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Mar. 15th, 2006 03:44 pmThe sky above the mirrorglass ground is pitilessly bright, a blinding cloudless blue broken only by the shadows of birds—some of which soar in unending circles, some of which flutter and dance and call, shrieking to one another with a harsh cacophony of pure sound as they fill the air with noise and song.
Where they have come from, and why they are here, who can say? Some things are mysteries, with answers that may never be known.
(other birds will be hostile to you - it will be their nature - wherever they find you)
At the heart of the courtyard below stands the palace of emerald and jade glass, its towers spearing the air in jagged shards. Beyond the high barrier walls, the gray-white fog warbles and howls with a mad wind-filled scream of its own.
(the wind that blows round the feet of the dead)
Amid this brightness, the woman once called Blodwen Rowlands is nowhere to be seen.
(you are never to show your face to the light of day)
Not all things need be visible, however, in order to make their presence felt.
Untouched by human hand, the doors to the palace swing open. A soft, mocking laugh floats across the open space, cutting through the birdsong with a chiming like a silver bell from the glass walls and mirrored ground, leaving a lingering malice stretched through the air like the deadly threads of some creature’s web.
Slowly, the sky begins to darken.
It is a hawk that first breaks apart from the rest, a small, bright-eyed (merlin) falcon that arrows across the sky in a soaring arc away from the thickening smoky clouds and toward the gate at the edge of the courtyard. As it dives, a reflection falls from the palace-glass, tinting its feathers with a velvety bottle-green.
The crack of its bones breaking as it hits the mirrorglass ground—that deceptive image far closer than it had seemed—is very loud. The hawk flutters once, keening wildly, and is still.
A flicker, and where the hawk had fallen the body of a wren lies instead, still and unmoving on the glass, dusty-brown feathers stirred by the wind through the tall gates. After a few moments, light footsteps can be heard, and then a shadow falls across the small, still form.
Blodwen looks down at the bird—a wren no longer, but a white-feathered corbie, with a small cruel smile.
“Did you think to taunt and harass me here in my own land, my own castle, dear? Did you think to use that old tale against me, even here and now?”
“I am not truly she who once was, and they are all long gone in any case, cariad, but I still remain – and it is I who am shaping the story now.” The soft musical voice is half-lilting, half-mocking. “And it is so very tired that I am of being bothered by birds, but there are some that can be useful, oh yes. You will see.”
A circling eagle’s form—and yet an oddly bright one, for what eagle ever had feathers of red and gold and blue?—soars upward and vanishes into the last of the light as the clouds thicken further, and then out of that sudden blackness a shrieking clamor of rooks storms the sky, swooping in a malevolent flurry of wings upon the remaining birds. Feathers float down from the battle, torn from sparrows and cormorants and even a few night-dark ravens’ feathers, a small unkindness among so many.
In the shifting shadows, a parliament of golden-eyed white owls – as white as the cloak the Rider wears-- can be seen perching on the wall, watching in fierce silence—and in the next moment, just as silently as they had appeared, they are gone.
As suddenly as it began, all is quiet. No wings blot the sky; no feathered shapes swirl above. All the birds are dead or vanished-- save one.
Dazed in the aftermath of the storm, a single lost robin flutters toward the ground untouched. Smiling, Blodwen stretches out one pale hand towards it, offering the shelter of a perch on her finger, murmuring, “I knew a robin prince once, dear; come here and be safe, and so beautifully you will sing for me, I am certain of it.”
As it settles nervously into place, she strokes its feathers and turns toward the castle, not deigning to look down at the fallen shape at her feet.
The crunch of a wing breaking under her foot is shockingly sharp in the eerie stillness.
Carrying the robin, the White Rider walks away, vanishing into the darkness of the emerald palace.
Where they have come from, and why they are here, who can say? Some things are mysteries, with answers that may never be known.
(other birds will be hostile to you - it will be their nature - wherever they find you)
At the heart of the courtyard below stands the palace of emerald and jade glass, its towers spearing the air in jagged shards. Beyond the high barrier walls, the gray-white fog warbles and howls with a mad wind-filled scream of its own.
(the wind that blows round the feet of the dead)
Amid this brightness, the woman once called Blodwen Rowlands is nowhere to be seen.
(you are never to show your face to the light of day)
Not all things need be visible, however, in order to make their presence felt.
Untouched by human hand, the doors to the palace swing open. A soft, mocking laugh floats across the open space, cutting through the birdsong with a chiming like a silver bell from the glass walls and mirrored ground, leaving a lingering malice stretched through the air like the deadly threads of some creature’s web.
Slowly, the sky begins to darken.
It is a hawk that first breaks apart from the rest, a small, bright-eyed (merlin) falcon that arrows across the sky in a soaring arc away from the thickening smoky clouds and toward the gate at the edge of the courtyard. As it dives, a reflection falls from the palace-glass, tinting its feathers with a velvety bottle-green.
The crack of its bones breaking as it hits the mirrorglass ground—that deceptive image far closer than it had seemed—is very loud. The hawk flutters once, keening wildly, and is still.
A flicker, and where the hawk had fallen the body of a wren lies instead, still and unmoving on the glass, dusty-brown feathers stirred by the wind through the tall gates. After a few moments, light footsteps can be heard, and then a shadow falls across the small, still form.
Blodwen looks down at the bird—a wren no longer, but a white-feathered corbie, with a small cruel smile.
“Did you think to taunt and harass me here in my own land, my own castle, dear? Did you think to use that old tale against me, even here and now?”
“I am not truly she who once was, and they are all long gone in any case, cariad, but I still remain – and it is I who am shaping the story now.” The soft musical voice is half-lilting, half-mocking. “And it is so very tired that I am of being bothered by birds, but there are some that can be useful, oh yes. You will see.”
A circling eagle’s form—and yet an oddly bright one, for what eagle ever had feathers of red and gold and blue?—soars upward and vanishes into the last of the light as the clouds thicken further, and then out of that sudden blackness a shrieking clamor of rooks storms the sky, swooping in a malevolent flurry of wings upon the remaining birds. Feathers float down from the battle, torn from sparrows and cormorants and even a few night-dark ravens’ feathers, a small unkindness among so many.
In the shifting shadows, a parliament of golden-eyed white owls – as white as the cloak the Rider wears-- can be seen perching on the wall, watching in fierce silence—and in the next moment, just as silently as they had appeared, they are gone.
As suddenly as it began, all is quiet. No wings blot the sky; no feathered shapes swirl above. All the birds are dead or vanished-- save one.
Dazed in the aftermath of the storm, a single lost robin flutters toward the ground untouched. Smiling, Blodwen stretches out one pale hand towards it, offering the shelter of a perch on her finger, murmuring, “I knew a robin prince once, dear; come here and be safe, and so beautifully you will sing for me, I am certain of it.”
As it settles nervously into place, she strokes its feathers and turns toward the castle, not deigning to look down at the fallen shape at her feet.
The crunch of a wing breaking under her foot is shockingly sharp in the eerie stillness.
Carrying the robin, the White Rider walks away, vanishing into the darkness of the emerald palace.
