Futsuriai
08-26-06, 07:58 PM
… stopped so. When was he? He could barely move yet felt no pain, he could see himself, almost, as if detached from his body. Perhaps he was. He could not know. A vague recollection of the events leading up to the crippled black form, no, to his being in the too-pristine meadow in . . . he could not have said where. Flashes of light, a sinister magical presence whose depth he had been unable to fathom, a laugh so malevolent as to cause fear in the fearless. Unbalance? No, that was not it, it was smaller and less worrying, yet worrying and larger. Thinking was useless. It was dark, too dark. He could not see a thing.
Was it time?
How long had he waited in the barren cliffs? He could not know. His black figure lay unmoving yet there was nothing odd about that, nothing was moving. Nothing? The idea was odd, where was it? It could not have found him there, not again. Yet he wondered if it mattered if it had. It would have, he knew, or thought, it was hard to tell, thinking was almost a futile endeavor. The light was overwhelming, he could not see a thing.
No.
Memory, it was there but not there. He knew that, however something else was missing not of days before days and places without distances, something where recent made sense and where nearby could. It was still muddled and hard to truly grasp, the empty void utterly surrounding him, enveloping him, but, no, the void cannot envelop as it is naught. Naught? Where? He could not turn around to see, of course, yet it was not there. How could he have when movement was not there and things were both eternal and instantaneous? Yet the idea of a powerful nothing haunted his oddly conscious mind, how could a nothing be more powerful than another? He could no longer see himself. But that was normal, there was no light, no dark, he could not see a thing.
Was it time?
A breeze, he thought he felt, yet how could that be? Questions were more numerous than thoughts, he realized, yet questions were thoughts, were they not? Something was wrong, that much was apparent in his disjointed mind. Though even of this he was not sure maybe this was his mind. Yet he was. Light. No, not light. Movement, perhaps? No that was ridiculous, movement needed time, implied change. Change was impossible. Yet his thoughts moved, evolved and changed, did they not? So many questions. He could not find the answers but how could he? He could not see a thing.
No. Not yet.
It was absurd to be think when time was not there but it made sense, somehow. Around him there was not nothing yet not something for nothing is, in a very real way, a something. Paradoxes. Yes, that was where he was but he did not care for the where’s, where’s were irrelevant. When’s, he needed when’s. Most mortals could not easily think in when’s, when’s being less pivotal than where’s since they could change their where’s more easily than their when’s which by design were forever shifting forward. In that instant he saw himself, he had been moved sideways, what was an instant in a timeless place? It was, then, no wonder he could barely see a thing.
Was it time?
The questions cycled yet they kept going back to that one. Meaningless. Something was wrong, he knew. He knew he had known, too, but not realized it before. Before? In the memories, he corrected. Now, with time (no, not time) to think he had finally felt it deeply. It hurt though he felt no pain. He needed to fix this. Need could not exist without time, as time made need. Tautological? Yes but what isn’t? He needed need. Ironic. Was it time? Many things made sense without a dimension of space, few without that of time. Were there other dimensions of time? Somewheres. In the same way sometimes had more than one of space. Yet almost always mind prioritized space and forgot time until it betrayed them.
It was time to awaken. But he could still not see a thing. When was he? He was finally now, he realized. Where did not matter any more. Gray eyes opened to a world of stars. Why was he? Thought. Futsuriai. He knew that was who he was, who he would always be yet that hardly mattered when his why was so vague. Fix. Fix what? Himself, yes, but something else. Magic, his magic was odd. Reacting to nothing? No, never to nothing. He was awake yet still perplexed. Disorganized as his thoughts were he was slowly putting them back together. So many questions and few certainties. One above all the others urged him, however.
It was time.
It was cool, he felt wind against the ragged cloak; it felt neither good nor bad. It was black as the sky, he noted. Beneath lay an outfit just as dark, elegant but functional. He let out air as he got up, his spry body feeling lighter than an odd weight on his left. A glossy black sheath, yes, inlays of silver reflected the dim starlight; almost mesmerizing save for the need. His mind was still thinking too abruptly. It was unavoidable yet he was unable to mend it faster. Again. His thoughts ended and began. They did not seem to meld together very often.
