(no subject)

[al-shairan.livejournal.com]

Morning of the 10th of May

For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable Thou shouldst not grieve.

These past days I have been as air, and as air I have let the breeze take me where it will. I have stretched far enough that I have seen day dawn and night descend, the spectrum of white to blue to rose to gold to black, and in stretching myself so thin have given my grief a scraped quality, a membrane all through me instead of a stone, an arrow. Like this the song that Zann played me is very distant, the sigh of a breeze across the surface of a lake, and it can be borne.

And then, a few days since, all through me there was a ripple of something like the sounding of a bell, tinny silver pulled by a tiny thread - no. No. It cannot be.

I do not hope.

I came back to Excolo and there was nothing, and I made myself as stone in the tower and crouched in the dark until this morning, when something pulled at me sharply, just for a moment, something so thin but there, like a hair caught in a throat.

And then it was gone, quite completely. I make myself be flesh so I can go out in the woods where Syl left him, but there is nothing, nothing. Not even an echo. But Night Wind, if there is something of you left I will find it, and then -

That I have not decided. I have two answers, and neither satisfies me. But when did I ever expect satisfaction?

[closed]