Esmer Rjarue. Zielkrish, metamagus, bastard prince of an ice age civilisation. This blog is for musings, history, documentation. I Am A Narrative. Ziekru me'en. When on high, learn the low.
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“I am not the ideal. I am not an ideal comprised of he and I. I am not a face of two, and neither is he. We cast off this mask. I am Shadowborn. I am of Maris and Iksa. I am your brother.”
(and through your own will you divorce yourself from the zerkush, and you protect the boy, put a shroud of shadows on his shoulders to cut his chilling, chilling light, and he once again is free to live and free to die)
(but freedom brings a restriction you can never shake off, as is your birthright.)
(by divorcing yourself from an ideal, you have made a new one, zielkrish.)
“He calls himself Cain, and he is our brother. She calls herself Rhea, and she is our sister. From below, they learn the sky. As have all of us before. This is fine.”
(this is not what has been)
“Our mutual friend would tell you it’s the way it can be.”
In spite of the way that it is.
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And for my own records.
Ziel and magia are two very, very different concepts. To have to translate them the same way is an unfortunate limitation of the language. Maybe I’ll get into this some time.
Magic is all the small things that are meaningful and special to you for reasons only you as an individual can fully understand. It’s a quiet conversation between you and the universe, and it defines your wholly unique place in it.
God is the network of strings that connect your experiences to things beyond your own perception of existence. It’s narrative, intrinsically.
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Magic is all the small things that are meaningful and special to you for reasons only you as an individual can fully understand. It’s a quiet conversation between you and the universe, and it defines your wholly unique place in it.
God is the network of strings that connect your experiences to things beyond your own perception of existence. It’s narrative, intrinsically.
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From language to language, Val Vossen would translate to something akin to Igna Jegis. In English... Great Fire, or Frozen Fire. The words Val and Jegis both have interesting presences in their respective tongues, meaning something akin to a greatness that is static, completely frozen and unmoving in time, space, and memory. In our own tongue, we would use the word to describe the glacial ices that covered the Western reaches.
The old cities with their strange dialect called what remained of Val Vossen “Ih’la Eivos”, and when the old cities fell, the term changed hands, and became a tetherless name. As the sky gods of Earth all came from the dyēws phter, so our god below that which is below came from the name of the creature it once was, long before the dream of our planet even began. Where no memory of it should have persisted, a flame continued burning, frozen in time, and space, and in memory.
After all, we had a piece of it in our halls.
#metamagus ikkis#esmerigen#v: sairiddt#e: val vossen#this has been lying in my drafts for two weeks so I'm just gonna post it as it because I lost my flow
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Iksa Farmer had eyes of emerald. The colour of an earth at peace.
They are the one thing she passed to her youngest son. The young prince’s tell-tale. The Erandjas were known for their unusual blue eyes, you see, the Ziels for their golden. But the prince did not have eyes of the sky or the sun. He had eyes of the earth.
And they say - for only an instance, so quickly it may not have happened at all - that Saga Shadowborn’s eyes once reflected his mother’s hue, before settling once more into the starry sea his custodian named him for. “Great waters reflect not only the sky,” he would say, “but simply that which dares to look into them.”
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And even up in the stars, it’s humbling to know that in the worst version of the universe, I became something just underneath a god, yet in the best version of the universe, I died in the snow, ten years old, as the world collapsed.
“And down on the ground, you can watch me knowing that no matter the state of the universe, I am caught in a loop of being the worst thing to plague it.”
The divine who cannot live and the mundane who cannot die. In the same instance we were a boy who could not escape the bite of red glass, nor the embrace of a dimmer future, shards and echoes of a machine that’s been turning since the death of our sister. Our sister, who died in the same instance she claimed us. Now tell me why you see us as separate experiences?
“Because we were.”
You wander the Eclipse long enough and you come to learn there is no such thing as ‘were’. The lines come from all sides, and where they converge, that’s where we appear. It takes many small miracles to form the fabric of reality. We exist before and after the ‘were’, as well as above and below it.
“And yet you understand that within you, there is another experience, one that doesn’t see time and space in the way that you do now. Youth. Innocence. Those numbered days before our father died and the world turned sour. Before...”
Before I knew what I was.
“Perhaps that changed everything.”
It... did.
Brother, I’ve spent aeons of my new life doing nothing but... hiding. And from time to time I looked on the things you were doing... and I was jealous. I wanted nothing more than to see the world at the same level as you. I wanted to see the Great Flame as my only enemy, and push myself tirelessly to put that enemy to an end. I didn’t care about all the terrible, terrible things you did to get there. I didn’t care about what you had become.
