True Sight

"Sometimes I wish I could see what I cannot and sometimes I wish I did not see...that which I do"

I pondered upon this statement, one of my own speaking as I sat before the fireplace. The flames curled and flickered, entwining and lashing at one another all unseen before my eyes in their amber hues yet still I gazed at them all the same from behind the blood stained fabric that near always bound them. Shadows lingered there, a blanket of not quite black that swam in almost sensual dance, reflected in aching pupils that observed the morphing and colliding of varying shades of darkness. The flames cast the most subtle hints of colour yet nothing of their true vibrancy and sometimes I wondered if such was really there to see or if now aged memories of such a sight played tricks with my mind to give some small semblance of what was now lost.

Exhaling slowly my fingers touched together, tapping thoughtfully as I tried to ignore the ache that thudded ever present deep within my eye sockets and outward to a dull burning sensation that does at times flair to keep the balance of payment. For always do thick ruby red tears fall at random intervals mostly against my will. Not of sorrow or despair but ones of pain and suffering, each stinging blink a reminder of what I once had and which now was lost. Save for the dark glamour occasionally divulged in the flesh of such ancient cheeks remained ever stained. No matter how used to it I’d grown nor how unconcerned I may seem in demeanor it never, ever ceased to cause quietly suffered agony.

Was it worth it? Undoubtedly yes...and yet sometimes brooding upon the cost plagues me. Everything is a balance. With gifts come sacrifice, with strengths come weakness and with true sight comes blindness. At least for me. It had not always been this way and perhaps that made things worse. Could a blind man truly miss what he had never known? Could one waken to only a void behind eyelids ever really regret what was never to be? Sometimes I wish I had never known what it was to gaze upon real shadows, real places...real faces. Sometimes I wish I had never known what it was to see my own reflection.

I've been told I'm rather attractive, handsome even yet I've realised lately that I no longer know what I look like anymore. The few rare occasions that temporary sight has been granted through the ages my attention has been always directed towards a purpose, never time to stop and take in my surroundings. Never time to gaze upon the elements in their vast or subtle creations, never time to really study the faces of those who pass through my existence; those I surround myself with, those I keep at arm’s length, those I have coveted or those that have pushed me away. Never have I grasped the time to look in the mirror.

But within my shadowy world there is light. Perhaps the most beautiful light of all, depending upon to whom it belongs. Each depiction of soul or soulless, for each I perceive in my own unique way, hovers before me in the splendour of aura. Ever observing, ever reading, ever seeing past facade and lies, concealment and disguise. True sight. Floating like ghosts do I see the aura forms of those about me, each depicting hints of form that are never stiff but ever shifting, swirling, barely defining yet never are two alike. Each as individual as the physical form captured in defining colour that give hint of personality, of mind frame and of mood.

Coupled with my empathetic inclinations and seer-like foresight, I have learned to identify and to read them well. And in perceiving can I use to my advantage; bend, goad, lure, tempt, challenge and inspire. Manipulate. Such could be considered an art form and one I admit to enjoy for though ever patient and cautious do I, Malachi, prey on the emotional. And yet as much a hunter as I may be, my path is not quite as callous or cruel as many first assume. 

Parting my fingers I touch at damp cheekbones then turn one palm toward the ceiling, flexing fingers ever so slightly so a crimson droplet is captured, rolls to settle and then sparks. Slowly a small red tinted blood wisp; a sphere of arcane energy, risen a few inches from flesh vibrating subtly like a purring kitten. I smiled to see it for see it I could; all magic, arcane or otherwise naked to my eyes unlike the physical world. The wisp glittered and trembled as if shaking itself out much like a butterfly broken free of its cocoon and finding its first flutter of wings. I gazed at it a while, burst of colour bright amidst the beheld darkness it was alluring and in ways mesmerising to me causing words to echo about my mind, again those of my own speaking.

I had leaned forward to whisper against her ear "People often think that to know and to have and to rise above for ambition is to be loud and demanding, fast paced and impatient. But to take time to listen...patiently...it opens doors behind those who find them closed" I had spoken as breathed in scent of her hair and exhaled slowly.

With rumbling sigh I drew in long deep inhale as thought of her. Gabriella. That scent was still as vibrant in memory now as it had been at the time of savouring. The wisp flickered, breaking my concentration as it rose above me in glittering splendour. Easily could I have watched it for hours lost in my reveries yet it reminded me of a duty I must return to, one of many. Yet not first without rest. An ancient mind needed time to heal, replenish energy too easily spent. Slowly rising I followed the obedient wisp away from the fireplace and towards waiting bed, bottle of dark liquid clutched in my palm. The Halls of Nováha could wait. First...Oblivion.

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© Rachel Ellen, 2011