A darkling spire

His darkness spilled out and stained the sky around him. It burned and shone brightly, somehow a star and its antithesis. This dark brilliance illuminated a path few could follow but at the end all desires would be granted. Out of such things are legends made.

A man, black skin reflecting the moonlit night, stalks through the grass. He moves quietly, the soft wind hushing across the plain. The journey is one of moments but has the ponderous feel of eternity or perhaps it is fear that strums the man’s heart.

The carved head of a wild beast rises above the sea of blowing grass, emerging from the horizon. The man stands at the edge of a deep bowl. The edges are sharp and clear. Steps are carved into the vitrified stone, worn down by the endless procession of practices and madmen.

There is power here, like a beating heart, slow and steady, calling out to the night sky. It curls round, enticing. The man steps into the bowl. The air shifts around. A living thing whispers over cool skin, spirits or something greater almost… The murmur of words spoken here echo down the skein of time. Until, lost, they find their way to the mind of a seeker.

The man stands before the basalt pillar. Carved from the wind alone it rises the length of ten men standing tall. The figures carved there seem to dance. Each shift of the everpresent wind reveals the verge of a revelation.

The man is desperate. His tribe dwindles as the foul darkness consumes mother and child. Each night bringing a new chance to breathe one last breath. Before the ancestors are cast adrift and the people are no more.

The spirits speak of this place where the sky burned and the earth was shattered. This place where the sky wars with the earth. Where all that is known is made hollow and only the birds who circle here, are fed.

This is the last chance. The last hope of a dying people.

The man picks up a piece of the sky stone. Made jagged from the ever moving wind. Dragging the surface across left palm, the stone parts flesh. The blood pool and the man calms his heart. There is no other choice.

The man places his hand against the stone.

A voice young and deep reverberates through the man.

2 thoughts on “A darkling spire

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