Under warm blanket of earth, heavy set with the advance of ages, the small shard of bone, sole remnant of one line over generations, unknown, except to the Host, who waited for the soul’s shiver. Vibrating slow at first, then a hum, muted in shattering clay. The frequencies elevated, the land encasing it, like a brittle vessel, fractured, and broke up, under the weight of the new world, dividing into a new mass from one stone. Flash, sudden like lightning, the cell burned bright, buried in a stone, an awareness, the touch arriving; suddenly, the timeless pitch becoming black in memory, except for the vision of the lone Oak on a hillock.
The pearl of this being, a man, that portion removed at the humanoid’s primal circumcision. Cast asunder desiring redemption, the grand respite from the dust, praying that all he handles shouldn’t fade, vanish from his grasp. The pearl, became engulfed with illumination, as nebulae hovering, consuming the flow of fuel, until the soul, engorged with fiery white tendrils, marked in black ink border, the Name’s presence drawing the defining wax on his fresh bones, exhaling an effortless fathoming, the deep, into a wanting breath.
The sprouted limbs, climbing, serpentine, as the Kraken’s arms unwound, into graceful tone and presence, before the bolt to consume. He is voiceless with a desperation to escape, suffocating, the dust of millennia choking reborn lungs, but, as on cue, absorbed along with vanishing fears, into the marrow of his bones. A pulse, the measure of his circuit, runs blood red through arterial highways, into sinews, cartilage, cells, speech, rivers unfurling. He is arrived into the land, these lands become born from him. He now lays fully outright, whole being, sentient. The light of his knowing hovering over the great sea, concealed from the mundane.
Feh-Yaruk, the First Shoot, becoming Salohm, the Evergreen, First King. The long stride running on planet’s curve, first to rise. As the primary, only he knew the Pearl’s habitation of Aedrom, the First of Many, leaper from the dark. Now this residing in Salohm, the eighth son of a son, would usher in the Great Kingdom.
He understood that the world was to be united; the branches into one trunk, one glory, the residence of the Setting, The One Name. Crowned as Host of the Champion, ruler over humanity and giver of stations.
The new lord now stood, a bud, copper hair spilled over pale Brindled skin, made vivid with an electric blue halo, scarcely visible which his form emitted, more like a trick on the eye, a curl of color twisted into a lens. Copper green eyes looked forward, peppered with splotches of bronze, polished brass golds, so that, when close, his pupils were obscured enough to hide his focus.
The world entered him, as though he lay new born from the womb, breaking through the rot and soil, the tissue and blood. The Royal, given into splendor and mystery, basking in original light. The expanse unhindered until the horizon claimed the yawning breadth of lushness, lover with a gentle kiss. He heard a voice suddenly, it was her, the sound of his visions. She said, “kiss me opened mouth, but leave your tongue hidden.” He stood, lost in thought, the moments passing, and he thought of the voice, so clear in his head, as though the creature were next to him. But there were no others present.
Desire came, understanding, declaring the midnight sky’s zenith. He noted the untold myriads, and he knew, just as the world was, so was he. Many components, one will. The sky, the sea, the land, the wind. Then fire, and speech, arrived in the sphere of his knowing, the angles of his discovery reaching out for the unification of all knowing.
The soul, newly lit, told the man, “this is the ‘Great War,’ lines break and greater numbers of angles born.”
He opened his hand, the fingers, a palm. Stretched his legs, his body radiant, obscured in an array of subtle lighting effects, which, had there been an observer would have noted, hid his nudity. He breathed deep, repeatedly and hollered. The awkwardness vanishing from him quickly, as a fawn in a field.
Then he ran, against the force of the sky, wind drafting in his ears. There are many things, he thought, but one will. He remembered the dream, which had been a vision. A lone Oak on a hill, its form silhouetted against a pale, cloud dimmed sky. The branches reaching out into the expanse. In the vision he ran, his perspective leaving his body, rising, he was flying, and he saw beasts soaring over the land, through obscured skies, in flight, moving toward something. He knew nothing of his space on the map, but they were going to the tree, and he sensed dread. Then, he sensed her touch. A caress that began just below the crest of his cheek bone, grazing tenderly the rosy smoothness of his new skin, until landing at the collar bone. Feh Yaruk turned suddenly, but saw nothing.
