Chapter Text
Here in these mountains, a haven, my home
all is accounted for, catalogued, known.
I know all its currents, the curling of air
each warm-weather breeze and each winter-keen gale.
(Once, as a child, I waited in snow
imagining love could remake what was real.
Now – only children, I know, have such thoughts.
Mourn, but remember: there's more to be lost.)
Clear is my course, and unclouded, spread wide.
My life has a rhythm, a pattern, a rhyme.
Then: a disruption – who dares interrupt?
Who climbs to the wall-peak, and only for wine?
He drinks it – he laughs at me – who gave him leave!
In anger I rush him, in ire I reach –
Deftly he breaks away, brings out his wings
laughing and lively he lifts like a bird.
My own wings unfurl then, and fierce-set, I leap
to catch him, to duel him down to the earth.
Chasing in earnest, I challenge his speed.
Few can escape me; I know my own skill –
but still he eludes me, as light in the air
as wild as wind-flow itself; he's awhirl.
Soaring and skimming, at home in the sky
he matches me, wings an unwavering blaze
(glorious, graceful, outglowing the moon)
mocking the earth-pull – and mocking me, too.
Fleeting, our air-dance. He flees; I'm alone
here by the walls of my home, once so calm.
Irreverent laughter still rings in my ears
the wine-jar lies shattered, but (surely) that's all –
Surely this rude interruption has passed:
this break in the rhythm, this rule-barred lapse.
~ ~ ~
Wise, is my uncle. He wants what is right
and so (in his wisdom) he's set me a task:
to see that the mischief-inciter himself
writes out the rules, correct and exact.
Here in the sanctum of silence and peace
ducking his duty, indecent, he sprawls
one moment work-bent, then wheedling, sly
he taunts me, he flatters me, teasing and false.
(I do not learn. When he leans to his desk
I hope he is treating it gravely in truth –
then comes his smile, his smirking, his grin
making a fool of me once again.)
Wings being vanished away for this task
I hold myself straight-backed, as strict as I can.
I sit and I listen (ears ought to have lids).
He talks – and I wish I could tear off my skin.
Desperate, I muffle him, muting his voice
(silence by force is my only defense).
The moon-turn continues, the month almost gone
these torment-days (I want to tear off his skin).
Quicksilver-swift are his questions, his thoughts –
ridiculous, pointless (I cannot keep pace).
Our time ends – and surely, our shared duty done
now will this maddening mockery cease.
Distraction removed, I will order my mind.
With patience, I'll gain back the peace that I prize.
~ ~ ~
Crowded, these waters. My brother, so wise
had thought (in his wisdom) to welcome our guests
to hunt what were once only wind-dancers, fair
air-spirits, shining unshadowed and pure –
Something went wrong. They were sullied, befouled
darkened by earth-taint, by death-horror dulled.
Once that has happened (oh, well it is known)
there's no going back, for resentment will build –
Down it will drag till they drown with the weight
the terrible weight. This is always the way.
Air-spirits summoned to aid, we proceed
but soon understand the mistake we have made.
The danger that waits here is worse than believed –
a lake-specter rises – we race to retreat.
Wei Ying! (A boy was trapped in a boat
with waterlogged wings he's too weak to restore –)
his rescue succeeds, but the rage-creature roars –
I seize him, I have him, I haul him to shore.
(He'd have me uphold him by taking his hand.
The touch of his bare skin would burn like a brand.)
~ ~ ~
Still, he is heedless of how he behaves.
Beatings are lesson-vain (he does not learn).
Absent, he muddles my mind nonetheless –
when in his presence, I pray to endure.
Then: he is gone – gone from Gusu, from me
(his leaving is sudden: too late, and too soon)
blink-quick, once more. Only fragments remain:
a drawing, some rabbits, the dream of a tune.
All that he gave me, I close-keep, I guard
secret, unspoken, concealed from the world.
Surely this tumult will fade, given time
my thoughts will resettle, my senses return.
(He stays and he stays and he stays in my mind:
a rhythm rewritten, a new way to rhyme.)
~ ~ ~
Seeing him red-robed, I'm riven anew
lost in his wind-whirl and lanced by his laugh –
and one final mockery, greater than most:
my ribbon comes loose, and it lies in his hand.
Greater than most, this disgrace, this affront.
My ribbon – it hangs from his hand (and I want –)