Older Gods 7
Flight. Wearied and worn by the rejection, the fresh evidence that our union was forbidden, we fled, borne on the wings of our compulsion.
Flight. The precious freedom of the air, the cooling dew of heavy clouds, the enlivening chill of the rampant winds, the succour of sunshine. We watched the stars wheel across the sky, the joyous dance of constellations.
Exhausted we alighted in a forest, curled in the moonwashed branches of a tree, entwined, within, without, blue bleeding into blue until we were a single mass of angel flesh, a glowing visitation for the night hawks and the owls.
We sought our own healing in the blissful arms of sleep. Absorbed and accepted in our lone place against the world, representatives of our forgotten God, who gave us the gift of unity, for the price of our lost lives. And yet the yearning pull remained, despite our blood now blue, our hearts enlarged, our bodies merged, amended; the whisper of the waves on clear sky evenings, and the terror of the sudden summer storms were written deep within the locked vaults of our souls.
We looked back frequently in those early days of travel, passing canyons deeply shadowed, lush woodland, plains groaning beneath the weight of endless herds of cattle. We stopped at first at settlements, to bring the old God’s word, but the world was unprepared, unwilling, dismissive and afraid. Few, too few, followed our direction to look within themselves, nor had we the freedom to teach them our new old lore. For the imperative grew stronger as the land around grew colder, and we closed upon the unknown, our far destination.
We flew lower, the colder air could not support our phantom weight, ice formed against our eyes, and our joints would freeze in place. We tired as the sun grew weaker, although our blue blood was immune from cold, we rested longer in the boles of massive pines and dark beneath overhanging rocks. Nomads, seeing us fly, skimming the earth, and soaring up the sides of mountains, fell down on their faces thinking that we might be their Gods, but the compulsion beat too strongly now for waking moments to be spent seeking the company of men.
A single mountain rose, a spire of ice, a monument that we approached for days, unable to comprehend its size, and when we landed in the foothills we knew we had arrived. The compulsion beat against the pounding of our hearts, the mountain throbbed as if it lived perfectly synchronised.
We sought out a sign between the rocks, and then beneath the snow, until above the veil of clouds, we saw a mark against the wall of white, a line of blue that echoed in the blood that coursed our bodies. And there, outlined beneath a sheath of ice, a door, portal to the unknown. Our hearts hammered hard enough to shake the mountain to its bones. Ice melted and flowed away upon our touch. Hand in hand we stood upon the brink of our long quest.
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The Power of Flight.
Taken this summer at the Goodwood Festival of Speed