He was walking, he realized. It was a powerful gait yet not heavy, light, lithe, liquid yet solid. A good poise. A swordsman’s poise. He, Futsuriai, noticed. He walked towards nothing, never nothing, he was nowhere so it made sense. He entered the ruins, he then realized there were ruins nearby. The horse at his side neighed softly, a horse was with him he took all these things in stride. He knew how little he knew and yet he also knew things were ultimately logical. Knowing this he got on the horse, it was what he should do.
He let his steed weave a path, an instinctive path, through the ruins. He could, he realized, have woven through them blindfolded yet it seemed Anemos, his horse’s name, was similarly attuned. Above, he saw, a storm frozen by the tundra watched them approach its center without a single drop falling, more a marker than a storm yet he had the feeling a storm would break soon. Soon, the word made sense again. When hadn’t it? Before, no, yes, before he moved sideways.
He turned back once more, beyond the ruins; beyond the tundra’s white and grey. The reserve of magic within him was aligned, like a magnet aligned iron fillings, to what lay at an almost palpable distance. Magic. It must have been the cause of his timeless prison. As he neared the epicenter of so much power he softly began to hum to himself, ‘Horizon’s End’, a soft and bleak tune. A tune he had never heard.
He was paralyzed atop Anemos, the horse oddly serene as if he could feel only a gentle ocean lapping his toes with every wave in a placid shore while Futsuriai stood beneath every glorious crest of a storm he realized was breaking invisibly. The ruins pulsed with every wave, pulses of extraordinary power, power beyond comprehension. It was beyond sight but brutal, powerful enough, even, to move someone sideways. He was someone, he was Futsuriai but he did not know why he was.
As if walking into the eye of a storm it all stopped, the inner storm, the outer storm still looming in repressed magnificence and below them all the insignificant moving creatures amidst the forsaken grandeur of ruins. He had shuddered when the sensation left and he looked straight towards the ruins’ center almost instinctively. It was gone, he did not know why nor why it had started so it did not matter except it did. It mattered more than anything. Timelessly he had had questions but not answers, now, perhaps, he could seek answers.
It was time, but for what?
Was it time?
How long had he waited in the barren cliffs? He could not know. His black figure lay unmoving yet there was nothing odd about that, nothing was moving. Nothing? The idea was odd, where was it? It could not have found him there, not again. Yet he wondered if it mattered if it had. It would have, he knew, or thought, it was hard to tell, thinking was almost a futile endeavor. The light was overwhelming, he could not see a thing.
No.
Memory, it was there but not there. He knew that, however something else was missing not of days before days and places without distances, something where recent made sense and where nearby could. It was still muddled and hard to truly grasp, the empty void utterly surrounding him, enveloping him, but, no, the void cannot envelop as it is naught. Naught? Where? He could not turn around to see, of course, yet it was not there. How could he have when movement was not there and things were both eternal and instantaneous? Yet the idea of a powerful nothing haunted his oddly conscious mind, how could a nothing be more powerful than another? He could no longer see himself. But that was normal, there was no light, no dark, he could not see a thing.
Was it time?
A breeze, he thought he felt, yet how could that be? Questions were more numerous than thoughts, he realized, yet questions were thoughts, were they not? Something was wrong, that much was apparent in his disjointed mind. Though even of this he was not sure maybe this was his mind. Yet he was. Light. No, not light. Movement, perhaps? No that was ridiculous, movement needed time, implied change. Change was impossible. Yet his thoughts moved, evolved and changed, did they not? So many questions. He could not find the answers but how could he? He could not see a thing.
No. Not yet.
