Lost in Wonderland
Posted: Mon Feb 28, 2022 9:29 am
The Bronze Fox had turned his face away, his last words echoed through The Smith's skull.
The Silver Lady had flown, as she should, yet her loss vibrated through reality as ripples in the rain.
The Minstral had vibrated, comfort seeping through his song, but he too was gone now.
The thought dragged him down through the surface; the floor drop away and he was falling.
He stood in a vast cavern carved into the earth, rocky surfaces slick with moisture, air rich with the smell of fertile ground. There came a humming in his ears, the cavern shook with it and became a vaulting expanse wider than the sky.
He was here. He was there. Here and there meant less now. He was looking in a mirror, but he didn't look right. The hum resonated in his bones like a tuning fork.
He shouldn't look. Mirrors could be dangerous, or so the superstition went. Peering into the face of the uncanny could trap the mind, the soul. But everything was beautiful in his sight. He could taste the rocks, the sky sang. Greater understanding was right around the corner, knowing how the aether would flow. He courted it. He begged for it. He begged for The Bronze Fox to return to him. He had to know. He wanted to know everything.
The vault became a banquet hall where strange creatures feasted on dishes unknown, some fresh-picked, some rotting. They were bright things, and dark. Wild and eldritch. Some of them looked hungrily at him, others with interest or pity or disdain.
Something flickered out of the corner of his eye. The Fox? No, his father, implacable rage with no place to put it. No, his mother, pushing him away to save him. No, his old master, all the substance gone out of him until he was mist, a shadow of his living self.
He could feel his body quaking, felt a dampness on his lips. When a shaking hand reached his face he realized his nose had started to bleed, but it tasted sweet instead of coppery.
"Torin?" It was Sivan's voice, and in the mirror, he saw his friend. But he was different. He was a king, or a god. He changed from breath to breath, now a hermit in the woods, now a grease-smudged tinker in a workshop, now a hierophant on a lonely mountaintop.
His golden hair was crowned in a silver, celestial light. His eyes were the sky looking down. His lips were flower petals. Power churned around him, through him.
"What are you?" Torin asked, an awed whisper. But he didn't care. He knelt. This was what he had been waiting for.
In the mirror, he saw himself kneeling like a knight in silvery armor. He looked like Kaus Leukos, or himself, having learned all that the battlemasters had to teach just so he could lay his heavy warhammer at Sivan's feet. He ached.
"Choose me," he murmured, begging. His Bronze Fox had abandoned him, replaced by this Lord of Metal and Magic. He wept, and felt ashamed.
"Torin," He heard his name, but that wasn't his true name any longer; neither was Sivan his. If only he would choose him, everything would come back into focus and make sense. Elven touched his fingers to his face, lifting his chin. Lips brushed his ear, and while he didn't understand, he only wanted him to do it again. The stars poured through him, a cold wave of night.
He could see everything, time unfurled before him; their bodies entwined. Sivan was above him and beneath him at the same time, his fair skin laid out like a fine tablecloth scattered with rose petals. He was overpowering Torin, pushing him down from his knees to some lower place. Teeth caressed at his ear. No, it was sharp; a bite, hard.
"Torin," His name again, harsh with command.
"Wake up! In the Silver Tongue, voice sounding like golden bells. When Sivan spoke Rivach, it was the rustle of woodland trees.
And then he saw himself in the mirror, kneeling at his friend's feet, his hand slipping into his friend's tunic and down his hose. Sivan's hands were on his shoulders, steadying himself, trying to keep Torin at bay. There was some fear in his eyes, and determination and concern.
The cavern faded, in warped weavings. The vault closed in, stilling itself like a gong. The banquet hall was gone, but for a long time he could still see those faces and hear their laughter at his expense, the buzz of their conversation as his mind stepped through the mirror.
Torin was in his own room, though the mirror still seemed off. He fell backward onto his ass, letting go of Sivan. He was aroused and humiliated, felt a pain in his thigh and a confusion at the edges of memory that threatened to come crashing back into him like a wave.
