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trans_92010-05-12 08:39 pm
bluebrassmonkey.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92010-05-12 08:39 pm
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Gemini, Part V: Meadows of Heaven
Title: Gemini, Part V: Meadows of Heaven
Location: Stacy; The Sensoriums
Notes: In loving memory of Michael, aka Pendrell. May 12, 2000.
"The minstrel boy, to the war has gone
In the ranks of death, you'll find him.
His brother's sword is girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him."
The Tower was by now, a solid, tangible thing within the Sensorium chamber.
It spoke of its age, of its purpose and each stone bore testament to that purpose. It was built to do one thing: Keep the world out and the insane in. When it came to be within the chamber, that which resided within it began to sing again.
The sound was somewhere between a keening wail and actual song.
Ingonyama nengw' enamabala
The rain never stopped. It poured down red and silvery blue and the ground became as it was within the creature's own. Bone and blood and bullet created a twisted kind of sand. The ghosts still danced and cavorted. One spoke of insanity, of a thunderstorm and hot cider on a cold winter's night. Another laughed, speaking of fire and marshmallows and a warm solidity that, while like the wind, drifted away...like the wind, somehow found its way back.
The tower had its own way to speak.
Deep, resonating tones of age and a world-weariness that simply wanted to lie down, to sleep and dream. But it couldn't dream, it couldn't sleep, for in sleep, bore the nightmares of what was, what shouldn't have been. And quietly, it resonated a deep shadow no one heard until now.
You killed him.
Location: Stacy; The Sensoriums
Notes: In loving memory of Michael, aka Pendrell. May 12, 2000.
"The minstrel boy, to the war has gone
In the ranks of death, you'll find him.
His brother's sword is girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him."
The Tower was by now, a solid, tangible thing within the Sensorium chamber.
It spoke of its age, of its purpose and each stone bore testament to that purpose. It was built to do one thing: Keep the world out and the insane in. When it came to be within the chamber, that which resided within it began to sing again.
The sound was somewhere between a keening wail and actual song.
Ingonyama nengw' enamabala
The rain never stopped. It poured down red and silvery blue and the ground became as it was within the creature's own. Bone and blood and bullet created a twisted kind of sand. The ghosts still danced and cavorted. One spoke of insanity, of a thunderstorm and hot cider on a cold winter's night. Another laughed, speaking of fire and marshmallows and a warm solidity that, while like the wind, drifted away...like the wind, somehow found its way back.
The tower had its own way to speak.
Deep, resonating tones of age and a world-weariness that simply wanted to lie down, to sleep and dream. But it couldn't dream, it couldn't sleep, for in sleep, bore the nightmares of what was, what shouldn't have been. And quietly, it resonated a deep shadow no one heard until now.
You killed him.