A Prayer Of Salt and Sand

[Lulah 110]

 

 

Music:

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

Prayer of Salt and Sand

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

 

 

 

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"Curse the blood of my Father."

 

A rattled phrase, against the wailing salt-burdened shores of the north. A lone woman lingered. She was a distinct silhouette; tall and lean, long hair lashing the wind in ribbons. Even as that unrelenting breeze attacked, she remained still. Taught.

Once more, she spoke, a rasping snap of venom. Malice. "Curse, curse, curse his blood." Her spittle flung words mixed with the ocean's spray, and melded into the coarse crunch of sand beneath her feet. Yet one thing still echoed, sharp amongst the coast's symphony;

 

                                                                                Drip. . .

Drip. . .

Drip. . .                                                                    

                       

                        

The Viscera that barely still clung to her fingers clotted and clumped as the minutes passed, cooled quickly by the touch of air before piercing the surface of the passing waves. She turned, and if any had witnessed, they'd have gazed 'pon the bludgeoned sclera and split pupils that now marred the Mali's visage. pitiful and pathetic. A disgusting self-flagellation at the promise of false gods, a mockery of the world's truths.

 

The Woman dropped to her knees.

 

The Cursed choir, the pervasive persuasions, had stopped. The sweet hymns, that had told her with such gentle courage to prove her devotion, gone. The Goblet of wrath's claws had now receded. And, in its place, Aisilla was left with naught but dreaded quiet. Her fresh wounds throbbed where once she had known sight, sight that had known the brief moments of joy that painted the world in all its delight. snuffed quicker than a candle.

 

She had thought there would be darkness, welcoming and deep. She could see no more 'anything' than she might with arm or leg.

There was only an all consuming nothing.

 

And as she knelt, she prayed.

 

No hand upon her shoulder, no urging 'other' to place holy words within her mouth, the woman prayed with all her being. In shuddering silence, she prayed, fingers burying themselves in sand and salt. Through every spasm, the hold of the Lamb's Blood receded, and so clearer did its folly reveal within her mind. Begging, pleading, she called out to the sea;

 

"Please... Please... Return my light." For indeed, the dark 'nothing' was wrought with terrors.

 

Aisilla could still feel the dragging of her very own nails across her ruined retina, could hear the final echoes of that blissful choir rattle the cliffsides. As clear as if they had been real. And she sobbed, wishing if only their lovely comfort had remained.

Succumbing on the shore to her exhaustions, the sand mixed her raven lock to ashen gray as she reaching the shuddering's of a restless sleep.

 

 

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[Holyland 3650]

"Another falls."

 

"Always broken, soon remade anew."

 

"That is the only way."

 

The penitent trembles - he calls to the sister, bearer of truesight.