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There is a song to sing and a story to tell, if you are willing to listen.

And so legend passes into story, and story passes once again into common knowledge.

Message to Readers

it's been a hot minute since I've published on this account but I have rules about which stories go where and anyway I keep getting distracted by making a language

you can be gilded in gold, if you want, but it's never going to be enough

June 15, 2020


The cold seeps into his bones; deep, unyielding, taking over every pore of his body with icy fingers. Mine, mine, mine, whispers the ice, breathy like snow blown to drift, you are mine, mine, mine. He lets it claim him, melds himself to the cold until they are inseparable, twined until infinity, a thousand futures done up in shades of blue.

Days blur into nights into days - the auroras dance over his head and refract a hundred fold in his suspension in the glacier, but he barely sees it. He sees the past, only the past, green eyes searching backwards in time like if he just looks hard enough he can find a god and pull them forward into the now. And - there! a sleeve of a hue like breaking surf, fluttering into view. He sings a glacier song, mine mine mine and the god is pulled into his wintery world.

They scowl at him, short blue hair falling feathery into their eyes, arms crossed almost defiantly. Their female form, preferred, is nowhere in this face, and the boy in the ice finds himself glad for it. He would rather be entranced than bewitched, here in this land of blue.

“I can’t let you out,” the god says, shrugging their shoulders so that their blue overcoat ripples. The god settles cross-legged, nothing more than a reflection in the ice. The boy in the ice silently replies - “I don’t expect you to.

“Then why call me here? I have other matters to attend to, gatet boy, and they are far more pressing,” the god says, lips twisting ever upwards - into a smile or a grimace he cannot tell.

Tell me. What happened to the rest of the story?

“It’s become a legend. You aren’t in it,” the god sniffed, “but considering how little you did, I think that’s to be expected.”

Do they remember - do they remember the true version of events?

The god laughs, cruel and cold as the northern sea, and the boy’s heart sinks deep. “What a foolish question to ask, boy. Legends are written for renditions of glory, not of shame.”

The god pauses then adds, thoughtfully, gently, “But if it’s any comfort to you, they finally stopped telling your legend, now.”

God Daehyos, you are too kind,” the boy says bitterly. The god ignores the frosty bite to his tone and waves a hand airily.

“Oh, I know. But tell me - why the fascination with history anyway? Your destiny lies in the future, after all.”

What else is there to dwell on?” the boy asks, and if he could raise his eyebrows he would. “You did freeze me in a glacier, after all.

The god has no answer to that - not that the boy expected them to. They both know exactly why he’s here, bound to cold and snow and bitter reflected light. The sword in his hands is a dull reminder of a girl with a destiny she didn’t want, the same destiny he himself has - the heroic fate nobody ever really asks for. But for a moment, just a moment, he wants to forget about that.

The truth about legends - well, the truth goes something like this, I suppose. And this is important to me, and I need to tell somebody, so you’re going to shut up and listen. 

The greatest legends are always messier than you think they are. A thousand versions of what happened and they’re all equally coated in truths and lies. And even if you do know what really happened - who are you to judge? The best legends are full of lies, anyways. That’s what happened to her - to Allie. That’s what’ll happen to me.

He sighs, then, in his mind, and adds - I hope that when I’m nothing more than a legend, when this is all over, I get draped in lies. I hope the storytellers turn me into something incredibly fake and glorious, because I want to be beautiful at least once and I don’t care if it happens after I die.

The god laughs, a hundred reflections all with that same twisted expression of pain and wonder. And the boy wishes he could close his eyes, block out the sight, but he can’t choose that option, not now and not ever. Instead he is forced to watch as this god laughs and laughs, saying, “Isn’t that what we all want, in the end?”

There is an ache in his chest, a throbbing in his heart, but he tells himself it is simply the cold, and nothing more.


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  • June 15, 2020 - 11:31am (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • Anha

    june 2020 wtw highlights are live, and you're in them!

    5 months ago