Incarnate

Dragon Subject: Incarnate

The ancient one's pallid flesh stirred. His yellowed claws flexed, stretching and tapping in turn as movement was restored to his form. His joints protested as he took to his feet, his prayers having finally concluded. The veined, membranous wings which had enfolded him now receded, furling into a natural state of rest at his sides. He stretched himself tall and long, armors rattling faintly, the tatters which clung to his appendage fluttering as he took his first long-anticipated step from the dias upon which he'd lain prone for more than a week.

He was ready to enter the higher plains of existence. He was fit to traverse the unseen lands that bridged the living world with the upper realm, where the Gods were said to reside in modern times and The Exalted stretched innumerably in between. He'd fasted ten days and prayed the last three, sleepless, deeply concentrated upon the harmonization of mind, body and soul. His physical form could withstand the journey, so long as he did not allow his mind to wander, nor allow his spirit to be lured away.

After countless failed attempts, he knew that following this dangerous path would be the only way to reach her.

The old one pattered slowly down a flight of cool, stone steps which descended from his resting place, flanked by his pair of ever reliable guards, wildclaws bearing the names of Imperator and Immortal. At each third step, the red glow of runestones emblazoned with his deity's insignia provided just enough illumination to cast shadows of the trio into the greater darkness as they passed.

Once they reached the foyer beyond the steps he motioned to halt his company. They froze, silent, poised, awaiting his command.

"My servants," he began, lowering his foreclaw, and as he did the pair settled into identical stances, "by your absolute faithfulness and loyalty I am prepared for this journey, which must be done in solitude." His audience remained stoic, not so much as a breath taken. "I leave you here to watch over my chambers. See to it that none find themselves within these walls, my most sacred of resting places. Let not the ambitions of my children gain them entrance to this void until I have returned to fill it." With this he continued forth, and they stood rigidly at attention, for they would do as he asked until the end of time.

He reached the end of a long, dark corridor, served only by memory beyond the reach of the runestones' light.

What lay above, what lay ahead, he knew it would test the very fabric of his physical self, the elemental bonds of his soul that sought unbearably, insatiably, a God which had forsaken him upon his unwilling rebirth, to exist as the creature he'd become since The Third Age. From the moment he'd been torn from the Pestilent Mother's love he had not felt her presence, nor her love, nor had her voice resonated within him. He was as dead to her as his flesh had been made to the living world around him, for even now, he was still a part of that world. There was no hope however strong, no prayer however long, that could breech the separation for her to hear. He'd decided that if she would not listen for him, he would just have to go in front of her eyes. Surely she would not deny him if he were there at her feet? He ached to belong again, and then his children would belong, to praise her and be of eternal service, if only she would hear him.

And if she did?

He felt the rejection, the shame, the insufferable crushing of his heart as he imagined her refusal of his love, his service, and his lineage, whose redemption depended upon her acknowledgement. He could see her great form as it would tower over him. He could hear the scathing words she would deliver in the worst of scenarios, which was the one he knew was the likeliest of outcomes despite his devotion.

As insidious words which had tormented him countless times re-formed in his mind, he began digging in pitch blackness, stirring earth loose in sweeping clawfuls.

"The dead suffer not the ills of the living, for they can no longer grow, no longer thrive, no more evolve than the rock can become the mountain it was sheared from."

'I am one of your first children!' his heart screamed, but the thoughts persisted. He kept digging with his claws, eyes shut tight against falls of loose dirt. Shut against what he'd begun to feel was an endeavor of inevitable failure.

"A creature that lives without change is lost to progression. So, too, have you been lost."

'I am not lost! I am right here as I have always been, ready to serve you through the ages, if you will but have me again...' His efforts churned more earth, bringing a suffocating cascade from above as he began to struggle his way upwards, outward, towards the surface, and as he did his heart answered the cruel thoughts which pretended to be his Pestilent Mother, and were perhaps an accurate prediction of what would be her final decree to him.

"What has your kind to offer me but failure?"

As the ancient one erupted from the black soil into open space, unburying himself from the tomb in which he'd lain below, he felt for the first time that a profession of love may not be his answer.

He pulled his limbs free, standing now beneath the cover of a moonless night, withered trees looming, tall and twisted, on all sides. His desires, too, began to wither and twist as he searched for an answer. An answer that would make her see, make her desire his loyalty. He heard her ask again, and as he did, his heart grew a little colder.

"What has your kind to offer me but failure?"

He stilled himself before the withered night, and for the first time, a different answer resounded within him.

His thin lips parted in a snarl. The ancient one drew in a breath between his long, crooked teeth. Then his answer came, barely more than a whisper.

"....war."

If she would not accept him... he'd just have to embrace himself. She wasn't the only one who could live as a God.