oh fret fret fret I'm writing (which is rare and certainly never made public). ffffff oh. The blurb is from Halafax's point o' view from when she was but a wee fawn and would sit and stare at Bylah from a distance. It should be noted that since she has two pairs of ears and therefore two of every auditory structure and only room in her head for one, her hearing is terrible. k. For L and Bylah for being so inspiring I cannot properly express it.
A "colored" version?
It was a comfort to see him sitting there on his patch of warm earth by the Humming Tree. A comforting terror. The sight of him, fire and smoke where neither should be did not help to soften his appearance. He was laying down and still towered over her. The smell was wrong, wrong, wrong sending signals for feet to stomp and muscles to twitch. It is not easy to understand for a little one who has never smelled death and decay. Yet for all that was wrong she took comfort in his tines, as numerous as the stars themselves. They seemed to be a part of the forest, working with the trees to keep the sky aloft. It was a comfort to see him, she thought as she stood to walk away, it meant the sky would stay for one more day.
If only she could hear its screams.
Ignorance. That is how the
"Do you know what the stars do, when they get old?"
She did not like this question and she did not like it's implications. She did not like the possibilities the answer might mean. She asked for it anyway:
"Tell me?"
Endlessly, his head rolled back and he cast his eyes, like pits for pigs, to the sky.
"They eat themselves. They spend all of their lives running from me, fearing me..until finally, they can take no more, and devour themselves from the inside out." One hand that should not be unfurled, pointed to each little bit of light.
"Those are but children, small things. And in mine great brow, do I keep them. In mine tines, they do not have to fear falling. They do not have to fear dying - they do not have to fear themselves. I keep them close to mine breast, mine glorious mind."
His hand lowered, spiraling down like ribbons in girlchild's hair, to one sliver of blinding, blind, winking light. Above his palm, it rested like a halo without a head to hover over.
"They do not know the pain of pointless, selfish self-sacrifice."