| title | author | date | |
|---|---|---|---|
The Renewal of the Hist-children |
3kyer5 |
jalba9 |
2015-09-14 20:32:55 UTC |
Drip, drip, drip goes the rain in the leaves of Argonia. But no one is there to hear it, only Scales-of-Mist.
Suddenly she raises her blind head, gazing toward the unfathomable heights of Hist-sky. She smiles a smile of mystery. Then she closes her eyes, and starts humming. A low hum, like the creaking of trees in the wind.
At first, she is alone, the only creature in the vast, lopsided, moss-covered ruins of stone. She sits on a step that slopes down, into the muddy fen-waters. Her voice is muffled, drained by the chirruping of insects, the cawing of birds, and the growling of beasts. But soon other calls join hers. Some low and rumbling, like a summer storm, others high and quavering, like the heartstrings of a child, struck by first love. All different, but all alike at the core. A song of ending, and peace, and love.
Out of the water, from the rubble, from the trees, horned, feathered, scaled heads arise. All go to Scales-of-Mist. The air throbs to the sound of uncountable voices, united in a symphony of regeneration, of renewal.
Without warning, Scales-of-Mist stands.
All hush, all but her. She walks, calm and firm, covered only by many bracelets and necklaces, into the water, up to her bare breasts. Followed by all, she wades to a Hist-trunk, and deeply cuts into its smooth iridescent bark. A groan of wood and leaves carries the people's gaze up to the branches, but in an instant they gaze back down, to the Hist-daughter. Her hum is now agitated, restless, a frenzy of longing; she beats her chest in a frenetic pulse. Her brothers and sisters soon join her, their voices leaping into the heavens as howls and shrieks. The song is as loud as thunder, the trees swaying with them, the waves in the marsh crashing on them, the rain from the sky falling on them.
Scales-of-Mist beckons a Hist-child forward, an old man, his scales white on his snout and neck, long horns twisted like corkscrews to the sides of his head. He steps from the crowd, and embraces the Father-Hist.
At first nothing happens, though the chanting increases evermore. Then his details become blurred, like a familiar face seen through tears. His body shimmers, and is lost to the bow of the Tree, in a transition almost imperceptible, such that one would wonder if there ever was an elder Hist-child in the first place. One after the other, those present reveal themselves: an old fisher-wife, with trembling hands and loose skin; an aged man, mirror of ancient pride and strength; a child, tired of the sufferings of flesh. Some are old, some are not, all are equal to the blind eyes of Scales-of-Mist; all are greeted by her, all are welcomed by Father-Hist's warm arms.
When the last of the Children returns to the Father, Scales-of-Mist bends down, and touches the flat water, glistening with Sap, sending ripples to the farthest corners of the Marsh. Then she waits. For to be a Son-of-Hist is a blessing, bestowed upon the lowliest of creatures. And its call is akin to that of godhood to Man.