#[ i may revisit this as like a fen'harel myth but... for now... ]

[theharellan]

Word Prompt. Not Accepting.

@theshirallen​ asked: Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.

He stands within a place of worship, venerated offerings laid at his feet, glinting gold and scrolls spilling with obscure knowledge of forgotten corners of the world.

But it is the bowl of apples which first draws his eye. The very sight takes him to another place, another time, another him. He sits beneath a golden tree, one of hundreds, in an orchard which grows in every direction as far as the eye can see.

He seeks to recapture peace in the shadows of its branches and delight in the changing of the leaves, but as he reaches to reclaim lost innocence, he hesitates. Fingers reach, yet stop short of grasping, a sharp jolt jars him. He almost retreats. “Is it not to your liking, Fen’amelan?” A voice in his ear, speaking a name. His name.

He takes the apple.

The first bite is sweet, the skin breaks satisfyingly beneath his teeth. A trail of juice dribbles down his chin, the feeling of daybreak, the first glimpse of dawn, washes over him. On the tip of his tongue he tastes the pride of creation, the sweet words whispered to the saplings, assurances that coax the roots to dig deep in the earth and reach towards a kindly sun, to make it theirs as the People had. It leaves him empty when he swallows, its absence draws circles around what he’s missing, filled forgotten holes in him. What is left is not quite sadness, but something more.

Something less.

He takes a second bite. The skin is bruised, fruit soft, almost melting in the mouth. It tastes of late summer, lovers reclining in the shade, storm clouds gather and thunder rolls across an endless sky. He swallows, a bitter aftertaste chases the morsel. A lover lies alone, their own arms around their shoulders, a lonely comfort. Even melancholy is inviting, a welcome relief, but it leaves him, too.

The third bite is hungry, teeth tear into glittering skin and bare the core. This time it is black. The hopes whispered to the seeds, encouraging words that lifted it to the sky, they form upon lips marked with god’s blood. The sun which smiled gently upon apple blossoms, which granted lover’s respite from summer heat, bears down upon them all hours of the day, scorching the hopes from their hearts. He tastes absence, but not his own. Centuries spent nurturing from seed to sapling, pulling life from the earth and turning it into art, and they have never known its taste. Never dared to pry a piece of skin, just to sample, lest rebellion linger in the flavour.

He tries to swallow, but cannot. His throat closes, coughing, stomach turning. Memories sizzle in acid and bake into his being. It had never golden, never been good. He must consume it, savour it, own it-- has he not before? Even as he burned the blood from his own face? He has to finish, they are watching. Upon the wall the stones that mark the dead friend’s eyes seem to glow. He tries to swallow, but it sticks.

His stomach heaves, contents spew past the fingers that fly to his lips. Bile drips onto the altar, an offering of a different sort, more fitting than the rest. What remains of the apple splatters onto the floor, but the dead feeling is gone. A stirring in his chest rouses him, as if shaking off the dust from an overlong sleep. He does not know its name, but it matters not.

Dread will name him soon enough.