Reality was tremulous, but Sivan was crouched beside him, supporting him, trying to help him up.
The Silver Lady had flown, as she should, yet her loss vibrated through reality as ripples in the rain.
The Minstral had vibrated, comfort seeping through his song, but he too was gone now.
The thought dragged him down through the surface; the floor drop away and he was falling.
He stood in a vast cavern carved into the earth, rocky surfaces slick with moisture, air rich with the smell of fertile ground. There came a humming in his ears, the cavern shook with it and became a vaulting expanse wider than the sky.
He was here. He was there. Here and there meant less now. He was looking in a mirror, but he didn't look right. The hum resonated in his bones like a tuning fork.
He shouldn't look. Mirrors could be dangerous, or so the superstition went. Peering into the face of the uncanny could trap the mind, the soul. But everything was beautiful in his sight. He could taste the rocks, the sky sang. Greater understanding was right around the corner, knowing how the aether would flow. He courted it. He begged for it. He begged for The Bronze Fox to return to him. He had to know. He wanted to know everything.
The vault became a banquet hall where strange creatures feasted on dishes unknown, some fresh-picked, some rotting. They were bright things, and dark. Wild and eldritch. Some of them looked hungrily at him, others with interest or pity or disdain.
Something flickered out of the corner of his eye. The Fox? No, his father, implacable rage with no place to put it. No, his mother, pushing him away to save him. No, his old master, all the substance gone out of him until he was mist, a shadow of his living self.
He could feel his body quaking, felt a dampness on his lips. When a shaking hand reached his face he realized his nose had started to bleed, but it tasted sweet instead of coppery.
"Torin?" It was Sivan's voice, and in the mirror, he saw his friend. But he was different. He was a king, or a god. He changed from breath to breath, now a hermit in the woods, now a grease-smudged tinker in a workshop, now a hierophant on a lonely mountaintop.
His golden hair was crowned in a silver, celestial light. His eyes were the sky looking down. His lips were flower petals. Power churned around him, through him.
"What are you?" Torin asked, an awed whisper. But he didn't care. He knelt. This was what he had been waiting for.
In the mirror, he saw himself kneeling like a knight in silvery armor. He looked like Kaus Leukos, or himself, having learned all that the battlemasters had to teach just so he could lay his heavy warhammer at Sivan's feet. He ached.
"Choose me," he murmured, begging. His Bronze Fox had abandoned him, replaced by this Lord of Metal and Magic. He wept, and felt ashamed.
"Torin," He heard his name, but that wasn't his true name any longer; neither was Sivan his. If only he would choose him, everything would come back into focus and make sense. Elven touched his fingers to his face, lifting his chin. Lips brushed his ear, and while he didn't understand, he only wanted him to do it again. The stars poured through him, a cold wave of night.
He could see everything, time unfurled before him; their bodies entwined. Sivan was above him and beneath him at the same time, his fair skin laid out like a fine tablecloth scattered with rose petals. He was overpowering Torin, pushing him down from his knees to some lower place. Teeth caressed at his ear. No, it was sharp; a bite, hard.
"Torin," His name again, harsh with command.
"Wake up! In the Silver Tongue, voice sounding like golden bells. When Sivan spoke Rivach, it was the rustle of woodland trees.
And then he saw himself in the mirror, kneeling at his friend's feet, his hand slipping into his friend's tunic and down his hose. Sivan's hands were on his shoulders, steadying himself, trying to keep Torin at bay. There was some fear in his eyes, and determination and concern.
The cavern faded, in warped weavings. The vault closed in, stilling itself like a gong. The banquet hall was gone, but for a long time he could still see those faces and hear their laughter at his expense, the buzz of their conversation as his mind stepped through the mirror.
Torin was in his own room, though the mirror still seemed off. He fell backward onto his ass, letting go of Sivan. He was aroused and humiliated, felt a pain in his thigh and a confusion at the edges of memory that threatened to come crashing back into him like a wave.
Reality was tremulous, but Sivan was crouched beside him, supporting him, trying to help him up.