[PRP] Distant Shore [ Distant Tidings/Distant Thunder ]
Posted: Thu Jul 25, 2019 11:17 pm
[imgleft]https://matope.pixel-blueberry.com/imag ... gs_jun.gif[/imgleft]Distant Tidings had had a lot of time to think about his sins.
For the first few days, he had not thought it so. It was the Swamp's fault, he had thought it – for, of course, it must be. The Swamp had sent him his dream, and sent him his mate, and the Swamp had made him all wrong for both. He cursed the Swamp – who would not? He cursed his dream, his fair-weather mate; he cursed the Motherfather, who'd mismade him so. Damn them all – he needed none of them.
The next few days, his conviction had started to erode. Still, he bargained. He argued – he was right. Wasn't he? He had to be. Certainly, he'd known; he'd kept it to himself. He'd touched upon the truth, and flitted away. But didn't he have to? He had to – certainly. He'd have lost him – at once – if he hadn't swept it under. He'd have left at once, the miserable fool. He'd left at once, after all, when he knew. Better a week or two, than scant seconds. He'd waited so long, at least he'd had a week. He'd have left at once. He had been right.
And it wasn't – it wasn't as if he wouldn't have told him, eventually. When the time was right.
Damn it all.
It wasn't until the last few days that he'd finally accepted: perhaps he was a fool, and his foolish son, Shallows, was wiser than he was. He had said it would catch up with him one day, and he would be sorry. He certainly was sorry as he'd ever been. Perhaps as sorry as he would ever be. Because he lied. Wasn't it so? Because he hid the truth.
But then – but then, deception was in his nature, wasn't it? The Motherfather had made him so.
It was only over the course of the last day, that he had started to consider: it may be so that the Motherfather had made him so, and it may be so that was what he was meant to overcome. Was there ever sweetness without struggle? If there was, he'd never known it. But hadn't he struggled enough?
Had he?
Hadn't he?
The ill fit, wherever he went – the misfit of this misfit. Companionship, camaraderie, poorly draped like an awkward pelt across his back. The momentarily knit of his teasing tale – only for the laughter to ebb, and die like a fleeting shadow. He had been everywhere, never belonged, anywhere – the desert whence he came, the cold at the mountain's foot, the Swamp, all over the Swamp, even the sea, where he was promised –
His dream had promised, hadn't it? That he would belong nowhere, till the sea, where he belonged, and then he would belong everywhere…
But he hadn't. Not even the sea. Not until he came. Just like his dream. For a week or two, he knew where he belonged.
He liked belonging. He liked teasing; he liked laughing. He liked being liked. But, in the end, everyone who liked him always went away, and so did he.
Because - the barest whisper of the Swamp hissed – he had deceived him.
He had known it, and deceived him, knowingly.
Had he suffered?
Why had he suffered?
He had deceived them all. All his riddles, hidden truths...flexible narratives, happy little surprises - all in fun, he'd always teased. It wasn't always all in fun; he'd lied to them all.
"A little trite, isn't it," he murmured, "a lesson such as that."
For the first few days, he had not thought it so. It was the Swamp's fault, he had thought it – for, of course, it must be. The Swamp had sent him his dream, and sent him his mate, and the Swamp had made him all wrong for both. He cursed the Swamp – who would not? He cursed his dream, his fair-weather mate; he cursed the Motherfather, who'd mismade him so. Damn them all – he needed none of them.
The next few days, his conviction had started to erode. Still, he bargained. He argued – he was right. Wasn't he? He had to be. Certainly, he'd known; he'd kept it to himself. He'd touched upon the truth, and flitted away. But didn't he have to? He had to – certainly. He'd have lost him – at once – if he hadn't swept it under. He'd have left at once, the miserable fool. He'd left at once, after all, when he knew. Better a week or two, than scant seconds. He'd waited so long, at least he'd had a week. He'd have left at once. He had been right.
And it wasn't – it wasn't as if he wouldn't have told him, eventually. When the time was right.
Damn it all.
It wasn't until the last few days that he'd finally accepted: perhaps he was a fool, and his foolish son, Shallows, was wiser than he was. He had said it would catch up with him one day, and he would be sorry. He certainly was sorry as he'd ever been. Perhaps as sorry as he would ever be. Because he lied. Wasn't it so? Because he hid the truth.
But then – but then, deception was in his nature, wasn't it? The Motherfather had made him so.
It was only over the course of the last day, that he had started to consider: it may be so that the Motherfather had made him so, and it may be so that was what he was meant to overcome. Was there ever sweetness without struggle? If there was, he'd never known it. But hadn't he struggled enough?
Had he?
Hadn't he?
The ill fit, wherever he went – the misfit of this misfit. Companionship, camaraderie, poorly draped like an awkward pelt across his back. The momentarily knit of his teasing tale – only for the laughter to ebb, and die like a fleeting shadow. He had been everywhere, never belonged, anywhere – the desert whence he came, the cold at the mountain's foot, the Swamp, all over the Swamp, even the sea, where he was promised –
His dream had promised, hadn't it? That he would belong nowhere, till the sea, where he belonged, and then he would belong everywhere…
But he hadn't. Not even the sea. Not until he came. Just like his dream. For a week or two, he knew where he belonged.
He liked belonging. He liked teasing; he liked laughing. He liked being liked. But, in the end, everyone who liked him always went away, and so did he.
Because - the barest whisper of the Swamp hissed – he had deceived him.
He had known it, and deceived him, knowingly.
Had he suffered?
Why had he suffered?
He had deceived them all. All his riddles, hidden truths...flexible narratives, happy little surprises - all in fun, he'd always teased. It wasn't always all in fun; he'd lied to them all.
"A little trite, isn't it," he murmured, "a lesson such as that."
