Felfar

Timestamp: Elsewhere

Her face was luminous, the slitted vertical eyes, vivid green, and Wim watched her tongue flick in and out of her mouth with lustful fascination. The wavy, curly black locks of her hair cascaded past her shoulders, nestling on her voluptuous breasts. Goddess of fertility and sex. One of his favourite past times, but than again a favourite past time of the young everywhere since times imemorial.

Wim Reise found himself entranced with this aspect of the Goddess and her prayer came unabound to his lips or mind. For some reason he could not feel his lips. Nor could he tell if he meant the prayer.

~ Tend to thy body as a beautiful garden, a sturdy tree, and a fertile field, for it brings all the fruits and pleasures of life. Till thy earth, entice thy lover, nurture thy child, reap thy harvest.~

The goddess kissed him. First on the forehead, than on the cheek and finally on his lips with devouring, all consuming hunger, as his hands moved across her supple body. When she pulled away he wasn't even surprised or shocked that the goddess had taken the form of his mother. A boy's true first love. Only love same would say. No love could ever be as pure or unselfish. Life bringer. Life carrier. Life giver.

He missed his mother. The young man missed little else from his life back in Helias. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a man, advancing on him. A scholar? Carrying a cup? Or his father? Waving his belt? But where in Zin's name was he now? What was he doing on woods of his home­land?

~I ran from there, oh yes I did. Or pushed away. Away from home to become a man and less of a disappointment to the family name. Become a noble. Not for me. Oh no, not Wim. I've read enough books and study enough tomes to know there is no end to Knowledge. And have felt the leather strap beat my flesh often enough to know that there is no end to Pain either, so you, gods, stay away from me!~

Hoi and Orestes laughed at the sound of his predictable whine, or his father did, and his brother. Not his mother. Never his mother. There was no shame in that. No shame that even here so far away from home he still felt them judging. Mocking his failures. Laughing at his inflated sense of grandiose.

Something was speaking to him. A whisper. A whisper in the shadows. Whispering that turned to howling, turned to shouting as shadowy figures twisted around him, painted by naked flames, the drumming of feet, guttural voices chanting in some barbaric, unknown language, and he could feel his soul responding, flaring, screaming as if summoned by some ritual.

Deep in the opiate sickly sweet sleep of Felfar, Erewhon's Tears, Wim Reise wrestled his demons and himself. And he could hear the trees calling his name...