Creeping creeping creeping.
The waves slapped at the skull turned over his back, but they did not dislodge. Pelagius had grown in this sea like a brain eating amoeba, slinking its shores, tasting its air. When the choir in his head shrieked its agreement finally to return, he bid farewell to his followers with whispers of torture should they defect, leaving his god wife in charge.
They would understand. All would understand. All was ordained in such.
He slithered out of the churning waters like a seal, his haggard face and sharpened wide eyes making him appear something worse. The choir hissed and shook their wings in his head.
Shh
He seethed to them. They settled, the buzzing quieted in harmony, and he slunk deeper into the shores. The scent of milk, of new birth, it touched his nostrils fiercely and he pulled his head up into an uncomfortable arch to blink at the dirt.
What this? What this? What this?
A cacophony of voices. Some of them had names, he’d learned, but he couldn’t pronounce them. Not aloud, at least.
He swung his head to the side, neck cracking as he did, before he skuttled forward several steps.
Mother?
He called into the deep dark around him.
my son;
ah, isangrim; he was hers still, more than any of the squirming helpless creatures who remained tethered to her flank even after parting her. the listener rose, carelessly jostling the budding new druids, and went to him.
welcome home,
a tired purr in her throat. she wound around him in motherly embrace, took in the scents at his ruff. he had traveled far.
there are new druids within blackwater.
There she was, the slinking black midnight of the woman who had raised him. He felt young again, ducking his head and pressing his crown to her chest like a child.
We smell them.
We! We! We!
He peered past her, his eyes catching the briefest glimpses of the squirming little worms in the dirt. Keen, he looked back to his mother.
Blackwater lives again.
a swell of pride in her. he had grown into his own power. yes,
she beckoned him toward the children. saint. hierophant. accipitra. anathema.
four.
there must be a fifth.
speakers. and a keeper to the next listener. that is my hope for them.
her eyes turned meaningfully upon her son.
He snaked his head low to peer at the children. Squirming in the dirt, all dark and dingy, they did not look as wolves.
These were nothing more than slugs to Pelagius. Perhaps it was a good thing he actually quite liked slugs.
He twisted his head to an unnatural angle, ignoring how it strained his neck to the point of pain, only relenting when the pull grew unbearable.
Whatever you wish for, mother, I will give it. I will find a fifth, if you desire it.
He babbled, reaching back to pull the skull from between his shoulder blades. Down it went, hitting the dirt tines first.
He would leave it here. For her.
you will be the fifth.
but she did not speak it.
she touched the skull lovingly. studied it. i am proud of you,
the prophet turned her eyes back to her son, one of the great accomplishments of her life. never forget that.
Pelagius preened beneath the praise, happily allowing it to rest in his chest. He ducked down to aim a few licks at the underside of his mother’s chin like a child.
That is what I strive for.
It was what he had created Godsthrone for, to one day show his mother what he had made, the people he had swayed to his cause.
It was alright. She would handle them in his absence, until such a time as she would come with them to him again.
a rare smile for him.
tell me its story,
the prophet beckoned, eyes returning to the skull. one day, perhaps, he would inherit her own collection. but not the skyrock; never that.
that would die with her.