look there- a ghost- but no- a ghost can still see and hear, while she lacks two of the five senses, as she gradually loses all of them
I come, slowly, cautiously, waiting for something to send that ripple through my gut, the tearing sensation of another presence, of my finely-toned intuition that has been poured into me over years and years. Every time I die, every time I come back, I lose a sense within every year. It varies, of course, and so you must see I was completely shocked when overnight my hearing disappeared. I had just lost my sight- why was I deaf? It went out of my gods' nature! Andromeda, Barzuna, Calysipa, Diomedra, Ezelfina- I could go on and on through all the gods whose names ended in 'a', and then continue on into the 'b's and 'c's and 'd's. There are thousands that watch my slow, agonizing process. What kind of joke is this? They send me, I am their little messenger, their little puppet- and now I cannot feel them.
I can't decide if I'm furious they have abandoned me, or if I'm pleased, at ease to hear so. Now they cannot, at least, attack me and seize hold of me- but neither can they ease my weary path. I know I'm in the woods now- perhaps it has something to do with my extraordinarily sensitive skin, that takes quick note of the sudden, swirling shifts of light and shadow. Yes, I decide, it's warm here, at least, the light sweet and gentle, kissing my ears and muzzle, exhaling on me.
On I wander, sometimes stopping erratically to try and find hold of my lost senses. Once or twice I nearly hit a cumbersome tree, before my long whiskers touch the rough bark, and my tiny form recoils from the contact. If someone is watching me, I do not know. I will only know should they touch me, extend a wing or nuzzle me with a nose. Creepy things they often are, horses. Maybe finally one of them might be smart enough to figure out I'm blind and deaf to this world. Not to the shadow world, of course- but this world, yes.
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sumati
you glorify the past when the future dries up|
Chocolate dipped feathers catch the arid wind - Sumati makes flight. She only has one intent in her mind, and that is to find and take new members. Her empire's count is just as dry as the dessert they live in. She dreams of numbers in the thousands, millions even. The whole world at her one word. Her one, nimble command could send an army of voices roaring loud enough to horrify other lands, nomads would be a drop of prison, and council fit for government justice would reign. But she, yes she would be the head. Resources would be limitless compared to where they are now. She'd have people become possessions.
However, she has a feeling this would never happen.
The world was not tinder footed enough to fall under her command. She'd need military leads that held most power, ultimately, because even as intelligent and sleuthy as Sumati was, she could never succeed in governing a militia as well as the people around it. She was better in the hands of the common folk. They were much more personal than the stoic warriors and they could easily beckon into the arms of loyalty. Or at least some of them could. Most scuttled into the words the tobiano dripped from her brown lips.
Little did she know, they would not today.
She soars high over the sparse trees that hold great secrets. Many weary travelers have emerged from the far off blue capped mountains and took great uproot here in Helovia. All of it started in the Threshold. All lore that spawned, trudged through the sparse trees filled with season eager to make better life of themselves. Even the painted chancellor herself passed through these bitter pines not long ago. She likes visiting the welcoming view, not only to gather herd members, but to revisit the past like it was an old chapter in a scholar's history book.
She smiles and reads the first page.
Sumati's hazel eyes work like binoculars from the clouds, scaling the patchwork land below searching out moving objects or odd coloration from the green boundary. Sometimes it is mere hours before she spots even something in the tundra, but when she does, like a bird of prey she descends and swoops up her kill. With one flick of her intense eye, she spots the top view of a small winged traveler that gradually eases from the cluster of trees. She must have passed this place a few times already because the sunspot below gives the dark horse away. Sumati alters her wings against the wind and she plummets quickly to the clearing. The chancellor rotates her wings back as she nears a good ways from the ground and she glides in, landing with a loud thump on her dessert stained hoof. She trots up to the winged pony, bowing her head nostalgically, as her own claimer did.
"Greetings, my friend," her voice is smooth and simple. "I am Sumati, the Chancellor of the Dragon's Throat herd. Welcome to the Threshold. This is Helovia." The tobiano mare raises her dual-toned tail as a proud tassel behind her, the wind takes hold to a few strands, bouncing them between its fingers. Hazel eyes lock to the lavender blooms of her visitor, but the mare only stands, oblivious to even the sounds of Sumati's voice. She narrows an eye, cunning and elusive the creature looks to be. The tall tobiano towers over the winged pony, trying to find evidence in those blind eyes. A minute passes and she flicks a wing. The Chancellor extends her muzzle to tap the shoulder of the strange mare gently, hoping she'd receive some sort of reaction.
