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Solstice

Azila · 2011-03-15T13:32:16Z

Long before I am alive enough to actually feel it, I am aware of my barque rocking and tipping gently on the waves. The movement is impenetrable in its regularity, yet it is not stiff. Nothing so natural could be stiff. Just as one cannot appreciate silence without the sound of one's thoughts, there cannot be stillness without the rhythm of the waves. The stars hum to it, the wind whispers of it, the soil breathes in time with it. It has been here since the beginning of the Earth, and will be here until the end. It is the cadence of the Sea. It is the pulse of eternity. The first thing my skin is aware of is the rough wood beneath me. My mind, only partially alive, lingers in confusion on the feeling of the splinters against my neck. I was not lying on wood the last time I was awake. I was lying on coolness. No, I was lying in coolness. I was encased in ice. Yes, my skin can still remember the kiss of it—the frozen cocoon that preserved me through the long warm months. All that is left of it now is a slight dampness on the weather-beaten wood beneath me. I can hear the Sea slipping and clapping against the side of my barque. The calls of birds and winds reach me faintly... so faintly. I cannot tell if they are actually distant or if my ears are just too numb to comprehend them fully. Everything feels foggy, muggy, heavy. The air is warm. Too warm. It awakens a sharp yearning inside me. A sudden desire. Oh, how I want to cool it! I want to cover it with icy fingerprints, to freeze it with my breath. I want to discard this human body and rise up into my reign—but I haven't the strength. I haven't even the strength to open my eyes. It is too early. Slowly, I take a small breath. As the air touches my tongue, I taste more than its warmth—I taste a dryness, a sweetness, a thick earthiness like bitter honey; the taste of death and preparation, and nostalgia. I taste him. I want to reach out to him but then I remember that he will not allow it. He never does. He will wait, just out of reach, tempting me out of my hibernation rather than waking me. That is what he does every time. Maybe because he fears me. Breathing has become easier now, smoother. I still have not opened my eyes, but I can feel him nearby and I know he is watching me. Waiting for me. I force my jaw to clench—will my arms not to give way as I prop myself up. Only once I am sitting do I pry open my eyelids. So bright! My eyes water from the stinging light, but I ignore them, thinking only of him, as he appraises my progress. I mustn't disappoint him. I force myself to forget the dizzy swimming of my head, the weakness of my limbs—what do they matter, anyhow? These are sensations of the body. They have nothing to do with me. I rise to my feet, mustering all of my infant strength to clutch the wooden wall of my barque. Eventually my blindness fades, and I can start making out the familiar scene I am in: the small wooden boat beneath me; the Sea all around, fading to fog at the horizons; the island ahead... so far away, but I can still make out his barque, tethered to one of the island's many trees, bobbing up and down on the Sea. The island glows with his presence. My barque is drifting slowly towards the island of its own accord, but I cannot wait, and neither, I know, can he. Why does he not unlock the wind to pull me towards him? I can feel his eyeless gaze on me, surveying me from all directions. I know he is impressed. To him, I must be the most beautiful thing on Earth. This thought makes me swell with audacious pride. “Unbolt the wind to me!” It takes several tries before my throat complies with me, and by the time I produce audible words, much of my strength has been spent. But I make sure that my voice is strong and sings loudly across the water. Instantly, I know he has heard me, and that he is obeying me. He always obeys me. I spread my aching arms wide. First his gust catches the sails of my barque, making them bellow out—then it catches me. It lands forcefully, painfully, on my chest, knocking me off my feet. I hover for a moment—before I fall back onto my barque. I stumble and shrink on the weather-beaten wood, hardly aware of what my body is doing as blackness begins to overcomes me. _______ When I awake, I am surrounded by leaves. I can feel them on my skin. I can smell them all around me, heavy with his scent. My barque must be on land now because the wood beneath me is still. Opening my eyes, I see that the masts of my barque have been adorned with orange and gold leaves. Clusters of harvest fruits—pears, apples, figs, plums—lie scattered around the boat as though felled from their trees by the wind. Are these welcome gifts? I smile lazily. He is always so courteous. Past the decorated masts I can see the bright azure of the sky. It strikes me not for the first time how singular that color is to him, how unique. Nowhere but in the depths of Autumn can there be such perfectly blue skies. Slowly, I stand up. I don't bother brushing the leaves off of my body; they cling to my long, tangled hair, tickling my bare shoulders and neck with his presence. I am still weak, but his infinite hands support me now, and I can feel them helping me as I make my way