Feallengod III
I am in the midst of rewriting "Feallengod" yet again, and I know my readers (five? six, perhaps?) are clambering to know what's up. Just the other day the public appeared clambering at my door, but I had to turn them away. So here is a taste of the rewrite. I hope you like it.
Never have I seen Gægnian. Powers and authorities rightfully deny such things to men such as I was. The buildings rise into the heavens and spread out over the land like nothing upon Feallengod, the legends say, and I believe. The sky and waters, even the soil underfoot lies about in its mean state, richer and purer than anything we might suppose to compare.
Surrounding the domain sit great white formations, stone pure as snow and sparkling like ice, billowing upwards to take their place with the clouds. Just as suddenly their outer rim dives steeply, cliffs crashing into the sea. Waving grasses and flowers fill the valley within, delicate petals playing upon the breeze like an underwater ballet, obeisant to grand stands of trees, some tall and straight like rain, others squat with twisting branches reaching and turning in every direction as if stretching to scratch their backs. Limbs heavy with leaves extend over the ground, rest and shade to creatures great and small, feathered and furred.
A multitude of columns fill the high city, each building supported by a gallery of pillars apparently thrown in place by some brilliant, distracted god, like a cavern of cathedrals. Each post glistens with luminescent color from deep within its core, streaked with golden reds and blue grays, turning every edifice into a petrified forest of sculpture beautiful in its simplicity. Gold domes rise out of the skyline, dominating the innumerable flags and banners ripping in the winds. Broad boulevards, smooth and beautiful, cut slices of the vast acreage, radiating from the central structure, Ecealdor’s palace, radiant with light, blazing with untold splendor, rising through the celestial blue to challenge the sun. But I have never seen.
I think we islanders have a distant memory of the wonderful stuff, even so distant that we can never truly lay hold of it. Without the memory, how else would we know that we miss it, that we long for something better than only the clear pearls of our own fountains? And doesn’t every other heartache pale in comparison? The legends, those stories I stake my life upon now, they say one day the courts of the king will open to us all, and I want to believe, how my heart trembles to believe, for I have seen people who abide there. Tales abound in my homeland about the citizens of Gægnian, about incredible powers and fantastic happenings, and so I have seen. In the days of my disgrace did I meet Mægen-El, emissary from the distant king’s presence, and even then I believed. How dark a heart, to see such things and still turn away.
Never have I seen Gægnian. Powers and authorities rightfully deny such things to men such as I was. The buildings rise into the heavens and spread out over the land like nothing upon Feallengod, the legends say, and I believe. The sky and waters, even the soil underfoot lies about in its mean state, richer and purer than anything we might suppose to compare.
Surrounding the domain sit great white formations, stone pure as snow and sparkling like ice, billowing upwards to take their place with the clouds. Just as suddenly their outer rim dives steeply, cliffs crashing into the sea. Waving grasses and flowers fill the valley within, delicate petals playing upon the breeze like an underwater ballet, obeisant to grand stands of trees, some tall and straight like rain, others squat with twisting branches reaching and turning in every direction as if stretching to scratch their backs. Limbs heavy with leaves extend over the ground, rest and shade to creatures great and small, feathered and furred.
A multitude of columns fill the high city, each building supported by a gallery of pillars apparently thrown in place by some brilliant, distracted god, like a cavern of cathedrals. Each post glistens with luminescent color from deep within its core, streaked with golden reds and blue grays, turning every edifice into a petrified forest of sculpture beautiful in its simplicity. Gold domes rise out of the skyline, dominating the innumerable flags and banners ripping in the winds. Broad boulevards, smooth and beautiful, cut slices of the vast acreage, radiating from the central structure, Ecealdor’s palace, radiant with light, blazing with untold splendor, rising through the celestial blue to challenge the sun. But I have never seen.
I think we islanders have a distant memory of the wonderful stuff, even so distant that we can never truly lay hold of it. Without the memory, how else would we know that we miss it, that we long for something better than only the clear pearls of our own fountains? And doesn’t every other heartache pale in comparison? The legends, those stories I stake my life upon now, they say one day the courts of the king will open to us all, and I want to believe, how my heart trembles to believe, for I have seen people who abide there. Tales abound in my homeland about the citizens of Gægnian, about incredible powers and fantastic happenings, and so I have seen. In the days of my disgrace did I meet Mægen-El, emissary from the distant king’s presence, and even then I believed. How dark a heart, to see such things and still turn away.
posted by Crrrrrrraig | 1:42 PM
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