He stands there. Immobile. Staring straight ahead of him.
His eyes burn, unblinking in the thunderous wind, but still he can see everything. He can see every blade of grass, every flower and every muddy rut on the hill. All the way to the bottom. And he can see the men. They are like slow moving smears in his vision. Brown and gold, glints of silver. They move and he sees.
The drums are pounding, four strikes every second. And the blood in his ears plays a half time counter beat, fading in and out of sync with the sonorous thuds. He can hear the men. They are like a blur of sound, brushed across the air two inches from his face. He can hear every voice but can't make out the words.
He can smell the ones that stand with him. Sweat and blood. Firesmoke and wet wolf. He inhales. As if it were roasting meat, he feels the spit grow in his mouth and he lets it build there.
He feels his arm all the way down to the ground, double headed and sharp. Weightless leather from the wrist to the stone head. He feels the calm inside his gut, feels it grow; pushing the fear and the hatred up. He feels his chest expand, feels the rage pushed into his throat. And he holds it there.
The calm envelopes him and annihilates him. He feels it rise up his spine and spread around his temples. He feels it connect, right in the centre, and he tastes the drip that runs down his throat. The taste is platinum, and sour.
The falling inner tear meets the rising scream, and they explode as one. He releases the howling, pained cry and spittle flies behind him. Every movement causes destruction. His feet tear the grass, and kick the mud. His arms are raised four feet above his head, and a wave of razor sharp flint smashes into the first mans head. The blood red against the clouded stone is like milk flecked with saffron.
The men bellow, terrified and furious. But he is silent. He has passed beyond rage, and his mind is empty. There is only the slow beating of his heart.
He feels the air move around him, hears the desperate noises of the men.
He sees everything bright, and shining. Spirals and lines dart across his sight. The world is shades of ochre. Orange, yellow and red. Fingerpainted, glorious.
And then all is silent.
He stands there. Fluid, constantly shifting.
He closes his eyes. He breathes.
His eyes burn, unblinking in the thunderous wind, but still he can see everything. He can see every blade of grass, every flower and every muddy rut on the hill. All the way to the bottom. And he can see the men. They are like slow moving smears in his vision. Brown and gold, glints of silver. They move and he sees.
The drums are pounding, four strikes every second. And the blood in his ears plays a half time counter beat, fading in and out of sync with the sonorous thuds. He can hear the men. They are like a blur of sound, brushed across the air two inches from his face. He can hear every voice but can't make out the words.
He can smell the ones that stand with him. Sweat and blood. Firesmoke and wet wolf. He inhales. As if it were roasting meat, he feels the spit grow in his mouth and he lets it build there.
He feels his arm all the way down to the ground, double headed and sharp. Weightless leather from the wrist to the stone head. He feels the calm inside his gut, feels it grow; pushing the fear and the hatred up. He feels his chest expand, feels the rage pushed into his throat. And he holds it there.
The calm envelopes him and annihilates him. He feels it rise up his spine and spread around his temples. He feels it connect, right in the centre, and he tastes the drip that runs down his throat. The taste is platinum, and sour.
The falling inner tear meets the rising scream, and they explode as one. He releases the howling, pained cry and spittle flies behind him. Every movement causes destruction. His feet tear the grass, and kick the mud. His arms are raised four feet above his head, and a wave of razor sharp flint smashes into the first mans head. The blood red against the clouded stone is like milk flecked with saffron.
The men bellow, terrified and furious. But he is silent. He has passed beyond rage, and his mind is empty. There is only the slow beating of his heart.
He feels the air move around him, hears the desperate noises of the men.
He sees everything bright, and shining. Spirals and lines dart across his sight. The world is shades of ochre. Orange, yellow and red. Fingerpainted, glorious.
And then all is silent.
He stands there. Fluid, constantly shifting.
He closes his eyes. He breathes.
lelaina:
ive always found you interesting
lelaina:
most people just think im nuts too.my friends are most certainly nuts. i seem to like that quality in people 