Posted by astarte on June 16, 2008, 3:20 am, in reply to "nam-tor wak yon svi-if yontau au ; thread" But it is not to be, and it breaks with his voice: they slow and accelerate to reality, and Astarte blinks, in the quiet. A quiet wind shifts DaVinci’s mane into a clammy tangle with her own, and she understands: a smile broadens on her face, and she too speaks, her voice strange and almost glowing in the queer twilight. “Oh, but my friend, there is no forever,” she says sagaciously; then, stepping forward, she turns to meet his eyes (pale and snowy green into those dark, dark spheres, and – briefly – she feels something inside her die) before gracefully falling to the ground with a laugh, rolling and kicking until she is covered in the cool mud. “This,” she says as she rises and dashes a line of mud onto his neck with her soft dirty muzzle, “is as close to forever as the likes of we shall ever draw near. The earth is forever, as old as time and the stars that burn above… and that is the first lesson you must learn.”
129.78.64.102
The dampness turns the dust at Astarte’s feet to mud, curdled and pure, and briefly (perhaps irreverently, certainly irrelevantly) she wonders if this is how her King fares, with the Earth caked onto his legs like it does her own, concealing fur and skin and sin – briefly, she wonders, if that dust is a measure of her own iniquity, a mark of chaos, of cascade entropy, that turns her heart over in her chest. So much of Astarte is built on the tenderness of chaste touch (for then, she can feel the lurch of heartbeat and the sensitivity of skin to word, to thought, to an element unburdened), and she is unafraid of it now: they are strangers alike and still she comes to him, damp leaf-dapples touching and mingling with wet-dry crimson gloaming. They touch, and breathe, and in the simplicity of that moment they only live and think and exist, for the importance of those acts alone. It is there that time both slows to imperception and speeds to hurtle light-fast beside them, and is thus unnecessary: it is both dawn and dusk and midday and midnight, and all meaningless hours inbetween. They are the wet dust that churns in their footsteps and the wind that hides them – perhaps something, there, is infinity. Of everything, in that moment, all Astarte can feel is nostalgia.
time is the fire
in which we burn
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