.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
12-08-2013, 10:22 AM
Bits and pieces of past lives stitched together, seam by seam, sliver by sliver, collected memories poised and prosed into plunging oaths and pledges. What were barbs without their assembled brethren of nettles and thorns? What were sins without all of the licentious words spoken between them? What were iniquities and immoralities without the ghosts of their comrades and patriots, distorting the foundations of livelihoods, divinities and reveries? Zuriel was a glimpse of a world they’d left behind, of moonlit tides beckoning them for another run, another chase, another screech of a gull or the cry of an osprey, and when she glided into the aperture of the Threshold, he’d felt the sting, the pull, the weight of Isilme resting on him again. A father’s glowing, dying embers, a mother’s shackled approval, worn, gliding touches not embraced or regaled upon until there could be no more. He couldn’t bring her to a chiseled shore, to cliff tops rising over shoals and deep, loathing bracken, the arches and longing of a christened sea, to a forest embedded deep into the core of restoration and a familiar, saddening outline, but he did offer the antiquity of her element; ice and stone, caves and coldness, the last sketch of her smile before it fell into chilling reverence. Over and over again, they made their stand, gloom, power, might and domination amongst these glacial peaks and valleys, across the unending lake, along the springs that nurtured aches of battle and weariness of mind, where the ethereal bombardments never ceased and the anarchic swells of summit thrones positioned them for decadence. He fell into the signature of a younger sibling, pondered and wondered if she would enjoy what they’d taken, what they’d snatched, the wares and finery of cold glades and hostile, rimed passions, if she were awakened into the finessed derision of yesteryears, if she was proud of the monster and beast he’d become, the satanic sword he’d molded his depravity, his villainy, into. For all his queries, he voiced none, pressing into the wake of the auroras and frost, the crisp, archaic reticence of a severe, sinister rapier returning to his empire. The behemoth listened, potency clambering for one allure of his sister, one finessed lyric of her fondness for its cool appearance, for a kingdom where they’d stake their reign, higher and higher, until they reached the heavens and stole every morsel of virtue.
The pernicious swing of her voice soothed him momentarily, quieted the pariah’s thoughts of her disappointment or disapproval, clinging to the softness quelling amongst her vocals. He failed to mention his own sentiments upon the lack of rolling tides or the vibrant ocean frothing and foaming at their heels; delving deeper into the influential pockets of his childhood would only stir the last, fleeting days of happiness, of infantile wonder, and all the tumultuous regrets bursting forth. Instead, the puncturing juncture of his gaze flickered from her to the outstretched world before them, to the supreme peaks awaiting their chance at supremacy, at domination, and then, the undaunted pool, never consumed by the Siberian upheaval of passing seasons. With a painstaking effort to please his sibling, because it seemed some portions of their lives were forever entombed, chained and consumed by birth order and juvenile hours, the deep candor of his voice erupted over the seraphic calamity of hers. “There is a lake.” He presumed she wouldn’t be appeased by something other than a great, mighty sea threatening to swallow them whole or imbibe their powers, infuse their grit and determination, but perhaps it would grant her momentary satisfaction in its rippling fortitude and hastened repose. His motions were gathered back into their calculated stature, acrimony and defiance, ethereal and vicious, towards the swell of water bursting across the rimed valley.
