Post by ᴛᴜᴇsᴅᴀʏ on Mar 25, 2017 14:11:48 GMT -5
1284 Words
Honeyed smoke creeps into his lungs, sickly sweet yet harsh as a drought. It settles into his chest, coiling up as if to sleep, to wait. The heat it radiates seems to set his heart alight.
He keeps his mouth closed.
The pain is welcome. Moons and moons have passed since he could last feel anything but a hollow pit where his heart once lay. Now, burning from within that pit, he looks up to the moon he has waited for all this time. It hangs in the night sky, pockmarked and awash with flame, round and full.
Blood moons are a rare phenomenon as it is, but this one is especially unique in that it is the ninth he has ever witness. Nine blood moons for nine lives lived, and proof his debt is paid.
Finally the smoke grows too hot. He exhales. "Thank you, Father," he says to the moon. And with that, he crosses the boundary into the living world.
An electric shock races through him as his paw skims the earth. A golden coloration crawls upward through his toes, returning a semblance of life to his fur, and he gasps as cool autumn air rushes into his lungs. The sensation of breathing, so familiar once, feels almost alien now. Unsettled by the rise and fall of his chest, he chooses not to take part in that aspect of life; if he grows re-accustomed later, though, breathing would not be so terrible.
Flexing his claws, he takes his fist steps as a spirit on the mortal plane. The grass underfoot does not so much as waver, as he lacks weight, but it does seem to shimmer in his wake as he pads toward the forest fringe. Deep in his bones, which now feel again, he knows that this is the path he must take. The blood moon beckons him.
As he passes through the bracken (straight through; such are the benefits of shape without substance), words collect on his tongue like morning dew. They have weight, he realizes, dire weight, prophetic weight. Turning his gaze to the sky, he finds the moon staring back, solid, impassive.
He knows the moon has allowed him to cross planes for a purpose. Increasing his pace, he opens himself to the moon's words as he moves through the forest. Steadily, they come, each one searing itself into place as it enters his mind. These words have strength. They have power.
But they do not offer protection.
He comes to halt among marigolds with drooping petals. "Swan feather ribs and a wayfaring skull, meant for a star cast from the sky," he whispers to the flowers. "Left untouched, they will decay; the teeth and tongues of fools will fall, the star will turn, and the sun will rise."
None of it makes sense. No matter how often he repeats it as he continues through the marigolds, the meaning escapes him. In life, he might have grown irate with its senselessness, but in death passing through the living world, patience is easier to come by. These are the words of the moon, each one crafted precisely to create a meaning not yet ready to be glimpsed. For now, it is merely a message, and all messages must be delivered.
But to whom? This the moon has not specified, and a flicker of doubt tempers the fire he feels. A prophecy, clearly of great importance, has been delivered to him as the medium between worlds, but as he leaves the sender behind, the recipient remains unnamed.
"Swan feather ribs..." The marigold beside him wilts a little further, though whether it is from the faint breeze or higher forces, it is impossible to tell. He leaves the flowers behind, a waning field bowed to the moon, and presses into the thicker shadows of the forest. The red light of the moon only just creeps along the underbrush, playing among the golden leaves that litter the earth. It whispers all the while of a star, a mysterious star.
That is what he decides to seek. Further he presses into the night, letting doubt trickle away to be replaced by patient, steady faith. He will be guided to his destination. The blood moon will not lead him astray, even if there are other forces at work.
And there are. He is not made aware of this fact immediately, not notified soon enough, but when the knowledge comes, it comes in full. A silver bolt collides with him, a thunderous collision of spectral energy that tumbles through holly and thorns, leaving nothing in its wake, not even a faint score in the soft earth.
"The message," rasps the silver bolt, now revealed to be the haggard, wavering form of a cat. Its form is weak, wispy and curled at the edges from long moons spent on the wrong plane, held together solely by the sheer strength of its will. No gender can be aptly given to the wraith, no name, not even a face. It is merely a voice in the mist.
"Give me the message." The demand includes a snarl that rapidly becomes a cough. "I know Father sent you, Pyxis, and I want that message."
That is a name that has not been heard in a very long time. Pyxis squeezes out from beneath the specter, rolling into the red light of the moon and unsheathing claws that have not seen battle in moons. "If Father did not send you, then this message is not for your ears," he growls. "Now, remove yourself from this plane before I am forced to scatter you."
"I have walked this plane since before you were born!" the other spirit spits, swiping at Pyxis's muzzle. The blow stings like wasps in a rage, but Pyxis does not flinch. Instead he retaliates, lashing out at the figure's hazy middle, which billows out before coalescing once more, snapping back in full force as if providing the momentum for the rival spirit to tackle Pyxis once more. This time, however, the tide seems to turn; Pyxis finds himself weighed down by the force of a mountain, unable to wriggle free as he did before. Even as he hisses and aims his hind legs at the underbelly of his foe, the silver smoke dissipates, hovering in the air only a moment before prizing Pyxis's jaws apart and vanishing inside. Instantly, the hot coals of his heart are dampened, and moving even a paw feels like wading through a snow drift.
"Swan feather ribs and a wayfaring skull, meant for a star cast from the sky. Left untouched, they will decay; the teeth and tongues of fools will fall, the star will turn, and the sun will rise," says a voice other than his own, raspy and grave. And in a rush, the silver smoke emerges again, though the fire Pyxis carried struggles to blaze higher than an ember might.
"What have you done?" he croaks. "Who are you?"
And this is an answer he never receives. After waiting nine blood moons to walk the earth once more, he dies for the second time, rent in half by a mere shade, tired from its wanderings across the mortal plane. His form dissolves slowly, the edges blurring until they drift upward in the moonlight, and the last thing to leave him is his faintly stirring heart. Left in his wake is the silver spirit.
"The sun will rise," it murmurs as it floats along, nebulous paws barely grazing the leaf-litter below. "Father has no business on this plane any longer." And with that, it vanishes into the night, weaving carefully between the patches of moonlight, still tinged with red.
Above, a single star watches.