1- AS THE FAE HAD WRITTEN: AN ODE TO DESTRUCTION

Everyone knew of the songstress who took refuge in Hempholme. Everyone knew of she who sat with a serene expression, looking forward as if there was something there, looking forward as if waiting for someone. Her grey hair shone like the brightest diamonds that the earth could produce. Yet it was deeper than the best batch of coal the dwarven miners could ever find. Her soil-brown eyes, sharp and long, stared at the visitors, always the same way.

Yes, her. They knew of the ethereal beauty who sat by the fountain at the epicentre of the town, an old, worn-out ukulele in hand, humming a tune familiar to some, yet beautiful to all. Her voice carried the soft weight of the streams and rivers, her fingers were long, slender as the roots of trees that touched the heavens as they strummed. Her words, poetry, prose, greater than any of the bards could ever produce, older than any of the other faeries that surrounded her, could ever manage to speak. After all, she herself was a fae. Yet, her scent carried something primordial that none could place.

They knew of the songstress who sang the same tune the time the rooster crowed. The same song, the same story, etched a melancholy that spanned aeons. Etched with emotions of the masses, some pitying, others afraid.

Yet, just like every other time of day, where Apollo, or even Surya, if Apollo was absent, took centre stage. Her song, which sounded more like a swan song that didn't belong to her, was beloved.

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Up the mountains, beyond the streams.
There lived a God in the city of dreams.
His eyes, amber like the embers of flame.
His skin shades of earth he would raze.

The God of the Mountain,
The God of Destruction.
A God of ruin.
A God of wrathful transaction.

He watches his citizens with a smile,
Men who work in the fields, tilling the grass.
Children who play amongst the fae for hours.
Women who produce sustenance that soothes and pleases.

His hands hold the blade, double-edged.
One brings growth, the other death.
His hands reach out to hold his subjects.
Yet, his hands only burn them away.

A God whose smile warms until it sears.
A God whose gentle grasp tears until no one hears.
A God whose footsteps doth usher azure.
A God who is the maestro, watching the azure lay waste.

He was happy when the dryads offered him flowers and fruits.
Yet took them away, leaving a hue coloured like a shore.
He wasn’t happy when the man slapped the girl whose protection she doth behest.
He burned him like a witch; then the girl, then the rest.

He was happy when the fae wanted to play.
Yet he took them all, as the murderer burned with the dead that day.
For the murderer had killed the fae.
And God buried the truths, silencing the fray.

He wasn’t happy when at night he slept.
The voices of the dead cursed him as they should.
For he had been the reason they bathed.
In the glow painted with nothingness, that is, the embrace of death.

He wasn’t happy when the mountain breathed ash and magma.
He swore to shield us that day.
Yet, he had failed; the volcano’s breath took us away.
Turning us into whispers that sang hollow prayers to Them.

‘Til today his home had been the expanse,
'Neath scorched earth that Hephestus’ forge had taken.
‘Til today, he still oversaw.
Grasping something, grasping nothing.

‘Til today, he has cursed us
With a curse that belonged to him.
‘Til today, he heralds the sonnets to death.
Melodies he’s always been cursed to sing.

‘Til today he yearns for warmth,
Yet his azure arms can’t hold anything.
‘Til today he yearns to love,
Yet his curse numbs him like the flames that took us.

‘Til today, he weeps.
Wails for the lost, mourns the departed.
‘Til today, his hands are bathed in blood.
Blood, his nose could forget the scent of.‘

Til today, he wishes emptiness.
For he took the world, the world should take him.
‘Til today, he begs at Thanatos’ feet.
Yet the Heavens remain as quiet as they always were.

‘Til today, the boy who bears the name of the rising sun,
His hands sear even that.
‘Til today, he yearns for salvation.
Yet, in his path travels no one.