The sun was setting, and he knew the cold would arrive. The feeling of the sea, of falling waters, of longing for home. But his mind could not process what home was, only that he desired to see the place in which the tree stood. To feel that touching again. He could sense her embrace. He heard nothing, but his own heartbeat, and fear crept into him, of isolation, but he awoke in morning from sleep, the coals smoldering from the previous night’s fire.
He found the horse, waiting for him. There were many horses, but this one waited. The shadows asked why, but Feh Yaruk ignored them, he led the animal, rode it, and the beast shouldered his new burden. He rode from the black soil to red clay, and until red clay became white sand, the waters roiling at shore, spread out into fiery blues under the sun, and his mind recalled the beloved, knew the voice, he knew a queen waited for him.
Feh Yaruk came up over the white sand dune, bathed in sun and water mist. His mare shone brightly under the sun’s glow, its fur a deep red and tautly rippled with muscle. From this memory of their young king, the turquoise and silver banner came, with blood red script.
This human, seeing the horizon encircled him deduced from the depth of the sky, the depth of his sphere, and knew despite the two dimensions of his Heavens that that the detailed pleasure of this world continues at an unexhausted pace across the her modestly hidden expanse.
Pace quickened, time rapped beats out as horse hooves thud over space. The land was his until the horse trod in sand, and the slushing sound of that friction became metallic sounding, the man’s skin grew warm. He saw the earth contorting, almost as though it were breathing, and unsettled, he stopped the beast and dismounted. He was sick, with nothing to expel, he had not known to eat, and strained to breath. The overwhelming twist of the Earth’s spin gathered torque , until all the force of gravity’s hand was taut on him. and concentrated it’s point upon his head, twisting into the sights of his eyes, and the reality entered him, violently.
A static kind of sound clanked in his head, as though sound were a kind of entity which could be stretched. The sights too. Great beams of sunshine battered through the grainy clouds. The light was pulsing, then warped, rose out, toward him as a wave, passing through him, as though he were absent.
He was frightened. A pressure built up in him, he desired to call out, his needing, but feared the true isolation of his being, and now this descent into some place, where he knew himself to be bound up, without capacity to express himself, but still living. He became horror stricken and recalled all the good he had wakened to and feared it lost, in a moment. The fear of Insanity peaked and he thought to cut at his neck.
“Aedrom?”
The voice was distinct, and he noticed all else was silent. The crushing static had vanished, as had his remorse. The thought of being lost was gone. He saw no one, even the landscape slipped into the periphery.
“I am here, but I am Feh Yaruk.” he replied.
“Have you asked for Me?”
“Yes.”
“I have heard nothing, I know only Aedrom’s whimper.”
“But I -”
“Quiet. This is what is what you know. There are many paths but only one will.”
These lands are for you and those that follow, One Name told him, and then revealed the arch of the Cosmos. These, the King’s lands, a fragment of the world’s parchment, yet laid with history.
When Feh Yaruk rose again, he no longer remembered the other generations before him. Only he stood after the First of fathers, Aedrom, who was myth now. Feh Yaruk knew the tradition, and so he traveled, and sought the lands of the Others.
Acher the Sun Burnt, looked at the stars, and knew the sun was opposite their position. The young king had chosen midnight, as had the prior. The bloom, his dark silhouette, blacker than the night’s pitch. The horses kicked at the clay earth, the sound of its hooves thudding.
Acher came from the high stone lands, beyond the ridge, and was a stranger. But this stranger spoke the king’s tongue, the language of the land, and another language, claimed to have learned in the south, a year’s journey. He had mapped the travels, but time had eroded the skin of the land, it had aged.
He had waited, his knowledge of the pearl such, that the years and days were his. He had killed the woman this new king sought, shaving the crown of her bone, so she was Ghoa Sta, a spirit never landing, and would cling to her living man the whole of his days.
Acher had cut the crown of the Oak, and built his bed from it’s ancient grain. He could no longer count the generations of waiting, for the Queen to be exposed, to be forgotten, momentarily, and the chain disengaged. But now, successful in his patience, Acher stood, with his remnant, across the small ravine, and waited on the green bud to die from sorrow.
Der vasser tregger 