http://moriwen1.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
moriwen1.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tamingthemuse2014-02-07 10:36 pm
moriwen1.livejournal.com) wrote in tamingthemuse2014-02-07 10:36 pm
Entry tags:
Prompt 394 - Apotropaic - Resting in the Sky - Moriwen1 - Original
Title: Resting in the Sky
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Apotropaic
Warnings: Description of a dead body
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If the great is the good then the good is the great, the good is the good, if the good is the great and the great is the sweet then the good is the sweet.
It is easily hours before she reaches the platform that she sees it first -- a tiny dark speck on the horizon, raised above the ground which stretches smooth and level for miles about. There’s not even a rock or a scrubby bush breaking the monotony, or casting a small shadow where smaller creatures can hide from the beating sun. Walking is always dreary in the desert, but it’s almost dizzying in the sheer emptiness, and from the moment she sees the wooden structure in the distance she keeps her eyes fixed firmly on it, drawing from it an orientation and a sense of movement.
When she finally reaches the place she’s sought, the sun hangs lower in the sky, and the platform casts a long shadow which quivers with the heat. She sits down in the shade of it, where the sand is cooler to the touch; leans against a pole, and drinks from her waterskin. She almost chokes on the first water, her chapped lips unable to form themselves around it, and has to raise her hand hastily to her mouth to keep from spilling precious drops. She takes it slower after that, sip by sip, swishing the water about in her cheeks to make it last longer.
At last, she pulls herself upright and replaces her waterskin at her side. Then she grips the rope ladder where it dangles and begins to pull herself up, rung by rung. The rough hemp tears at her hands, but the climb itself is not difficult; the platform is raised scarcely more than her own height from the sandy ground. So, with one last effort, she is standing on the platform, blowing on her hands.
It’s not, actually, the first time she’s seen a dead body. There’s an initial surge of nausea, yes, especially when she looks at the exposed ribs and the thighs stripped nearly bare; but it passes quickly, and the desiccated body is just another object. Someone has mercifully covered the face with a cloth weighted at each corner by rocks, and the deterioration of the rest of the corpse almost makes it easier to look at -- not, to her eyes, a person who’s just forgotten to keep breathing, but a pile of remnants like discarded clothing.
The platform is small, compared at least to the structures she’s used to -- maybe a rod in each dimension, no more -- and apart from its main inhabitant, there are various objects scattered about its surface. Death-gifts, mostly, the same as those she’s offered herself for those she’s known, and although some are less familiar their purpose seems to be the same. A bowl of some beaten metal -- bronze, at a guess -- stirs old habits, and she pours what she guesses to be a dram of water into it from her waterskin. A drop from that placed on each palm, and then the palms pressed together, forms the familiar apotropaic gesture. Cleansed for prayer, she thinks, and smiles at herself.
Ridiculous as the notion is, though, she finds herself running through the formulas of old prayers as she waits. At first she shakes herself whenever the chants start running through her head, but eventually, tired and hot, she lets herself move her lips along with the familiar words. Toddler prayers, really, not the complex formulae she learned as an acolyte, but they’re the ones she can’t seem to shake. Two four eight sixteen thirty-two sixty-four one hundred twenty-eight two hundred fifty-six five hundred twelve, she prays, and then murmurs the definition of equality. If the great is the good then the good is the great, the good is the good, if the good is the great and the great is the sweet then the good is the sweet.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Apotropaic
Warnings: Description of a dead body
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If the great is the good then the good is the great, the good is the good, if the good is the great and the great is the sweet then the good is the sweet.
It is easily hours before she reaches the platform that she sees it first -- a tiny dark speck on the horizon, raised above the ground which stretches smooth and level for miles about. There’s not even a rock or a scrubby bush breaking the monotony, or casting a small shadow where smaller creatures can hide from the beating sun. Walking is always dreary in the desert, but it’s almost dizzying in the sheer emptiness, and from the moment she sees the wooden structure in the distance she keeps her eyes fixed firmly on it, drawing from it an orientation and a sense of movement.
When she finally reaches the place she’s sought, the sun hangs lower in the sky, and the platform casts a long shadow which quivers with the heat. She sits down in the shade of it, where the sand is cooler to the touch; leans against a pole, and drinks from her waterskin. She almost chokes on the first water, her chapped lips unable to form themselves around it, and has to raise her hand hastily to her mouth to keep from spilling precious drops. She takes it slower after that, sip by sip, swishing the water about in her cheeks to make it last longer.
At last, she pulls herself upright and replaces her waterskin at her side. Then she grips the rope ladder where it dangles and begins to pull herself up, rung by rung. The rough hemp tears at her hands, but the climb itself is not difficult; the platform is raised scarcely more than her own height from the sandy ground. So, with one last effort, she is standing on the platform, blowing on her hands.
It’s not, actually, the first time she’s seen a dead body. There’s an initial surge of nausea, yes, especially when she looks at the exposed ribs and the thighs stripped nearly bare; but it passes quickly, and the desiccated body is just another object. Someone has mercifully covered the face with a cloth weighted at each corner by rocks, and the deterioration of the rest of the corpse almost makes it easier to look at -- not, to her eyes, a person who’s just forgotten to keep breathing, but a pile of remnants like discarded clothing.
The platform is small, compared at least to the structures she’s used to -- maybe a rod in each dimension, no more -- and apart from its main inhabitant, there are various objects scattered about its surface. Death-gifts, mostly, the same as those she’s offered herself for those she’s known, and although some are less familiar their purpose seems to be the same. A bowl of some beaten metal -- bronze, at a guess -- stirs old habits, and she pours what she guesses to be a dram of water into it from her waterskin. A drop from that placed on each palm, and then the palms pressed together, forms the familiar apotropaic gesture. Cleansed for prayer, she thinks, and smiles at herself.
Ridiculous as the notion is, though, she finds herself running through the formulas of old prayers as she waits. At first she shakes herself whenever the chants start running through her head, but eventually, tired and hot, she lets herself move her lips along with the familiar words. Toddler prayers, really, not the complex formulae she learned as an acolyte, but they’re the ones she can’t seem to shake. Two four eight sixteen thirty-two sixty-four one hundred twenty-eight two hundred fifty-six five hundred twelve, she prays, and then murmurs the definition of equality. If the great is the good then the good is the great, the good is the good, if the good is the great and the great is the sweet then the good is the sweet.