L E V I A T H A N S E A : (no subject)

It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift...
the baffled King composing Hallelujah; Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...
... it's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who's seen the light,
it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah; Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah...

They sang; the notes unfolded as though cloth, unraveling beneath the fingers of a master weaver - - he conducted them, the intoned syllables rising and falling, sweeping sweetly across the landscape, the dark, empty landscape. How beautiful! and they swept out across the open, rolling fields of the silent world; Newerth! o! no stars yet shone, no clouds yet filled the sky - - no moon nor sun took sentry, and it was not day nor night, but a strange, filtering twilight which covered the dim earth. There was only silence, only the whispering of the winds which ran patterns of elegant disobedience across the soil; and somewhere in the distance were written the scrolls which would define the paths of the future, the ancient scrawling words scratched upon the night itself - - and somewhere amongst those strange prophecies of an uncreated world were written the names Icamiaba and Oiolossë, unknown to themselves and each other. They were only words then, names without meaning borne of lineages uncreated; the hand continued upon its path, creating lives for those two majestic, forth-coming strangers, defining the greatness of the two, the vague, fulfilling paths they were to trawl - - and then they were passed, passed into memory and promise, with only the foreknowledge of long, miserable ages before either would come to realization. One would come on the Night of the Waters! borne of beauty and lowly strength, and she would be known as Jaguar-Spirit, the Forest-Created; the other, strange and wonderful in his mastery, would be called Oiolossë: and he would be called Saviour, Conquerer, Son of Kings - - and he would know the language of the whispers of the world and would speak in return; and the great Spirits of the Ancient Ones would appear before him and lend strength unto him; and he would rise and take unto himself the mantle of greatness abandoned by his forebears. But this primordial night, this night deep in the forgotten, unwritten past, toils on - - and Oiolossë and Icamiaba are forgotten, again mere names, again mere legends... And then they were no more than promises.

The Penarddun was strange in it's twilight; it neither bore the dim light nor refused it's falling, but rather slipped from beneath the faintness - - it were as though the land itself toiled solely in the darkness or light, refusing to exist in some strange, uncomfortable creation of the two. Already the land was beautiful and strange, the high meadows crisp with frost; ringed with forest and bordered by water, seldom were there seen any who did not immediately belong to the land itself - - for the land took all of then unto itself, holding these strange, knowing horses to its bosom. Oiolossë had not known the Penarddun long: the whispers, the secrets, the silent and strange longings... they were new to him, gifts from the land herself offered to the only Child amongst the many who might understand. And he understood, strangely and wonderfully he understood, and he loved her! how he loved this land, so spreading and unusual beneath his feet. There were other lands here, Oiolossë knew of them; the sweet rumors of those lands came to him as he stood, silouhetted by faint light beneath a poplar: there were whispers, only whispers here, no strong voices as there were within the land from whence they came. In the Dimension they were strong; the whispers were not whispers but bold statements - - there was truth in the Dimension as there never would be here, and Oiolossë lamented for it. Still, there was intrigue as there had never been between he and his dam - - intrigue which bit and snapped and ruined Kingdoms of stone, and he alone knew whom it was who spoke such intrigue; but he said nothing and allowed his eyelids to fall, wishing himself away upon the whispers of the West.

But the whispers did not talk to him alone! and he was startled from reverie to look at his back in wonder: there, slipping sinuously from the riverbank, was a strange creature -- not a beautiful creature, but oh! glorious and shining to gaze upon! He did not know her; he knew her; he loved her; he was her - - and suddenly the memories of darkness and empty, lost spaces recalled unto him two names: Oiolossë and Icamiaba. A! and he knew and suddenly he was himself again, a Great King without Country - - and she was his Saviour, the glory of a thousand long ages spent in memory: the misery of a thousand long ages spent apart! He did not run to her - - o! but how he longed to! to throw himself at her side and scream to the Gods in which he did not believe: You have given her back! my Lord! my Faith! you have returned my Saviour! but he did not. He knew not if she remembered him - he knew not if she had yet seen him, staring longingly toward the water - and he loved! how he loved, how he longed for her warmth! and he remembered her tongue and her scent and her eyes; her lips which curled so elegantly about her words, the syllables drawling and clipped, beautiful in their otherworldly nature. For Icamiaba was not of this world; Icamiaba had never been a part of this world, as he had never belonged to Newerth - - no, products of some old forgotten past, misplaced in this strange, uncultured present: and how he longed for her touch, for the beauty he had known. Borne of thought, their names recorded in time and night, they were two parts of a single whole; and Oiolossë could stand the patient, horrible waiting no longer - - he called to her, his voice ancient and dark: "Icamiaba! say it is you whom I see, deep in those waters!" but there was no mistaking the creature whom he gazed upon: sweet solace, the Penarddun is whole once more.