And so, time after time, I poured myself into simpler molds. I forged narratives that were vacant and terrifying. I was searching for an epiphany, a eureka moment where suddenly everything I was seeing just clicked. And it took intervention from the very thing out to destroy this reality to make me realise that nothing would ever be simple again.
I am a being of the universe, I dwell within the Dream of spacetime, and I see absolutely everything. That kind of knowledge does not take well to being forced into shape. It must be gently molded, and through that molding my mind turned back to you.
The Zerkush isn’t a monster. The Zerkush isn’t a thing, and it isn’t our sister. The Zerkush is a child of reality itself. And in the worst of ways, the Zerkush is us, too. I don’t know where that leaves us in terms of moving forward.
“Return to that lost experience. The Zerkush is an entity that is harming lives. An entity that wishes to snuff out something beyond the lightlessness of the universe. Within it is a beast of persistence, a machine of life, a dead child who was never retrieved, and our sister.”
The latter two run awfully parallel. You say you knew him?
“I knew him and hated him. He never spoke a word. And then I watched him die.”
Humbling, I suppose. You’d already been injured.
“I thought I was going to die. Never did the thought of my sister rescuing me cross my mind. Nor did the thought of her deliberately staying. But I saw it in her eyes when she made me leave. Hers was not a tragic death. It was the embrace of a higher being she was fully aware of.”
The Zerkush wasn’t made from her, it begot her.
“And... it begot us. As we are.”
Correct. The strings may come from everywhere, but they all begin in the Zerkush’s grip.
#esmerigen#metamagus ikkis#v: sairiddt#e: there was never any opportunity for things to be different#j: but in that way we can say there exists no regrets for the things we lost#e: it is human to feel the loss. the desire to reclaim. to redeem. but when these things are out of our reach#e: we must move forward#j: not just in the soul but with our own two feet
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I am a history / a memory inventing itself–
Octavio Paz, from ‘Vrindaban’. A Tale of Two Gardens
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Desire covers you with its two black wings
Your eyes flash open and close / phosphorescent animals….
Octavio Paz, from ‘Wind from All Compass Points’, A Tale of Two Gardens
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so i dreamed and i dreamed
and i endured.
‘the death of crazy horse,’ Lucille Clifton
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‘The Invocation to Kali,’ May Sarton
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“I have, and always will be the human element, Princess. Do you think the creature you call the Great Fire was assured of its lofty purpose? The creature has no mind. It is a xenoparasite, no thought, no feeling, and I was there, Princess, at its spawning, and I guided its descent for the sole purpose of finding that which I am. It was not the parasite, but you who created me, and I, in turn, offered my gratitude and created you and your people in my image. I am a great cycle, Princess, both the first and last breath and the Dream of the universe itself. I am the Igna-Jegis, the grand contradiction, and the Janel Zerkush, the two faces of time.”
And when the Princess looked upon the Zerkush, it looked back with her face.
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carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.
I knew him as Kairos. The qualitative of Kronos (always, two faces to time), in effect, an opportunity within time. A moment to seize. Derived from the Greek practices of archery, weaving. An arrow and a needle, poised to strike at the perfect opportunity.
Kairos watched in horror as I was struck by one, two, three arrows from his comrades. I was eleven, in the wrong place at the wrong time (yet those accompanying me had not been so lucky). I continued to be in the wrong place at the wrong time for the next two decades.
Then, all those years later, he approached with the needle. Always there, always knowing what would be right and when it would be right. Kairos would not slay a child, but he would slay a monster.
And slay a monster he did, perhaps, because it was he who I most reflected on, and perhaps that was what was in his eyes when he died, not simply a shuddering glint of recognition. He knew what lay within me without knowing.
I’ve spent a good while pondering whether I truly remember him as Kairos, the embodiment of perfect opportunity, or as Kurush, the great conqueror of Babylon, the closest earthly parallel to my homeland. Both are what he reminds me of. It could be both.
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Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) dir. Peter Weir
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Octavio Paz, ‘The House of Glances’ (selected lines), A Tree Within (trans. Eliot Weinberger)
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I caution you as I was never cautioned:
you will never let go, you will never be satiated.
You will be damaged and scarred, you will continue to hunger.
Your body will age, you will continue to need.
You will want the earth, then more of the earth–
Sublime, indifferent, it is present, it will not respond.
It is encompassing, it will not minister.
Meaning, it will feed you, it will ravish you,
it will not keep you alive.
― Louise Glück, The Seven Ages
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I memorized the slaughter
I was acculturated and socialized
I have been a disappointment,
of affection,
of primitiveness
— Julianne Neely, from “Landscape Without Form,” published in Hyperallergic
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