Wind
Wind.
Up here it defined everything. Up here it was king and master.
Wind.
It shook and caressed. Pushed and pulled. And Mella danced.
Wind.
It raced up the hill flanks. Twisted and turned around the rocks. Collided with itself and thwirled, knotted.
Wind.
It pounded and roared but Mella stepped lightly, barely touching the stone.
Wind.
Mella jumped and turned as the wind pulled her loose robes. She landed softly on one leg, crouching and letting the wind turn her. Her arms stretched out.
Wind.
It was the dance, defined the pattern. It sang no song but gave the rhythm. Here on the spire-tip it was inescapable.
Wind.
The abyss loomed below and above and the wind pushed both ways. One hand on the ground, Mella tumbled in place then stretched up.
Wind.
The dance wasn’t freedom, it was the opposite: one step wrong and it all would end.
But as the wind whipped her limbs in position, as she flowed with and not against like a graceful puppet on strings of air, as she thought all this … Mella was free nonetheless.
Comments
me likes it. kinda like a metaphor for liveing a dangerous but exiting life, never to turn back...
I like it, too. The juxtaposition of the light dancer and the battering wind. I also like how the wind is strong here, whereas it's usually not thought of that way.
Sets the plotbunnies off in my head >.