OOC | Dream
In his dream, he is running over newly fallen snow, chasing a bright red bird as she flies from branch to branch. She pauses occasionally to settle her feathers and look down at him with jewel-green eyes. She speaks to him in a woman's voice.
"Kill me," she sighs. Her breast is gold, and she carries a scrap of yellow fabric in one foot. He crouches at the foot of the tree, panting through a mouth deep with points. With a flick of her wings, she takes off again.
In his dream, he is running, running, through a forest of great black pines, which stretch up around him as if yearning to brush against the indifferent white face of the moon. The air is icy and heavy with silence, save for the sound of his breathing, which plumes into the night and spirals behind him like a banner. He is naked, but he doesn't feel the cold, only the softness of the snow under his bare feet and a dim, throbbing ache in his hands.
He pays no attention to it. For now, he is running, running.
The bird laughs a woman's laugh as she flies ahead of him, close enough that he can smell her scent (cinnamon, burning dust, scorched rock, and spices) but always just out of reach.
Running, running.
He lopes through the snow after her. He wants to call her name, but his jaw is the wrong shape for speech, and his tongue has never learned the human language.
"In China I'm called fenghuang," she says, alighting on a branch twenty feet above his head. "You told me that." The snow beneath her begins to melt, exposing cold dead earth. He sits back on his haunches and reaches a hand out to her. There is a dark red stain on his palm.
"Kill me. It’s the only thing you can do." She tilts her head. "Please, kill me. Do it right this time."
She takes off once more, and now it seems as if her feathers are less bright; the beats of her wings, less powerful. The end is close. He follows her, walking now, the pads of his fingers breaking the crust of the snow.
Beyond the tree is a clearing. In the middle of the clearing is a long thin object, sticking out of the snow like a grave marker: a sword, the tang slightly curved, the hilt wrapped with dark leather. There are symbols inscribed on the blade and a thin chain loops around the cross guard. Hanging from it are two metal tags, which swing as if recently disturbed, making thin snikting sounds as they click lightly against the sword's edge.
The bird lands in the snow beside it.
"Why can't you kill me?" she asks. She's close to tears.
He ignores her. The sword beckons to him. He pulls himself up onto two feet and walks towards it, reaching out with his bloodied hand for the ancient hilt. The metal tags stir with his movement, rattling against the blade as if caught in a high wind. He recognises the sound but cannot place it in his memory: all he can think about is the sword, and the bird beside him, the bird who is no longer a bird.
He closes his fingers around the hilt of the sword. The tags stop moving and the bird who is now a woman, a god, claps her hands together. In a single smooth movement, he draws the sword out of the earth and holds it at waist height, both hands gripping the hilt in a way that is infinitely familiar, infinitely strange. The woman-bird-god stands in front of him, naked, her body rippling with flame.
"I know who you are," he snarls.
"Who am I?" the god-woman-bird asks, smiling an infinite smile. Snow begins to fall around them, silent double helixes of flakes. He can feel the heat of her. He wants to touch her, but he knows it will burn.
She'd asked him a question.
There's blood on his lips. He can taste it in his throat when he says the name. Tears roll from the corners of his eyes.
"Phoenix."
She throws her head back and spreads her arms, laughing like a child. The sword is as light as a feather in his hands as he swings it up, across, around, the blade cutting through the tumbling snowflakes, the winter night, the body of the god, the bird, the woman, tearing the delicate paper of her mortal form and releasing a torrent of white
white
white.
"Kill me," she sighs. Her breast is gold, and she carries a scrap of yellow fabric in one foot. He crouches at the foot of the tree, panting through a mouth deep with points. With a flick of her wings, she takes off again.
In his dream, he is running, running, through a forest of great black pines, which stretch up around him as if yearning to brush against the indifferent white face of the moon. The air is icy and heavy with silence, save for the sound of his breathing, which plumes into the night and spirals behind him like a banner. He is naked, but he doesn't feel the cold, only the softness of the snow under his bare feet and a dim, throbbing ache in his hands.
He pays no attention to it. For now, he is running, running.
The bird laughs a woman's laugh as she flies ahead of him, close enough that he can smell her scent (cinnamon, burning dust, scorched rock, and spices) but always just out of reach.
Running, running.
He lopes through the snow after her. He wants to call her name, but his jaw is the wrong shape for speech, and his tongue has never learned the human language.
"In China I'm called fenghuang," she says, alighting on a branch twenty feet above his head. "You told me that." The snow beneath her begins to melt, exposing cold dead earth. He sits back on his haunches and reaches a hand out to her. There is a dark red stain on his palm.
"Kill me. It’s the only thing you can do." She tilts her head. "Please, kill me. Do it right this time."
She takes off once more, and now it seems as if her feathers are less bright; the beats of her wings, less powerful. The end is close. He follows her, walking now, the pads of his fingers breaking the crust of the snow.
Beyond the tree is a clearing. In the middle of the clearing is a long thin object, sticking out of the snow like a grave marker: a sword, the tang slightly curved, the hilt wrapped with dark leather. There are symbols inscribed on the blade and a thin chain loops around the cross guard. Hanging from it are two metal tags, which swing as if recently disturbed, making thin snikting sounds as they click lightly against the sword's edge.
The bird lands in the snow beside it.
"Why can't you kill me?" she asks. She's close to tears.
He ignores her. The sword beckons to him. He pulls himself up onto two feet and walks towards it, reaching out with his bloodied hand for the ancient hilt. The metal tags stir with his movement, rattling against the blade as if caught in a high wind. He recognises the sound but cannot place it in his memory: all he can think about is the sword, and the bird beside him, the bird who is no longer a bird.
He closes his fingers around the hilt of the sword. The tags stop moving and the bird who is now a woman, a god, claps her hands together. In a single smooth movement, he draws the sword out of the earth and holds it at waist height, both hands gripping the hilt in a way that is infinitely familiar, infinitely strange. The woman-bird-god stands in front of him, naked, her body rippling with flame.
"I know who you are," he snarls.
"Who am I?" the god-woman-bird asks, smiling an infinite smile. Snow begins to fall around them, silent double helixes of flakes. He can feel the heat of her. He wants to touch her, but he knows it will burn.
She'd asked him a question.
There's blood on his lips. He can taste it in his throat when he says the name. Tears roll from the corners of his eyes.
"Phoenix."
She throws her head back and spreads her arms, laughing like a child. The sword is as light as a feather in his hands as he swings it up, across, around, the blade cutting through the tumbling snowflakes, the winter night, the body of the god, the bird, the woman, tearing the delicate paper of her mortal form and releasing a torrent of white
white
white.