A/N: Myth of the Crossroads is known to me for a while now.
And I 'saw' this when I listened to the song listed below.
Didn't know if the scene was just part of one of my worlds, until those two jigsaw pieces fell together. And they fit perfectly.
I don't know why the story ended up in such a form, it just started rhyming and I even tried forcibly stopping it. Yes, I know, sometimes I'm an idiot. Once I discarded that 'force' idea, the thing was written in a good half an hour by hand. At my job. Between serving the costumers.
Summary: Four messengers. Four worlds. One crossroad. One bowl.
Listening while writing: Immediate Music - Assembly of Messengers.
"It is right in there
Betwixt and between
The orchard bare
And the orchard green ..."
- Robert Frost
Atop the hill, where crossroads lies,
stands a stone bowl emptied by time;
the liquid within, milky white …
From the East steps up a raptor. He stops a few steps from the bowl, waiting calmly.
In the West a portal opens. From it, up the road comes slowly,
a creature between wolf and a woman.
Its claws larger than those of raptor; through sharp teeth a foul breath, inhuman.
She stops on her side of the bowl, staring over it at the other.
The look he returns is cold, but still accepting of her presence rather.
A sound of hooves on gravel turns their looks to South.
A horse-man, centaur, comes up the path. Its skin bronze, muscular and oiled, his spirit devout.
He prances up, stops, his legs still nervous.
The hoof hits the ground while he glances at two hunters in their service.
Still, none moves closer to the stone.
They stand there, still and without a single tone.
Then from the North a light emits.
A flash – bright and yellow – lasting only a few beats.
After blinding shine had passed,
there crouches a form with white wings blessed.
Once it gets up, looking here and there,
the motion disturbs his brown curls of hair.
Barefoot he steps up the slope,
his skin as bright as milk in bowl.
His step is light; the feathered wings twitchingly fold.
The angel only stops at the end of North road.
The four at each other look.
Now that all here stood,
all strangers, but with one wish: to be understood.
They all glance at one another.
A nod from each before they move farther.
No words were there exchanged,
there was nothing to be claimed.
A beat. A beat. A beat have passed,
when each of them nodded last.
Four deep breaths were took.
One step further. The crossroad shook.
Four arms lifted in union, touched the stone.
The milk in bowl with colour shone.
A grassy field, covered by many corpse.
A river in the forest flows.
A cave, the settlement in steeps.
A wasteland, full of cliffs and pits.
Four worlds flash across the surface.
The white is gone; the bowl serves its purpose.
As transparent liquid stirs,
the flashes of the worlds, stories, lives, endless turns.
Through thin layers of realities, the knowledge flows piece by piece.
To be known it demands, to other worlds still at peace.
For them to be assured that their stories have been told,
for other soul to know what the void beyond can hold.
As one four creatures turn,
each of them so different, but each of them to their world as a messenger returns.
"The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location."
- Flannery O'Connor
A/N: All characters are from stories that I have/will write. For those that never heard of it, here is a short description from Wikipedia:
"Crossroads - In folk magic and mythology, crossroads may represent a location "between the worlds" and, as such, a site where supernatural spirits can be contacted and paranormal events can take place. Symbolically, it can mean a locality where two realms touch and therefore represents liminality, a place literally "neither here nor there", "betwixt and between"."
REVIEW! I like to know your thoughts on this ^^.