Lo viernde-lisez.
"A dozen brothers, each one alone. They look upon their gifts: Thistle, steel, blood and wine. Each gift is unique, and powerful. Each gift is coveted. They are necessary to withstand the desolate times, the Winterkill."
I wrote this a few weeks ago, originally, but it has been on my mind of late.
There is a Yesuan legend, passed orally between both soldiers and civilians. It speaks of the Winterkill (or, in Yesuan, viernde-lisez), which is a type of soul murder. It comes upon the victim as a cold, unfeeling, emotional virus. It kills the soul as if by inches, weakening it slowly but deliberately. There is no cure, only remission. And it is indeed fatal.
Twelve brothers set off on the journey of Life. They began the journey eager and gleeful, with light-hearted thoughts and a spring in their step. Poise and valor ran in their blood, and they awaited the challenges that Life had to offer. Their only tanglible possessions were the gifts their father had given them: a satchel of thistle, a fistful of steel, a vial of blood, and a flask of wine. These supposedly had great--almost magical--powers, against the insidious vapors of desolation given by Winterkill. The thistle stood for endurance, the steel for strength, the blood represented courage, and the wine was given to mean passion.
As the road wound over hills and valleys, through forests and along the shoreline, the brothers grew weary. The challenges were met head-on, and although they were met valiantly, it still drained their fervor. They recalled the gifts, and held them close, but were uncertain how to use them. In their quiet moments, they secretly watched their mystical gifts, crying out to them silently, wanting desperately for their gifts to bless them. They began to wonder, each one exclusive of one another, if they had been found out of favor, and so the gifts would not perform for them. They began to eye one another suspiciously, and even began to develop greed of each other's gifts. This caused a seed of hate, and a seed of despair to grow within their hearts. They slowly began to wander without the exuberance they ahd once known, so instead they placed their faith in the hope of these gifts, obsessing over them desperately.
As time went on, the Winterkill infected them one by one, and they died gradual and agonizing deaths. These once close-knit brothers had become troubled casualties of great suffering. They succumbed far too soon, when youth had scarcely relinquished them. It is a devastating sight: an emotional demise in the dewy eyes of the young.
Truth be known, the gifts held no power at all. They were only symbols of the powers one holds inside of oneself.
Merely novelties, something tangible to squeeze when the world feels unreal, and one's heart is numb. One's true virtue is stoicism, the ability to keep emotion at bay until such a time that it is safe to unleash it. No amount of courage, or joy, or hope can save a soul. It is grim determination, a solid heart, a strong sense of stability..even if it is untrue. A half-truth is not the same as full-blown deception. Survival is not guaranteed to the emotional; they become overwhelmed. Survival is the glory of the realists.
I wrote this a few weeks ago, originally, but it has been on my mind of late.
There is a Yesuan legend, passed orally between both soldiers and civilians. It speaks of the Winterkill (or, in Yesuan, viernde-lisez), which is a type of soul murder. It comes upon the victim as a cold, unfeeling, emotional virus. It kills the soul as if by inches, weakening it slowly but deliberately. There is no cure, only remission. And it is indeed fatal.
Twelve brothers set off on the journey of Life. They began the journey eager and gleeful, with light-hearted thoughts and a spring in their step. Poise and valor ran in their blood, and they awaited the challenges that Life had to offer. Their only tanglible possessions were the gifts their father had given them: a satchel of thistle, a fistful of steel, a vial of blood, and a flask of wine. These supposedly had great--almost magical--powers, against the insidious vapors of desolation given by Winterkill. The thistle stood for endurance, the steel for strength, the blood represented courage, and the wine was given to mean passion.
As the road wound over hills and valleys, through forests and along the shoreline, the brothers grew weary. The challenges were met head-on, and although they were met valiantly, it still drained their fervor. They recalled the gifts, and held them close, but were uncertain how to use them. In their quiet moments, they secretly watched their mystical gifts, crying out to them silently, wanting desperately for their gifts to bless them. They began to wonder, each one exclusive of one another, if they had been found out of favor, and so the gifts would not perform for them. They began to eye one another suspiciously, and even began to develop greed of each other's gifts. This caused a seed of hate, and a seed of despair to grow within their hearts. They slowly began to wander without the exuberance they ahd once known, so instead they placed their faith in the hope of these gifts, obsessing over them desperately.
As time went on, the Winterkill infected them one by one, and they died gradual and agonizing deaths. These once close-knit brothers had become troubled casualties of great suffering. They succumbed far too soon, when youth had scarcely relinquished them. It is a devastating sight: an emotional demise in the dewy eyes of the young.
Truth be known, the gifts held no power at all. They were only symbols of the powers one holds inside of oneself.
Merely novelties, something tangible to squeeze when the world feels unreal, and one's heart is numb. One's true virtue is stoicism, the ability to keep emotion at bay until such a time that it is safe to unleash it. No amount of courage, or joy, or hope can save a soul. It is grim determination, a solid heart, a strong sense of stability..even if it is untrue. A half-truth is not the same as full-blown deception. Survival is not guaranteed to the emotional; they become overwhelmed. Survival is the glory of the realists.
posted by Logan Nambiet at
1:16 AM
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