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rakashavia https://ift.tt/2TdUbkX
So, this sprang up specifically because I wanted to see Thalassa singing One Specific Song. The Song of the Twelve, by Diane Duane, from her novel Deep Wizardry - which is quoted profusely here. Also a quote from Terry Pratchett is lurking in this piece of writing.
taggingangelrider13 [Bad username or unknown identity: phoenixwithahoardoflibraries]
Rain, in Galahd, was always welcome. Was seen as a mark of Ramuh’s presence - Ramuh, the patron of the islands, the Old Man of Galahd. Ramuh, who held the lightning in one fist and the thunder in the other; Ramuh, who was the Storm. Ramuh, who walked among his people, who shared their griefs and hardships, their joys and celebrations.
It was raining, in Insomnia. That was scant comfort. But at least Ramuh was there.
It was always good to have one’s kin at a funeral.
Five. Five members of the Kingsglaive, five galahdians with beads in their hair and the memory of the islands echoing in their dreams. Five members of the King’s Military who had been given full honors for their ‘valor and their sacrifice’. Five empty chairs, five vacant lockers, five spots to be filled - five sacrifices to the meat grinder of war.
(At least they’d been given back the bodies for the pyre. At least their kin hadn’t been locked in cold earth and rock - at least they’d been able to give their comrades that much.)
Rain, in Insomnia, was always welcome. Although now, it tasted suspiciously of salt.
(Rain was a mark of the Fulgarian, yes, but to those who remembered the sight of storms howling across the sea, of rain lashing the waves to merge seamlessly with the rising swell - the Fulgarian was the Storm, but the Hyrdrean was the Sea, was water in all its sundered forms).
“Must I accept the barren Gift?
-learn death, and lose my Mastery?
Then let them know whose blood and breath
will take the Gift and set them free:
whose is the voice and whose the mind
to set at naught the well-sung Game-
when finned Finality arrives
and calls me by my secret Name.”
The song was plaintive, set in a minor key, but it wove through the pounding rain and made it a part of the melody.
Thalassa was there at the edge of the crowd, hair plastered to her back, eyes far too old with the heavy weight of memories and regret as they shone like pale gold in her wet face. And her voice rose again in aching harmony as she slid into the next stanza.
“Not old enough to love as yet,
but old enough to die, indeed-
-the death-fear bites my throat and heart,
fanged cousin to the Pale One’s breed.”
And then her voice shifted. It was sad, yes - but it waved the sadness like the banner. It was a sadness that bared its teeth at a universe that had done all it could - but you were still alive.
“But past the fear lies life for all-
perhaps for me: and, past my dread,
past loss of Mastery and life,
the Sea shall yet give up Her dead!”
(Your picture was not posted)
So, this sprang up specifically because I wanted to see Thalassa singing One Specific Song. The Song of the Twelve, by Diane Duane, from her novel Deep Wizardry - which is quoted profusely here. Also a quote from Terry Pratchett is lurking in this piece of writing.
tagging
angelrider13 [Bad username or unknown identity: phoenixwithahoardoflibraries]Rain, in Galahd, was always welcome. Was seen as a mark of Ramuh’s presence - Ramuh, the patron of the islands, the Old Man of Galahd. Ramuh, who held the lightning in one fist and the thunder in the other; Ramuh, who was the Storm. Ramuh, who walked among his people, who shared their griefs and hardships, their joys and celebrations.
It was raining, in Insomnia. That was scant comfort. But at least Ramuh was there.
It was always good to have one’s kin at a funeral.
Five. Five members of the Kingsglaive, five galahdians with beads in their hair and the memory of the islands echoing in their dreams. Five members of the King’s Military who had been given full honors for their ‘valor and their sacrifice’. Five empty chairs, five vacant lockers, five spots to be filled - five sacrifices to the meat grinder of war.
(At least they’d been given back the bodies for the pyre. At least their kin hadn’t been locked in cold earth and rock - at least they’d been able to give their comrades that much.)
Rain, in Insomnia, was always welcome. Although now, it tasted suspiciously of salt.
(Rain was a mark of the Fulgarian, yes, but to those who remembered the sight of storms howling across the sea, of rain lashing the waves to merge seamlessly with the rising swell - the Fulgarian was the Storm, but the Hyrdrean was the Sea, was water in all its sundered forms).
“Must I accept the barren Gift?
-learn death, and lose my Mastery?
Then let them know whose blood and breath
will take the Gift and set them free:
whose is the voice and whose the mind
to set at naught the well-sung Game-
when finned Finality arrives
and calls me by my secret Name.”
The song was plaintive, set in a minor key, but it wove through the pounding rain and made it a part of the melody.
Thalassa was there at the edge of the crowd, hair plastered to her back, eyes far too old with the heavy weight of memories and regret as they shone like pale gold in her wet face. And her voice rose again in aching harmony as she slid into the next stanza.
“Not old enough to love as yet,
but old enough to die, indeed-
-the death-fear bites my throat and heart,
fanged cousin to the Pale One’s breed.”
And then her voice shifted. It was sad, yes - but it waved the sadness like the banner. It was a sadness that bared its teeth at a universe that had done all it could - but you were still alive.
“But past the fear lies life for all-
perhaps for me: and, past my dread,
past loss of Mastery and life,
the Sea shall yet give up Her dead!”
(Your picture was not posted)