across my barque. When I reach the bow, he lifts me into the air—then lets me fall to the ground. His earth cushions my landing, fallen leaves bellowing up at my impact then fluttering down again softly. Trees stretch upwards all around me. Their branches, vibrant with Autumn's colors, claw at the brilliant sky. His air is dry and sweet and spicy, like mulled wine. The corners of my mouth twist in a smile. Mulled wine. How perfect! How seasonal . His quaint humor amuses me. The air kisses my lips and fills my lungs with its tart coolness. I bask in it, allowing it to flood me, intoxicate me... revive me. But it is too warm. (Why must all of my traditions be so warm?) I conjure lungfuls of frost, then release them into his air. The tiny, glittering crystals around me take up the gold of his leaves and the blue of his sky. I let out a small laugh, enjoying the feeling of my frigid breath on my lips, in my mouth, in my throat. I can feel my own power starting to course through me. It chills my blood. My reign will soon start. “How much longer?” I ask him. He does not respond. I am about to ask the question again when I hear a soft sigh. No, not a sigh; a hiss. A rattling, crackling whisper. And then I smell it: smoke. My absurd human heart beats faster. I sit up. A few feet away from me, the leaves that blanket the floor have caught fire. Flames lick the trunks of the trees, brighter than the foliage—brighter than the sky. Feeding on the dry leaves, they grow quickly and are soon crawling towards me. I can feel their terrible warmth caress my face. Anger and fear combat for prominence inside me. How dare he? He knows how I despise fire. Hardly knowing what I am doing, I leap to my feet. A wild howl escapes my chest, straining my throat, tearing at my lungs. My mouth burns with the raw cold of the voice that thunders through my body, overpowering it. That body is not me; this voice is me. This is the voice of Winter. As the flames wither and die, I see him, standing on his barque. I can see the effort that it takes for him to remain standing against the power that radiates from me. The force of it throws his long brown hair from his face. It makes his eyes water. He clutches one of the masts on his barque, his expression intent upon me. So here it is: the Solstice. The period between his reign and mine. The transfer of power. The brief moment for which we both take human forms. What would happen, I wonder, if I refused to transform? What if I chose to stay in my body? What if I were to embrace his human body with my human arms...? My throat is still roaring as these thoughts flit through my mind. The sound reverberates off of the trees, the ground, even the gray sky. He stumbles and shrinks before my power. The last of his colors fade as the leaves shrivel and fall to the ground, dead. I know those fantasies I had are impossible. The warmth of love would melt me, reduce me down to nothing, and there would be nobody to replace me. As Winter I cannot love him. As his lover I cannot be Winter. I will always see him in passing, and he will always revive me with gracious tenderness—and I will never give anything in return. I cannot feel remorse for him, though. After all, each year at the end of my reign I do the same for my successor, without any thought of being repaid. Such is the way of the Sea, and it's sons and daughters. It has been our way since the beginning of the Earth and will be until the end. I will never know what he feels towards me—whether he sees the Solstice as a welcome glimpse of me, or as an usurping of his power. Whether he eagerly anticipates reviving me with his gentle caresses or thinks of our ritual as an obligation which he must fulfill. I do not know, and I should not care. But I do. With a breath, I snap the rope that tethers his barque to the island. My island. As I watch him disappear out onto the Sea, I feel the cold emptiness of despair rise up in me; the final burst of power that I need to be fully revived. I rise up farther, enveloping the island in my loneliness. The chill of it both soothes and excites me. I expose myself to the storms, unleashing hail and snow and wind; a ferocious tempest to announce my reign to the world. The freedom floods me, elates me. I am taking over. It is my turn. --------------------------------------------------- This is for carbonCore 's contest: Commissioning a Symphony in Text , for which I had to write a story based on a song . The lyrics, if you are interested, can be found here . And photo credit goes to my brother . Many thanks indeed, my dear. Oh, and a barque (if you haven't figured it out/didn't know already) is a type of vessel. The word is often used to describe the boats in which Egyptian gods were believed to travel into and/or across the sky.

shywritergrl168

Gender

Points 1040

Reviews 5

Sun Apr 17, 2011 6:43 pm

shywritergrl168 says... · Sun Apr 17, 2011 6:43 pm

I love all the detail you used it was so amazing and visual I could picture every detail. I wish I could write like you do. That was amazing!!! I loved the way your words flowed and how your lines brought the whole writing piece together.

Quote

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
— JRR Tolkien

Solstice

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