, dangerously near the beating heart of the earth, each step pulsing with fall and fade of heat. The whispers of ghosts rise with every footfall, mushrooming clouds of ash blooming under heavy hoof, dulling golden limbs with the dull splendor of powdered death.
Kali hates it, this land where the Sun cast his fury on us both; and how can I blame her? She who clings to life, who loves to live and lives to laugh, how should she understand my subtle fixation with the delicacy of life and death? As closely as we are bound, so much are we different, and in truth I would have it no other way. Her innocence draws me from my reveries, her delight clears away the sands of time that seek to cloud my mind, the spindling web of questions and experiences that would capture me and bind me tight to the swell and fall of immortal designs. I can feel her thrill as she hunts among the brush for wayward mice and unwary weasels, keeping wide birth of the flaming pit but careful not to let me escape the keenness of her cerulean gaze. A gentle squeeze across our bond - play, little brat; I'll come back to you - and she's off again, dancing through the whistling wind and calling bright joy into the night.
I will never be alone again, but that suits me better than I had ever expected.
It is with detached passion that I meander about the crater, nimble limbs arching in step-and-again pattern that slowly picks up speed and grace as I near and retreat from the elegant fire. It's a beautiful thing, the liquid death, entrancing and menacing all at once. It's life, I think as I stare into the abyss; it's everything and nothing; it's death. Legs cross, muscles touch, and I'm moving faster now, a smooth dance tearing its way from the tangled webs behind my eyes and throwing itself onto the canvas of reality against any will or wonton desire. Liquid gold and starlight, I glide beneath the moon's soft glow, spirit taken by a music only I can hear. Happiness spurs my dance, happiness and loneliness and a curious wonder in this place of pain, a tender affection for the nearness of death that kisses soft butterflies on eyelash and nose. Fluidity in motion with the weave of lithe body and below, far below, the flickering prickle of magic that sits ever beneath the surface makes its way, unbidden, a greenish glow that blinds behind my eyes and gnaws at my skin before suddenly, abruptly, flooding every fiber of my being with life and wonder and connection.
I am everything.
The surging wave of wild and untamed magic is nothing new, but today it strikes stronger than normal, an overwhelming sense of knowing encompassing me and branching out to every organism around. There is a night owl high above, and I can see its desires, the drive for food and the quenching fear that her chicks will starve. Attention to Kali, who, frightened by the overwhelming surge of power, has come spiraling down to my rescue. She is made of simpler ideals, a deep sense of pride and a love that brings tears to my eye. She is healthy, but for a lingering patch of deadened cells where the sun burned her tail; she seeks always to enjoy, to be loved, to eat, to fly. Gryphon claws dig into the burnt clay as she takes her place beside me. I can see her nails bend, the muscles of her body strain, the pump of her heart.
I call out to her, and she mewls back. I am still dancing, moving, whether to or away from myself I know not. Pushed by the weight of my mind and the uncontrollable energy I am possessed with, Kali joins in. I can see the sinews of her muscles working, tendons and bones straining in joyous release.
I can feel my magic pulling at me, tempting me to look somewhere else - look within.
But I will not. I cannot. I fear too much what I might find.
Instead, I dance.
[ ooc || for Whit. ]
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