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Feb. 15th, 2006 07:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
white_flowersThe walls of the cathedral-like chamber soar to unthinkable, dizzying height before curving, lost from sight to the green-tinged darkness above.
Below, amid the shadows that spread like spilled ink across the floor, at the very center of the darkness that writhes uncoiling from forgotten corners and the sides of pillars to lie in pools on the ice-silver mirror of the ground, the crystalline throne stands. It draws the eye as it shines in the dim rays that fall through the chamber's stained-glass windows, rays that spread a poisoned radiance of yellow-green light-- not unlike that which taints the sky before a cyclone-- to the throne itself as it gleams with emerald malice from its dais.
It is here that Blodwen has arrayed herself at present, the white cloth of her dress seeming almost spring-green in the reflected glow of the glass throne as she leans forward, looking down into
(a pool a mirror a crystal ball a witch's glass)
the shining colorless sphere which rests on its stand just before and slightly to one side of the throne. "A pretty toy, this is, and a useful one as well," she murmurs, and her laughter is mocking and unpleasant as it echoes through the empty chamber.
A beat of silence that almost hums with anticipation, and then--
"Show me."
As she speaks, the darkness that overshadows the room draws back with the sound of a rushing wind, and images start to spin through the sudden smoke that fills the glass globe.
I wish that I could help you see what it is to create. Soft the words had been when spoken, softer now -- but painfully clear as they echo once more through the chamber. It is Gwion that the glass shows first, last harper of the Lost Land, and her lips tighten at some thought; Gwion in the castle outside time, bending with painstaking care over a piece of wood as he slowly shapes a new harp, each careful stroke made with delicacy and with --
A sharp hiss comes from the White Rider, and the image changes, shifting to another harper, this one standing with head bowed as if by some weight as he leans against a rock wall. John Rowlands' eyes are dim as he pauses in his work, and then he looks unseeing out over the valley toward the Davies' home, and the glass follows there-- but cannot pass within, thwarted by some (golden) barrier.
Smoke wells like uncanny fog, and the vision shifts through stars and darkness to the end of the worlds themselves, and Blodwen's smile grows cruel as the scenes begin to spin:
--Puck laughing, sharp eyes bright with mischief--
--Nita smiling and relaxed in conversation--
--Caspian riding a horse, sword nowhere to be seen--
--little blonde Mary curled up on a couch and listening sleepily to an earnest young man--
--Guinevere and Owen Davies sitting with her--
--Bran with his harp and Mordred with a security badge--
Faster and faster they spin, cast now in an sickly green glow that flickers like flame, person after person visible trapped in the glass and then fading from view just as quickly.
--FaithMelHavelockDuoTimBernardIngressTomWellardAceRaven--
The sudden thundering sound of black wings beating fills the room and Blodwen snaps,
"Enough!"
The poison light in the globe winks out, and Blodwen leans back, settling easily into the throne. Her soft, mocking laughter floats on the air.
(Tell me, Rider... what do you see when you open the door?)
"Why, opportunity it was indeed that I saw," she muses aloud, the light musical voice coldly amused and bell-clear. "And an opportunity that I will use to best advantage when I return, indeed."
Below, amid the shadows that spread like spilled ink across the floor, at the very center of the darkness that writhes uncoiling from forgotten corners and the sides of pillars to lie in pools on the ice-silver mirror of the ground, the crystalline throne stands. It draws the eye as it shines in the dim rays that fall through the chamber's stained-glass windows, rays that spread a poisoned radiance of yellow-green light-- not unlike that which taints the sky before a cyclone-- to the throne itself as it gleams with emerald malice from its dais.
It is here that Blodwen has arrayed herself at present, the white cloth of her dress seeming almost spring-green in the reflected glow of the glass throne as she leans forward, looking down into
(a pool a mirror a crystal ball a witch's glass)
the shining colorless sphere which rests on its stand just before and slightly to one side of the throne. "A pretty toy, this is, and a useful one as well," she murmurs, and her laughter is mocking and unpleasant as it echoes through the empty chamber.
A beat of silence that almost hums with anticipation, and then--
"Show me."
As she speaks, the darkness that overshadows the room draws back with the sound of a rushing wind, and images start to spin through the sudden smoke that fills the glass globe.
I wish that I could help you see what it is to create. Soft the words had been when spoken, softer now -- but painfully clear as they echo once more through the chamber. It is Gwion that the glass shows first, last harper of the Lost Land, and her lips tighten at some thought; Gwion in the castle outside time, bending with painstaking care over a piece of wood as he slowly shapes a new harp, each careful stroke made with delicacy and with --
A sharp hiss comes from the White Rider, and the image changes, shifting to another harper, this one standing with head bowed as if by some weight as he leans against a rock wall. John Rowlands' eyes are dim as he pauses in his work, and then he looks unseeing out over the valley toward the Davies' home, and the glass follows there-- but cannot pass within, thwarted by some (golden) barrier.
Smoke wells like uncanny fog, and the vision shifts through stars and darkness to the end of the worlds themselves, and Blodwen's smile grows cruel as the scenes begin to spin:
--Puck laughing, sharp eyes bright with mischief--
--Nita smiling and relaxed in conversation--
--Caspian riding a horse, sword nowhere to be seen--
--little blonde Mary curled up on a couch and listening sleepily to an earnest young man--
--Guinevere and Owen Davies sitting with her--
--Bran with his harp and Mordred with a security badge--
Faster and faster they spin, cast now in an sickly green glow that flickers like flame, person after person visible trapped in the glass and then fading from view just as quickly.
--FaithMelHavelockDuoTimBernardIngressTomWellardAceRaven--
The sudden thundering sound of black wings beating fills the room and Blodwen snaps,
"Enough!"
The poison light in the globe winks out, and Blodwen leans back, settling easily into the throne. Her soft, mocking laughter floats on the air.
(Tell me, Rider... what do you see when you open the door?)
"Why, opportunity it was indeed that I saw," she muses aloud, the light musical voice coldly amused and bell-clear. "And an opportunity that I will use to best advantage when I return, indeed."
