AN at the end of the chapter.

Book II
Small Gods

Chapter 4
The Weight Of Damocles

"III"

March 18, 2003 at 12:57 PM

Her ascension is remarkable, in the same way a light breeze is remarkable: it passes by with barely a notice, only lightly stirring the world around her.

The prophecy had set her 'power to awaken' during her exploration of Svartalfheim, but nothing had happened. She'd sat and sat in the maze — with no steady concept of time — and felt… nothing. No awakening. No sudden rush of power. She had reckoned she didn't fully grasp the prophecy, such was the way of things anyways.

And then she'd gone and rather forgotten about it, swept up in Tom's emergence, her new job (as self-proclaimed as it is), and the general sneakiness she employs in her everyday life.

It isn't until today, that she remembers. And she realises what she misunderstood. And she realises how unprepared she is for this awakening power. And she realises how insignificant it all really is.

"III"

It starts like a drop of water. The feeling of a pluck behind her sternum, reality rippling gently out from her, a soft shifting like a breeze through a curtain, and then just… stillness.

Her ascension is unremarkable, in the same way a single drop of water is unremarkable: it passes with barely a notice.

But what happens next, she notices — there is no possible way to ignore it.

She pauses as the ripples extend away from her, not knowing what has just happened. She looks around in confusion, blinking as if she has something in her eye. Her chest feels hollow for a moment, and then… she gasps and goes to her knees.

The world moves; grass explodes in growth around her; branches of nearby trees straining towards her as if trying to touch her; flowers burst forth from the field around her, arcing their way to their sun, towards her. Every living green thing reaches out for her, the grass under her knees wrapping around her legs, vines wriggling their way just to brush against her outstretched hands.

She feels breathless.

She feels weightless.

She feels…

She feels everything.

And with that, she promptly passes out from the sheer overwhelmingness of it all.

"III"

Sometimes at night she imagines a sword hanging over her bed, positioned above her head. The rope is frayed, and in the still velvet of night, the sword spins slowly.

The weight of Damocles withheld by only a thread.

And it spins…

And it spins…

And it falls… with barely a whisper, a faint wisp of sound as the last thread breaks.

And she wakes up screaming.

"III"

Something crawls within her skin. A small sun is trying to burrow its way around her body. She feels something pouring out of her.

She's on her hands and knees. Breathless still.

And in it all...

She burns.

She pushes off the ground, and whole life cycles pass beneath her touch; flowers burst and bloom only to wither, die, and grow all over again.

Gasping for breath. There's wind in the trees around her, she can feel it.

She stumbles to her feet, each stuttering step leaving a trail of wild, rupturing life, erupting, pouring from each footstep.

The storm clouds gather. And rain pours down.

And through it all, she burns.

«my daughter...»

"Ah… wh— what," she gasps, her mouth full of steam.

«MY DAUGHTER.»

The voice slams through her, the small sun in her veins shaking and straining.

«I SEE YOU. MY DAUGHTER.»

She feels the darkness of the storm above, heavy, wretched, and wonderful.

«I FEEL YOU, MY DAUGHTER. MY CHARIOT.»

Oh. "No," she chokes, "no. No no no."

«AH MY DAUGHTER. MY CHARIOT. MY SOUL. YES. YES. YES.»

Lightning shatters next to her, breaking the huge old oak in half. She feels it split. She feels it burn. She feels… everything.

The grass whipping back and forth in the frenzy of the driving storm. And the rain pours down.

Gasping for breath, something is crawling under her skin, like a sun trying to burst forth, she can feel it pouring out of her, the wild feverish life bursting in an ecstatic mania, and hysteria bubbles behind her eyes. And through it all— and through it all... she is burning.

«ENDURE. MY DAUGHTER. ENDURE.»

She braces herself against the cleft oak, barely holding herself together, barely holding on, the fissure spreads from oak to her, like lightning fracturing.

«ENDURE.»

«ENDURE.»

"III"

«there is beauty… in the storm… my daughter…»

"III"

The field is full. Overgrown and covered in wild, tireless, life. The field is no longer a field. Full grown, massive oaks stretch their branches towards the bright blue sky. Blooming vines wrap around everything, straining their faces towards the sun. Tall golden grasses glisten in the morning dew, sunlight refracting off of each limned blade.

In the middle of it, in the middle of all that effortless new life, in the hollow of a split tree lies a woman — a girl still, in her own mind.

She lies pale among the charr, her hair standing out like a flame. She opens her eyes, and they're bright blue like the morning sky.

She groans and pushes herself up. Pulling her hands back with a hiss.

Ginny looks down at her palms, they burn with an icy heat. Two ihwaz runes are burned into her palms, etched in charred skin. She touches them hesitantly, and they are cool to her touch, and they burn with power.

She stares at the runes. She trembles at what this means. Ihwaz, the rune of the everlasting inevitably of nature. The rune of transformation, change, and confrontation. The source of life. And now she has two of them burned into her palms by… by some… thing.

She trembles at what this means.

Last night… Last night was… she laughs to herself, a bubble of feverishness bursting in her chest, helpless laughter spilling out of her as she collapses in the wet grass, weak with her hysteria. What. The fuck. Was last night?

Running her hands through her hair, she calms down enough to sit up and look around for the first time since waking.

"Holy shit…" The field behind her home is no longer a field.

She feels the hysteria seething beneath the surface again, and she gasps in a deep breath. It's ok. It's ok. You're ok. Deep breaths.

Each breath calms her down, the burning easing in her palms. Her eyes drift close as she focuses inward. Breathe. She can feel that foaming sun inside her, simmering, waiting. Breathe. She brushes against it with her mind and she reels back, gasping, her mouth full of steam, the grass under her feet bursting tall in a fit of growth.

She violently yanks herself back from that burning sun within herself, and everything stops — no more steam pours from her mouth, the grass pauses in its feverish growth, the fizzing sun pulls out of her veins.

Okay. Okay okay okay.

This has got to stop. What the hell is happening to her.

«Ah, my daughter, you've awoken»

The voice bolts through the clearing, wiping the froth from her mind, clarity hitting like a strike of lightning.

"Who— who are you?" she asks, tentatively.

«I am the seventh daughter. I am the lost star. I am your mother and your daughter. My name, is Merope»

"Are you— in here with me?" she gestures to her head.

«No, my daughter,» she sounds amused, «I am in everything. The coming storm. The still lake. The fallen tree and the barest seedling. But without you. I would be nothing»

Her voice is the terrible burn of a dead star. It's the storm of a wave upon a cliff. It's the sharp retort of a cracking branch.

"Okay." I can handle this.

«Then, let us begin.»

AN - I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed writing this chapter.

I loved getting into her ascension.

This was going to be a longer chapter but I liked keeping it solely on the ascension. Hopefully the next chapter will be ready by next week!
(Finals coming up soon, so I guess we'll see)

A huge huge thanks to TheDistantDusk for your help with my voice, as well as the whole Harry Discord, as always, you're amazing.

-o-o-

I hope all you crazy kids are enjoying the warmer weather and the rise of the summer.

Stay safe.

Drink your water.

Hydrate or Diedrate.

'til next time….

-Upstater-