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The Mythology of Beardsgaard • VIII • The Firsts • .viii

Posted on March 19 2020

“When his silhouette had disappeared into the trees, Angolon said to Êl, “That was a lark, but might we try a pinch livelier fare next time?”

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≈ I ≈

viii. The Firsts

Daechir plucked the stone from the air, and the sparks continued to shine inside their shell, but did not extend their rays to his skin. He looked at it for a time.

The silver spark that he had watched all night as Êl and Angolon worked still shone still before him, low to the west.

Over his shoulder, the gold spark was rising, and with it the wings and voices of the birds and insects, calling to the fading dawn and rising day while the bearded one's danced amongst them all.

Daechir's jaw clenched for a moment before he walked straight across the mighty river, waters parting before his feet, and into the forested mountains to the west.

When his silhouette had disappeared into the trees, Angolon said to Êl, “That was a lark, but might we try a pinch livelier fare next time? That was a bit grim for my tastes.”

Daechir strode amongst the dense trees on the northern side of the Óleryd Mountains, a dark, deep forest blanketed by mists. Shadows were his friend, but this was not his place, not so close to the one that speaks so much.

The rays of the gold spark continued to rise above the trees, chasing the mists and scattering through the boughs. Daechir kept walking.

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