Kepay
started by tbstbs on Friday, January 13, 2012 at 3:01pm PST
modified on Friday, May 4, 2012 at 5:09pm PDT
She appears with the ice cold wind and snow, comepleting the cycle and remaining the balance. They say the hair around her face and tumbling down her back is like ice. They say it's white and there's something about the way it moves. They say her eyes are the most pristine shade of grey. She comes with the cold to guide those spirits who have lost their way to the frost.
Most often, she brings death, but more than that, she brings peace, if only for a while. And there she stands, by that large tree, her dark hand running patterns on the coarse bark. She's contemplating. She's remembering, and her breath hangs in the air- a warning and beginning of Kepay.
A slow hum swells from her, from everywhere, from the tree which is Everywhere.
And there you are, seeing what is not meant to be seen. Seeing the creation of Everything, of More than Everything, seeing Nothing grow and shrink, seeing the goddess perform her intricate dance of Balance. It's a very sweet thing, to see such nature the way it hasn't been seen before, but it hurts too. It's so lovely, you think, that it physically hurts. And you can't help what comes next. You grunt out in pain that stings magnificently- in happiness- and She sees you. She sees you, and her gracious face is not a kind one. She is deadly beautiful, in that order, and you have seen what should not be seen by even the most religiously devout, let a lone a mere mortal as yourself. Yes, she is deadly beautiful, like a lake frozen, so that the top layer is ice. Only you don't know how thick the ice is, so you stay safely to the side, on the shore, admiring it. Except of course that now you have stepped on the ice and it has cracked.
"You're not supposed to die yet, but that can be easily arranged." You don't back away; she's so mesmerizing, how could you back away now? She begins to walk toward you, slowly, steadily and with such grace. She glides through the frost in the air surrounding her. The air around you chills gradually. "Are you lost?" she asks, her voice crisp and musical.
"N-no," you stutter out like a bird with out a wing. "I, yes, actually yes, I am, actually, yes, I'm lost, I'm-" you can't help the babble of words that escape your mouth like the bubbles from brook. And then, despite all the absurdity, you mind onlyc omes up with one question: why isn't she cold?