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What stories do the stars have? Are they truly scattered souls, sent to their miserable coffins alone, lips locked and the key thrown away, watching down on those descended from their lines? Are they liars, adventure seekers, dreamers, king slayers, lords, ladies, diners of fine wine, architects? Are there story-tellers up there, weaving and knitting tales to tell to no-one but the empty black skies? Would he become a distant glittering sign of the night, unable to move, forever cursed to stand and watch the earth change in his immortality? And the moon; the moon a beacon on the horizon, a silent sentinel on the sins of night, the purity of its light wishing to wash away the sins of the wicked who prowl its shadow realm, but unable to, pale hands always extended but never taken.
Why am I going fucking crazy?
Carnesîr slips up the path wending around the mountain, the rocks crumbling beneath his cleft hooves, but for once in his life he is unafraid. He is on the edge of adulthood, the failing line between stallion and colt, and he can handle a few loose stones. Fog curls and slithers around his hooves, swallowing his form until he is lost, guided only by the solid wall next to his cheek. Tonight is a magnificent night of low-lying clouds at odds with the impenetrable darkness, a time of danger and exquisite beauty. Up and up he climbs, unhesitating, sweat dripping down his coat despite the chill, rising higher and higher minute by passing minute.
When he arrives at the top, he is blinded by the view, and the glittering rise of a golden disc, spreading long rays among the world, the clouds beneath the mountain peak drawn in pink and soft yellow.
The stars glisten in the sky, remnants of the endless night, but the sun is rising, ready to chase away the shadows.
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[P] The light of which chases the night sins away
