Irrevocable
Dec. 5th, 2012 06:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
archiveofarethusaWinter was the most painful of the four seasons, without contest. Where in summer there had been roaring, teeming life, winter saw to it that cacophony fell to a silence so impenetrable that Cyprian could hear it over his own voice. The branches of trees which towered proud and full in summer were as brittle and naked as skeletons, and if there remained a spark of life left inside them it was as quiet and unknown to Cyprian as any other unborn thing. Buillaisianism taught that Anharo had formed around the skull of a terrible giant, and that winter was the season the world remembered what it truly was. Under the blue skies of the kinder seasons, nothing was more ridiculous. In the glaucoma white of winter, it was undeniable fact.
He sat between the long, winding roots of his favorite tree, dead now and with nothing to show it had ever lived but a broken crown of yellow and gold leaves. He let himself recline, and, setting his palms down on the grass, reached out with his power. He was a mystic; others of his kind had performed all manner of miracles in the past, life among them, and he did not want to have to adjust every year to living in a world made into a graveyard. He shouldn't have had to.
Ah, but how little the world cared for what should have been.
"There are some things in life you can't change," Cyprian's mother told him later, ten days into Cyprian's recovery. As if the moment he felt winter seep into him, its twisting roots taking hold wherever they could fasten, hadn't been a better tutor on this subject than his mother using that voice, the one she used whenever he was being stupid and she thought it was adorable. "The seasons will turn long after you die."
"The seasons can take a slow, romantic dive off the edge of the universe and shatter their figurative skulls for all I care," Cyprian said. "And it would be awesome if life were to join them. But I don't care anymore."
He sat between the long, winding roots of his favorite tree, dead now and with nothing to show it had ever lived but a broken crown of yellow and gold leaves. He let himself recline, and, setting his palms down on the grass, reached out with his power. He was a mystic; others of his kind had performed all manner of miracles in the past, life among them, and he did not want to have to adjust every year to living in a world made into a graveyard. He shouldn't have had to.
Ah, but how little the world cared for what should have been.
"There are some things in life you can't change," Cyprian's mother told him later, ten days into Cyprian's recovery. As if the moment he felt winter seep into him, its twisting roots taking hold wherever they could fasten, hadn't been a better tutor on this subject than his mother using that voice, the one she used whenever he was being stupid and she thought it was adorable. "The seasons will turn long after you die."
"The seasons can take a slow, romantic dive off the edge of the universe and shatter their figurative skulls for all I care," Cyprian said. "And it would be awesome if life were to join them. But I don't care anymore."