Aeolia

46: My Own Love

"My own love," said a winding form. "My very own, at last."

     Gleaming spools spun freely into gleaming glinting thread. Pearlescent ribbons danced across the ground and slithered through dark hair. They tied small talons up in knots. They wrapped strong ropes around strong legs—pulled these grand stalks to the floor, bent them ninety degrees towards defeat in a calculated thrall.

     "My own, my only ancient love," the bent bird slowly replied. And then the very sky fell. The fish grew mouths that sang hello, the river's color grayed. The fabric of Aeolia tore, and through it all, the Viper stayed.

     The kingfisher met its lost friend's eyes. They spiraled down the drain. Its blue wax feathers turned to ash, and it never again would rain.

     This was right. This was good. The fisher loved the snake. The snake, in turn, loved it. Two bodies lay sleeping between them. And didn't that look nice? Yes, it did, yes, yes. The fisher nodded vigorously to itself. And the snake liked the sleepers too.

     The snake came close and kissed its beak. Its pink forked tongue was warm.

     Then from the western tunnel entrance, a gray-white creature came—an unimportant flicker of bones and steam. Did it wish to disturb their ceremony? Though the kingfisher was ensnared in chains, it could surely crush the threat.

     "Stop!" it shouted. But the little creature didn't hear, or didn't pay it heed. It ran on light paws to where the kingfisher stood, whisking its little tail. Snowflakes dusted its fur.

     "I am Frost!" it cried. "And you're the Dreamfisher!" Its voice was tinny, like a poor piano, like it rang off metal rails.

     Something in the bird's body stirred. "Now, what did you just say?"

     "I said that you're the Dreamfisher! Please remember," the creature begged. "Please." Behind it, the viper rose. Its silver fangs dripped with venom.

     "I know just who I am," the bird replied. "The Dreamfisher. I know. I've lived for many thousands of years. I've known this snake, the viper, the mother, since I took my first breath. I loved it before Aeolia dawned."

     The creature recoiled with wide eyes. "You know? Then why—no! You do not love each other! This is sickness! Look at these bodies that lie between you, that are lying at my feet. They had names once—Ravine and Spire. My sister gave them these titles when they had none. She loved them. She cared for them. They lie nearly dead now! The Ensnarer will do the same to you. It'll plunge its fangs through your skin and gorge. You aren't going anywhere greater. You won't see anything again. Do you want the fate of Aeolia and of the Outskirts and of anywhere else to go to ruin? Once this viper kills you, all balance, or attempts to achieve it, are lost.

     "Have you heard the fable of the greedy trees? With drought they break, and with too much rain they wash away. Let the Viper kill you; then it's only drought. Only the Ensnarer ruling. And you think you can call this love? It's hardly a mutual respect! Everything you've done for years and years to offset each other, to balance the scale, will crumble."

     The kingfisher and viper had, by this point, fallen still.

    And then, without warning, they fought.

     The great bird lunged for the great snake, snapping the ropes around its legs. Its talons gouged the viper's scales and ripped them from its skin. Ridges folded and turned along the Ensnarer's exposed spine, and plates of jagged rock burst through the cavern floor. Stone struck the Dreamfisher, freeing its feathers.

     As the bird shrieked, darts of metal clamped its beak shut. Its eyes began turning in its skull. It flinched and fell to the floor and screamed. It screamed pink petals and crashing waves and vicious, whirling seasons. It raised its wings, wide and blue, and thrashed them up, then down. Through the tunnels above came a dull roar, like an ancient shell's recollection of the water. The viper lifted its head—turned—and everything changed at once.

     Green-gray light. The world was in a moonbeam, rocked by shadow. Ears heard not and hands felt not. Here, fish swam in circles, holding blossoms in their mouths. They knew there was nothing for them here. They hated the water; they ought to go. But the herons seemed to like it. They roamed through the silt on long leg-stilts. A whisperer sat in a corner of empty space, nodding its head from side-to-side. Tremors from sea platters underneath made the water waver—yellow-gray now. It was changing. Sounds were changing. The two beings tangled in fang-and-talon gargled, almost laughing. They were young again, and the ocean went on forever, north and south, newly-born.

     A translucent sickle missed its mark. Venom dripped down and fell like pebbles to the seafloor. Where the small stones lay, many seedlings grew, and from the seedling stretched thin trees. One tree reached above them all. This tree ascended, and diluted eyes watched as it grew—and grew—until it rose from the choppy waters, into the sky, past the moon, and into the Mist.

     Five bodies tossed in the quickening current. The waves rose high and higher still, swelling and quelling as the moon's colors spun. Clouds gathered in. Wind raced through the unsteady trees, rattling the trunks like chimes. And at last, the ocean raised its tense form, wrapped its hands around the trees, and climbed into the sky.

     Finally it came to a land of leaves and stars. The water crashed and pooled here, spreading its body thin. Through the foliage its long limbs leaked and fell through the gaps as rain. And then, remarkably, the sun rose.

     The viper's raw skin stung from coarse sea salt. The bird's soaked feathers sopped its skin. The whisperer laid in warm bars of light, eyes shut, kneading the leaves below.

     Soon night came. They slept.

                                                                     (

In the morning when they awoke there was no sun, no moon, no sky, no ground.

     There was a room: a white room with one chair, one mirror, one window. Curtains covered the window, barring the view of other windows of other places. These places were unimportant. They wound together like tunnels. They should not be thought about. They were not here nor now.

     Here it was cold, like snow. There was a chair, and in this chair a whisperer. This whisperer gazed into the mirror, a smaller mirror at its chest. It saw a hundred selves, but none of them looked right. They grew more disfigured with every image.

     In the places the whisperer could not see beyond the curtains, the viper and kingfisher continued their fight, while the woman and songbird wandered.

                                                                    (

The woman walked through a field of marigolds in a ravine. The sky was light purple. She saw a child sitting on the ledge above, legs swinging. The child spat. They watched, and the woman watched, as the saliva fell. The child smiled and the woman swore the smile was for her, a small dark shape standing far below, up to her knees in golden flowers.

                                                                   (

The songbird stood on the spire of a church. It studied its feet, impaled through, and wondered what was so familiar about this sight. Blood dripped from its talons. After a while, the bird pulled its feet free of the spire and flew away.