One-eyed lightning.
Posted: Sat Jun 04, 2005 8:17 am
The familiar figure in the hallways, that familiar, now one-eyed stare, and the boots that'd thudded down this place, for so long, and had for so long -- been there kept loping, moving swishing about -- though, expression changes...
Or did it? The man deposits saddlebags into the old room, dust-laden, it'd been unkept, as he'd asked, and left alone. Thin trails of clean-admist dirt as one hand trails over his old desk, it's small burn marks from fallen wax from candles, marring the surface. The dailies, the reports, the writings, the stack of books -- old memories, now even older. And he, older.
Older, even if he did not look it, he felt it. It seized inside him, though, even with vibrancy of spirit, the vibrancy of self sometimes waned, or waxed as it would. Quietness encouched him, and he rested in it, before glancing at the window. Things had changed. Straka men wandered the streets, militia, as well. The ground and the air itself was dry, and it clung in your throat, clutched in your throat so neatly. Enough to suffocate anything, in truth. Something was amiss here. Was it something unnatural, or was the human world mirroring the natural world? Or was it the natural world mirrored the human world -- a world of drought.
Change -- indeed. His hair, which he'd not cut in some time, that reached below his waist, but was braided so neatly, so tightly -- and held by the crystal-silver peice at the nape of his neck. His face, though no older then he'd left, had lines, thin ones, at one side of his jaw. The eyepatch over the left eye. The one lone, stark lightning blue eye with the cracked-line white-iris. The mirthful grin, the fake thing it was. It'd been plastered on forever, yet it was not there, not when he was alone. This place was different. It was not the same scene out the window as it was, at home. Where the high gray walls with the smooth-glass, cut-in-fours, showed a smaller town, nestled within large high-rised walls. That picture, and this were opposites.
Quietness, stillness of heat.
Quietness, stillness of peace.
So opposite in motion. Movement. Rumors floated in to him, and there was no summons, no call, no need, in truth. Though, rumors persisted. And he understood why. Rumors *continued* still, and he knew.
He knew why.
----
"Exchange one prison for another." A fainter smile, before a quiet laugh, then hands unfold from behind his back, and the shutters clap tight together, locked neatly.
Or did it? The man deposits saddlebags into the old room, dust-laden, it'd been unkept, as he'd asked, and left alone. Thin trails of clean-admist dirt as one hand trails over his old desk, it's small burn marks from fallen wax from candles, marring the surface. The dailies, the reports, the writings, the stack of books -- old memories, now even older. And he, older.
Older, even if he did not look it, he felt it. It seized inside him, though, even with vibrancy of spirit, the vibrancy of self sometimes waned, or waxed as it would. Quietness encouched him, and he rested in it, before glancing at the window. Things had changed. Straka men wandered the streets, militia, as well. The ground and the air itself was dry, and it clung in your throat, clutched in your throat so neatly. Enough to suffocate anything, in truth. Something was amiss here. Was it something unnatural, or was the human world mirroring the natural world? Or was it the natural world mirrored the human world -- a world of drought.
Change -- indeed. His hair, which he'd not cut in some time, that reached below his waist, but was braided so neatly, so tightly -- and held by the crystal-silver peice at the nape of his neck. His face, though no older then he'd left, had lines, thin ones, at one side of his jaw. The eyepatch over the left eye. The one lone, stark lightning blue eye with the cracked-line white-iris. The mirthful grin, the fake thing it was. It'd been plastered on forever, yet it was not there, not when he was alone. This place was different. It was not the same scene out the window as it was, at home. Where the high gray walls with the smooth-glass, cut-in-fours, showed a smaller town, nestled within large high-rised walls. That picture, and this were opposites.
Quietness, stillness of heat.
Quietness, stillness of peace.
So opposite in motion. Movement. Rumors floated in to him, and there was no summons, no call, no need, in truth. Though, rumors persisted. And he understood why. Rumors *continued* still, and he knew.
He knew why.
----
"Exchange one prison for another." A fainter smile, before a quiet laugh, then hands unfold from behind his back, and the shutters clap tight together, locked neatly.