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XYLIA
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My ears flick, turning, almost desperately, but I am lost. My eyes stay open, but all I see is black. I am locked in my little world, oblivious, alone, a stray, an outcast, and it is hard to fight down the panic that comes up, comes snarling and growling, ready to drag me down. I am used to this fear that seizes me, but I am not used to losing my senses so soon. Never in my seven lives have I lost two senses in the course of a week. It is not right. Is it possible I have crossed from Azelhaden, Guan, Jipsur in the course of a few days? I am old, I know (my knees can vouch for that) but I thought the gods were on my side.
Calm. I tell myself, warn myself, throw off the panic that begins to set in. Azel will find me soon, guide me home with his familiar leonine tail resting on my shoulders. Yet I cannot lie to myself. This place does not smell of the familiar dust and scrub, and winds whispering. Yes, I can remember what it feels like to hear and see, but they are memories more difficult to dredge up from my mind wide and old.
Where is Azel? I smell something, something foreign and strange, out of place in the scents of warm earth and leaves. I assume I am in a forest (and I've hit my head enough to be aware of that fact), and I bristle, wings rousing upwards. It is not of any homeland I have been in. The scent smells of others, of sun and baked sand- perhaps a little like Jipsur? Guan was forest, very difficult to navigate in my last days. And Azelhaden was my first life's homeland, a paradise and treacherous. The Roost in the Mountains they called it. The land was kind enough- my parents, not so much.
I jerk out of my thoughts as something extends to brush my shoulder. Feathers. It is all I can do not to tremble with fear. Azel? My protector, my guide. Lover? I would not go to lover. Breathe deeply, little Xylia, I coo to myself. Then I speak (several minutes after, not that I am aware of it), and say- "I cannot see you and I cannot hear you." Will this creature put claws around me, or help me? I'm not sure. I have never been introduced to a society before I have lost eyes and hearing. How will this work, when I cannot put an image, or even a sound, to this face before me? I need the gods. Where are my gods? Geia is not here, not with the warm scent of earth. Nor Divon, with his mane of lightning and grinning smile, sending jolts of electricity through me. They are gods, but they are like me as well. They brought me back to life, but they are friends as well as enemies. Divon, after all, loved me, had gifted me with his son when I had coupled with dear Mira, the Lady of the court. I had been Hera in that life, young and auburn-maned with a polite smile, cloven-footed and crowned with a horn upon my head. Sweet Mira, poor Mira. Is she alive now? Have I been sling-shot into future, present, or past? I can recall her poise and serenity, the way the white unicorn had moved with such effortless grace.
What of my son? My one and only Azeen? Oh, he was a tricky lad, so much like his true father Divon. Sparkle-eyed, wide grin, crackling mane, always bouncing around in fevered excitement, even in the Court of the King himself. Silly boy. I didn't know how far Heripidides was from Azelhaden though- Azel hadn't known of it. 'What's that?' He had said, smile fading from dark face. Oh dear. I missed Azel. He was the one thing in this life solid, tangible, real, not like the gods that came flickering and dancing through my eyes, nor the creatures that whispered or clashed in my head in a roar of wills.
Vassel to the Gods- I had never known quite what it had meant until I was well on to my fourth life, daughter to Saph. What trickster god had done that? Reincarnated me as the foal of the stallion I had loved in my third life? Loki, Jinsing, or Prapin?
Back I drift to my head, and so I stand, stock-still, sightless eyes still straining for some sort of image that will not come. It is not forwithcoming (so the gods are not here in my mind, because then an image may come flickering to life). Did they send me through the rift, I wonder? New gods? I have never felt this empty, this alone. I always have someone bobbing around in my head, normally one of the three gods that had sent me back- Geia, Divon, and Huron. Huron smelled of rain, always, and his footsteps inside my empty mind was gentle. With him came knowledge of the unknown. Meanwhile, Geia was the one who summoned flowers, the one who enjoyed examining my memories and pulling pleasant thoughts to the front of my head. And Divon- Divon made me want to run and cry and feel, do something.
