The west wind was angry.
His fury was a nail through steel.
(clink. clink. clink)
It echoed in the rain clouds. In the raindrops. It stirred the tops of the trees.
If there had been a temple, it would have had monkeys. Their savage faces would have been twisted, their hair on end.
They would have been hungry. Oh gods, they would hunger.
They would howl with it.
(who are you talking to Phineus?)
He wont scream. He isn't at a temple, there are no monkeys.
The West Wind.
Heavy, the scents of iron and filth. Copper. Rain.
It's going to rain, He knows the Wind won't rust.
Not even when water pours from the sky.
Water.
He always has plenty to drink.
Burning, itching his eye was itching, so he scratched it, scratched it shallow, long. Left blood behind the last hundred times. What's a hundred more?
Phineus why don't you have something to eat?
His arms crawl with scars, a tic runs through his body. Toe to forehead. (old)
The West wind is bending trees. Old Phineus doesn't bend, he breaks. He should bend. The threes should not out do him so, he is shamed as he is broken. He keeps breaking. Breaking.
Phineus won't you eat something?
(crumbling)
His bones are whittled from a larger man, his skin is stolen leather. Not just starving, but immoral. His stomach has begun to digest itself. His eyes look like they can feel it.
The nights are warm, the days are the same, the sounds never vary -- his stomach. Is eating itself. (always plenty to drink)
The scars would be bites, if he wasn't Sure the gods anticipated that. If he wasn't sure.
All of it was made rotten, tainted, spoiled, befouled. Corrupted. All of it. So if he was a source of food, surely he too had suffered the bronze-feathered violation. Surely he would be contaminated.
Their wings shamed the night, and hurried it on over day.
Phineus won't you scream for someone?
(anything)
(anyone)
They were mother, sister, aunt. And his was an abusive family. The king, and his murderous in-laws. They came and went, while he stayed. They rode the West wind in, the North out. He hasn't laughed in years. He holds a staff in one hand.
(he holds nothing)
He hasn't hoped in all this time.
Sometimes the harpies wear her face. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes she hides in an untouched loaf of bread that Phineus still won't eat. Sometimes she dwells in the scar on his face, and when he rubs along it he touches her. Touches Delirium.
She is there, and not kind. She is there and not laughing, running her fingers through Phineus's memory of hair. Her's is the color of bronze trying to be mistaken for the night sky. It floats up and around itself.
Of course, Phineus doesn't see it, but then, Phineus doesn't see much. (Scratch. Scratch.)
They don't speak. They are not on the best of terms, and the West wind. Is angry.
So angry that he blows up a gust to skirl through Phineus's prison: Huff puff.
His stomach... ------ his eye. The other eye. Itches.
He stares at her, seeing all of nothing.
"Tch. We might have been friends."
Old blood, skin.
Phineus who are you waiting for?
Phineus?
Why won't you eat?
His fury was a nail through steel.
(clink. clink. clink)
It echoed in the rain clouds. In the raindrops. It stirred the tops of the trees.
If there had been a temple, it would have had monkeys. Their savage faces would have been twisted, their hair on end.
They would have been hungry. Oh gods, they would hunger.
They would howl with it.
(who are you talking to Phineus?)
He wont scream. He isn't at a temple, there are no monkeys.
The West Wind.
Heavy, the scents of iron and filth. Copper. Rain.
It's going to rain, He knows the Wind won't rust.
Not even when water pours from the sky.
Water.
He always has plenty to drink.
Burning, itching his eye was itching, so he scratched it, scratched it shallow, long. Left blood behind the last hundred times. What's a hundred more?
Phineus why don't you have something to eat?
His arms crawl with scars, a tic runs through his body. Toe to forehead. (old)
The West wind is bending trees. Old Phineus doesn't bend, he breaks. He should bend. The threes should not out do him so, he is shamed as he is broken. He keeps breaking. Breaking.
Phineus won't you eat something?
(crumbling)
His bones are whittled from a larger man, his skin is stolen leather. Not just starving, but immoral. His stomach has begun to digest itself. His eyes look like they can feel it.
The nights are warm, the days are the same, the sounds never vary -- his stomach. Is eating itself. (always plenty to drink)
The scars would be bites, if he wasn't Sure the gods anticipated that. If he wasn't sure.
All of it was made rotten, tainted, spoiled, befouled. Corrupted. All of it. So if he was a source of food, surely he too had suffered the bronze-feathered violation. Surely he would be contaminated.
Their wings shamed the night, and hurried it on over day.
Phineus won't you scream for someone?
(anything)
(anyone)
They were mother, sister, aunt. And his was an abusive family. The king, and his murderous in-laws. They came and went, while he stayed. They rode the West wind in, the North out. He hasn't laughed in years. He holds a staff in one hand.
(he holds nothing)
He hasn't hoped in all this time.
Sometimes the harpies wear her face. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes she hides in an untouched loaf of bread that Phineus still won't eat. Sometimes she dwells in the scar on his face, and when he rubs along it he touches her. Touches Delirium.
She is there, and not kind. She is there and not laughing, running her fingers through Phineus's memory of hair. Her's is the color of bronze trying to be mistaken for the night sky. It floats up and around itself.
Of course, Phineus doesn't see it, but then, Phineus doesn't see much. (Scratch. Scratch.)
They don't speak. They are not on the best of terms, and the West wind. Is angry.
So angry that he blows up a gust to skirl through Phineus's prison: Huff puff.
His stomach... ------ his eye. The other eye. Itches.
He stares at her, seeing all of nothing.
"Tch. We might have been friends."
Old blood, skin.
Phineus who are you waiting for?
Phineus?
Why won't you eat?