It was absurd to be think when time was not there but it made sense, somehow. Around him there was not nothing yet not something for nothing is, in a very real way, a something. Paradoxes. Yes, that was where he was but he did not care for the where’s, where’s were irrelevant. When’s, he needed when’s. Most mortals could not easily think in when’s, when’s being less pivotal than where’s since they could change their where’s more easily than their when’s which by design were forever shifting forward. In that instant he saw himself, he had been moved sideways, what was an instant in a timeless place? It was, then, no wonder he could barely see a thing.
Was it time?
The questions cycled yet they kept going back to that one. Meaningless. Something was wrong, he knew. He knew he had known, too, but not realized it before. Before? In the memories, he corrected. Now, with time (no, not time) to think he had finally felt it deeply. It hurt though he felt no pain. He needed to fix this. Need could not exist without time, as time made need. Tautological? Yes but what isn’t? He needed need. Ironic. Was it time? Many things made sense without a dimension of space, few without that of time. Were there other dimensions of time? Somewheres. In the same way sometimes had more than one of space. Yet almost always mind prioritized space and forgot time until it betrayed them.
It was time to awaken. But he could still not see a thing. When was he? He was finally now, he realized. Where did not matter any more. Gray eyes opened to a world of stars. Why was he? Thought. Futsuriai. He knew that was who he was, who he would always be yet that hardly mattered when his why was so vague. Fix. Fix what? Himself, yes, but something else. Magic, his magic was odd. Reacting to nothing? No, never to nothing. He was awake yet still perplexed. Disorganized as his thoughts were he was slowly putting them back together. So many questions and few certainties. One above all the others urged him, however.
It was time.
It was cool, he felt wind against the ragged cloak; it felt neither good nor bad. It was black as the sky, he noted. Beneath lay an outfit just as dark, elegant but functional. He let out air as he got up, his spry body feeling lighter than an odd weight on his left. A glossy black sheath, yes, inlays of silver reflected the dim starlight; almost mesmerizing save for the need. His mind was still thinking too abruptly. It was unavoidable yet he was unable to mend it faster. Again. His thoughts ended and began. They did not seem to meld together very often.
He was walking, he realized. It was a powerful gait yet not heavy, light, lithe, liquid yet solid. A good poise. A swordsman’s poise. He, Futsuriai, noticed. He walked towards nothing, never nothing, he was nowhere so it made sense. He entered the ruins, he then realized there were ruins nearby. The horse at his side neighed softly, a horse was with him he took all these things in stride. He knew how little he knew and yet he also knew things were ultimately logical. Knowing this he got on the horse, it was what he should do.
He let his steed weave a path, an instinctive path, through the ruins. He could, he realized, have woven through them blindfolded yet it seemed Anemos, his horse’s name, was similarly attuned. Above, he saw, a storm frozen by the tundra watched them approach its center without a single drop falling, more a marker than a storm yet he had the feeling a storm would break soon. Soon, the word made sense again. When hadn’t it? Before, no, yes, before he moved sideways.
He turned back once more, beyond the ruins; beyond the tundra’s white and grey. The reserve of magic within him was aligned, like a magnet aligned iron fillings, to what lay at an almost palpable distance. Magic. It must have been the cause of his timeless prison. As he neared the epicenter of so much power he softly began to hum to himself, ‘Horizon’s End’, a soft and bleak tune. A tune he had never heard.
He was paralyzed atop Anemos, the horse oddly serene as if he could feel only a gentle ocean lapping his toes with every wave in a placid shore while Futsuriai stood beneath every glorious crest of a storm he realized was breaking invisibly. The ruins pulsed with every wave, pulses of extraordinary power, power beyond comprehension. It was beyond sight but brutal, powerful enough, even, to move someone sideways. He was someone, he was Futsuriai but he did not know why he was.
As if walking into the eye of a storm it all stopped, the inner storm, the outer storm still looming in repressed magnificence and below them all the insignificant moving creatures amidst the forsaken grandeur of ruins. He had shuddered when the sensation left and he looked straight towards the ruins’ center almost instinctively. It was gone, he did not know why nor why it had started so it did not matter except it did. It mattered more than anything. Timelessly he had had questions but not answers, now, perhaps, he could seek answers.
It was time, but for what?