""
i am trapped in a box. the box won't let me free. it is black here, and i cannot see. help me, let me go, while i die away in my trap composed of lies.
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sumati
you glorify the past when the future dries up|
And she did receive reaction.
Sumati’s glowing eyes flick as the authoritarian she is, grasping the jerk of the small, somber lady below. The dark creature pulls kindness from the loops of her thoughts and twirls them around in her mouth. She knows words are lost here, and touch is the only way to bring this member into her herd, to equip her with someone who could help her back to her senses. If that was even possible. The Throat’s shaman, Onni was one of the best in Loorien, the Chancellor believes, but she has no way of knowing for sure that even Onni could break the morbid disfigurations of the hopeless woman. ‘Surely she could feel my footfalls,’ the painted lead thinks for a moment in pause. Sumati thought about the vibrations she could feel from any others around her. They ricochet from the small seismic waves of the ground and up her frail legs as vibrations. Surely, as tall as the mare is, this weary wanderer would have noticed her before she’d even offered a nudge.
The painted mare smiles as she hears the bustling voice, panic-stricken, in the woman’s weak throat.
‘I cannot see you and I cannot hear you.’
She already knew, and with a nod to sustain the sensation, Sumati nudged her again, twice and soft with her silken chestnut muzzle. She wanted to convey “I see” through the nudges, but communication this way could mean anything to her. The Chancellor hopes it won’t sound near a threat.
[I apologize for not posting this weekend. I had to fly into South Florida for a funeral. I didn't have time to post in absence before I left.]
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XYLIA
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Another soft touch, gentle and open, and I tremble ever-so-slightly, and hesitantly step forward, searching for the shape that must be there, awkwardly, nervously, trying to find something in this dark world. I pause, and I find something, a cluster of feathers- a wing? I think it is. Hoping it will not be poorly of me to do so, I run my muzzle along the feathers, until I find a smooth stretch of skin. Neck? I think so.
I leave my nose there, and wonder if she will begin moving, for if she does, I will stay with her. It's hard to resist a pang of memory, the memories that circulate constantly throughout my mind, never-ceasing cycles, of Jan and Kalo, Saph and Ktesippe, being Jibwa and the pain of dying, the wild exhilaration of falling before bone-breaking and death-calling. Thoughts of Hera, and my son Azeen, and the gods' strange ways, and if I were forever condemned to walk and molder, die and return. I wonder if I still even want to be this way, still want to be reincarnated like I accepted eight lives ago after the kindly gods came to me.
Home and hearth, heart and family. Broken ideas, communing with the gods, being invaded, being leader. I have experienced so much- so what do I want now? My vision, I think. My ears. The ability to view the world and understand it. I knew not of pragmatic or normative claims, or whatever they be- I was not a philosopher, despite what some may think. It was simply experience, experience of too many lives and too many days.
Yes, the gods were cruel indeed. But somehow I'm still thankful. I will endure forevermore.
I do not know my gods do not rule here.
""
[I'm so sorry for the late reply!]
i am trapped in a box. the box won't let me free. it is black here, and i cannot see. help me, let me go, while i die away in my trap composed of lies.
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sumati
you glorify the past when the future dries up|
Xylia’s muzzle drifts high in the air, high enough to graze the white of Sumati’s shoulder where the feathers conceal the massive wing joint. She relaxes against the gentle touch, mesmerized by the overall intelligence and trust this mare contains. The purple, unseeing eyes are an idol for the Sinbird’s lying hazel. True composure is natural like this. This is what they share. Sumati smiles at this realization, the sun flicking a ray in her gleaming eye. She sees underdeveloped potential in her mysterious violet gaze.
The Sinbird takes a long inhale, a drag on the crisp Birdsong air. She knew it would be a very long patient walk home to the Throat, but she was willing, to say the least. Sumati knows that the Gods here can help the small woman, but first she'd need an introduction to her homeland, a walk along the borders.
The tobiano mare ponders a moment, finding hope in the little mare's eye. The chestnut lips curl back to reveal even ivory teeth and she clamps the end of the little mare's mane, tugging onward. Sumati hopes she'd get the hint. Soon enough, they walk in slow stride towards the red dessert, careful not to look back.
[finished]
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