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Rimbaud · 01-28-2003, 03:37 PM

Straggling, he flew leaden, lower and lower. Blood and earth were in his eyes and his wings were crooked. He could no longer bear to flap them; he settled for gliding, knowing in his heart that he had not the speed or the height to get near to the battle-field again and his last feast. Somewhere in his breast beat a hurt; a pain that no-one of his sons, not one of his proteges, not even the leader had come for him, or had sent birds for him. Perhaps...they had...

He blinked awake in pain and confusion, branches slapping him on his face and wings, sending pain shooting through his tired old body. Grasping hold of himself, he grasped and swung, making a startlingly graceful landing on a branch, jagged and oddly scarred as if by fire, that struck out from the canopy of the small copse beneath. He shook his head irritably and felt a sudden fierce surge of vicious joy at the blood upon his face. The coppery scent invigorated him. The sun struck him then, carving between the mountain peaks, slicing warmth upon his tattered feathers. He shook again, almost instinctively, clearing his head. Clarity was descending upon him, but it was an unusual one for him, not the muffled clarity of sight in battle, nor the exultance of young flight, nor even the delight of the first flight of the morning, but a calmness, a serenity that pervaded his very living spirit.

He breathed in deeply, opening his cracked and damaged beak. The air was cool, crisp and delightful. He felt a massive thirst then, so strong it nearly toppled him from his awkward perch. This was shunted hastily back in his mind as he scanned the sky. Unmistakably, he saw three birds flying. Yet he could see their movement across the sky. They were not coming directly towards him. He felt a keening sadness within him, for he had just become greatly desirous of clinging to his fragile life.

He tried to focus on the black specks, but they were twisting, spinning past his eyes...all went black again.

Fingot Sparrowbane fell, noiselessly impacting on branch and leaf, coming to a stop, more softly than expected, on the damp leaves of the ground.

[ January 31, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]

01-28-2003, 03:37 PM	#42
Rimbaud The Perilous Poet Join Date: Apr 2002 Location: Heart of the matter Posts: 1,062	Straggling, he flew leaden, lower and lower. Blood and earth were in his eyes and his wings were crooked. He could no longer bear to flap them; he settled for gliding, knowing in his heart that he had not the speed or the height to get near to the battle-field again and his last feast. Somewhere in his breast beat a hurt; a pain that no-one of his sons, not one of his proteges, not even the leader had come for him, or had sent birds for him. Perhaps...they had... He blinked awake in pain and confusion, branches slapping him on his face and wings, sending pain shooting through his tired old body. Grasping hold of himself, he grasped and swung, making a startlingly graceful landing on a branch, jagged and oddly scarred as if by fire, that struck out from the canopy of the small copse beneath. He shook his head irritably and felt a sudden fierce surge of vicious joy at the blood upon his face. The coppery scent invigorated him. The sun struck him then, carving between the mountain peaks, slicing warmth upon his tattered feathers. He shook again, almost instinctively, clearing his head. Clarity was descending upon him, but it was an unusual one for him, not the muffled clarity of sight in battle, nor the exultance of young flight, nor even the delight of the first flight of the morning, but a calmness, a serenity that pervaded his very living spirit. He breathed in deeply, opening his cracked and damaged beak. The air was cool, crisp and delightful. He felt a massive thirst then, so strong it nearly toppled him from his awkward perch. This was shunted hastily back in his mind as he scanned the sky. Unmistakably, he saw three birds flying. Yet he could see their movement across the sky. They were not coming directly towards him. He felt a keening sadness within him, for he had just become greatly desirous of clinging to his fragile life. He tried to focus on the black specks, but they were twisting, spinning past his eyes...all went black again. Fingot Sparrowbane fell, noiselessly impacting on branch and leaf, coming to a stop, more softly than expected, on the damp leaves of the ground. [ January 31, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ] __________________ And all the rest is literature