(no subject)
Horsemen
A dark cavalry, its endurance beyond imagining. Thousands of riders bearing swords stolen from northmen, and bundles of incomprehensible deerhide documents, and -- now -- the mark. Thousands of riders bearing the mark. Marks marching dark through long daylight, leaving hollow hoofprints. Holes in skin. Fingertips like worm-eaten wood and knuckles scabbed. Will they scar? So far they have not. No reason why that should change.
The sun tracks the whole procession sideways. Does not rise, does not set. Brown like an egg yolk ruined in the pan, its leering glow tarnishing their corseted armour. The riders stay harnessed for battle and decorated for a victory march. White cloth trails in swallow’s wings from shoulder and hip, nearly to the ground, and this stays pure, it cancels colour, the horses are trained not to shy from it but they toss their heads sometimes, angry that anything could hang so heavy and clean.
A luxury from the homeland, that cloth, and also a safeguard. Faces wrapped in white against the springing winds. Fine skin, olive like the waxen plane of a waterproof leaf. This is the pride of them all. They blacken their eyes with burned plant matter that sometimes makes them feel segmented, their legs falling away into a singularity within the horse below. To protect the skin. It is worth any hallucination.
The hills turn to red sand. The cavalry becomes a whipping, wet snake, up and down the banks of the world; but only those who look back will have to see it. Fair punishment. A black line drawn back to the fortress in the mist, unbroken. They have been leaving for a hundred years with things that must be spoils of war. They have been cursed. They do not recall by whom, or why. They forget to wonder where they are going, and only speak to ask each other why it hurts so much to be alive.
A dark cavalry, its endurance beyond imagining. Thousands of riders bearing swords stolen from northmen, and bundles of incomprehensible deerhide documents, and -- now -- the mark. Thousands of riders bearing the mark. Marks marching dark through long daylight, leaving hollow hoofprints. Holes in skin. Fingertips like worm-eaten wood and knuckles scabbed. Will they scar? So far they have not. No reason why that should change.
The sun tracks the whole procession sideways. Does not rise, does not set. Brown like an egg yolk ruined in the pan, its leering glow tarnishing their corseted armour. The riders stay harnessed for battle and decorated for a victory march. White cloth trails in swallow’s wings from shoulder and hip, nearly to the ground, and this stays pure, it cancels colour, the horses are trained not to shy from it but they toss their heads sometimes, angry that anything could hang so heavy and clean.
A luxury from the homeland, that cloth, and also a safeguard. Faces wrapped in white against the springing winds. Fine skin, olive like the waxen plane of a waterproof leaf. This is the pride of them all. They blacken their eyes with burned plant matter that sometimes makes them feel segmented, their legs falling away into a singularity within the horse below. To protect the skin. It is worth any hallucination.
The hills turn to red sand. The cavalry becomes a whipping, wet snake, up and down the banks of the world; but only those who look back will have to see it. Fair punishment. A black line drawn back to the fortress in the mist, unbroken. They have been leaving for a hundred years with things that must be spoils of war. They have been cursed. They do not recall by whom, or why. They forget to wonder where they are going, and only speak to ask each other why it hurts so much to be alive.