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The Hermit Observes

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The scent of pine encompasses the old hermit as he huddles in his desolate hovel. Blankets and cloths wrapped around him haphazardly as his eyes continue to stare through the canopies. The expansion of purple and blue scatters across the sky after a shuddering thud, where birds scatter and others scurry into their hovels. His fingernails dig into his own ragged blanket as the scene above him continues to play. The winds picking up as it continues to streak across the sky, then settling into the abyssal darkness that encompasses above.


Stars, blemishes, scars. What difference does this make?


For what comes next will rattle him to his core, for what shall follow the streaks in the sky? What shall the canvas above spread upon to the lonely observers, many watch, many anticipate. But none, none truly know. The marching of Imperial Boots and the jeering of combatants fill the poor hermits ears, as he rests in his hovel. The lapping of water against its muddy banks are intertwined with lonesome animals that come to drink, none ever observe the hermit or acknowledge his presence. But he knows, he truly knows.





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Posted (edited)

A gravedigger finishes his work in the dark of night, burying the same man the hundredth time. As the spade lie stuck in upturned earty, his eyes pull toward the heavens that burned in vast beauties of starlight and divine formation; but whatever language could be read among the shades of Pleiadian blue, or meaning discerned from its vast ambiguity, the gravedigger could not understand. His understanding of the world was dwarfed by his ignorance of cosmic threading.


A long time spent standing over the unmarked grave gave way to easy frustrations; no measure of lonely contemplation could tell how to interpret what he had took witness to. So, in his doubt, he took to divination: 


”Widu, capricious lord!” The gravedigger called, his arms raised in ritual to the trees that stood before him and his work and the sky that stood above it all. ”Feed well upon black blood and waning marrow under which I have buried for thee; and in my dreams, whisper to me the meaning of this tapestry which I have witnessed!”


Though the silence of the woodland was his response, it seemed to satisfy; it was blessing enough that his friend was once more secure beneath the earth. His gaze turned toward where civilization shone in the distance, and so he walked toward the lay of the Descendants.



Edited by Idumat

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