The Torn Apart Queen

THE TORN APART QUEEN

Every forest was made of a dead southern seed.

Eight spinners are around me. Their voices are soft, whispering. My skin erupts in goosebumps at their sound-magic, and a spasm runs through my spine.

The islander child has a tree-tip to put her head at rest, and a bed of heathers to float without risk.

The spider silk strings are stretched out, and here I am, ready to be wheeled.

I open my eyes, and I can already taste the bitterness of the stars under my tongue.

My feet runs deep down into the ground, and I find myself discussing with the Mycelium, the One drowning in the unending tide of lightless waters. He connects to my toes, and I let him suck out my juice.

Both my hands grip on the mosses and rocks, and the great orgy begins. A stag begins to rot under my armpit, and three senche-tigers run near to scramble. Birds penetrate into my throat : they fill it with dirt and build themselves a house out of changed one's memories. My guts are set on fire, and I shout towards the moons, but they worry not about those who refuse to dance according to their rhythm. Sneezing spores I contort myself and deviate a vertebra : some landslide occurred somewhere. Ashen flowers cover my tummy and thousands and thousands of ants runs along my arms, neck's root and waist, and inside every folding of my lungs. The dragonling and the eagle argue constantly on my lap, forgetting this is not their true house. Copromer and Shadowy Shapeshifters battle and rage and copulate inside my very core. I rain on them all and breathe through their branches, sentencing the weak to death and satiating the powerful before withering his heart. My rib cage becomes a chamber of echoes of echoes of echoes. My lips are the rostrum of unknown yet familiar voices. I am the flesh made duramen, inseminating myself and hunting down my own kind. Every pore of my skin releases my sap, and I drown ourselves in it, freely obliterating my very name for the sake of many. Soon, my crown is adorned with millions of blooming antlers.

The Giants of Yore were flesh and milk. When they died, they became steles that no one, as it seems, can cross off. Time went on, a larger flesh incorporated them, and they became the Holeless Bone Flutes. Each of them contributes to a pure language, immutable-yet-flexible.

Through Us, experience the soloist with a choral voice.

Come, Slave, inside your Garden. But first, set yourself free from the fear of your masters.

The Spinners say : Change is wrought in Nirn in six ways, and the turning of islands is one of these.

Come, Pilgrim, inside your Garden. But first, rip a stick from my blackberry bush, and craft yourself a thrice-sounding sword out of it.

This is a promise of the YFRRRR, everlasting wind among the withered grass : the polished wormscale will look to you like a waterlily, all-enclosed by a mystery to theorize, as long as you turn it on its side.

Come, Thief, inside your Garden. But first, take my heart and claim it to be yours, as an awaited betrayer.

Then you shall behold the true sight of the Torn Apart Queen, devoid of bosmeri glamour, hanged to the graht-oaks. Her shins, creaking pine trees, are like tanning racks holding leathered hides covered in sea words. Her face has the texture of driftwood, and from it hatch hundreds of buds. Her black-blooded eyes have the liquid tension of a steady pond, and flies dance upon it. Under each of them a long trail of salt end in boar-like tusks. Her sex, tumid and constantly putrefying, moves on its own, bouncing and oozing and laying an endless flow of crawlers and vegetal offsprings of all kinds. Her right tit shows an oversucked and brown nipple, while her left one is a hunting knife. Dried sap forms a mockery of wings behind her shoulders.

Come, King, inside your Garden.

You will be symbiotically compenetrated, loved and devoured and metamorphosed mutually, according to the Flutes' song.

It is not a seed, it is a house that has yet to be woven.

Keep it for the Free One, whose father shall drink the very tears of the Sun. All of you, keep it.

Everything shall remain the same, as it never was. That is the Law of the Yffres.

I somehow ended up writing this. Many thanks to /u/BrynjarIsenbana for his review^{^}^longmayhemod.

Edit : As often, you can find a french translation over here.