Seditio

Realm

DRAFT: COMMENTS WELCOME

*REALM*

The mountain stands north of the valley, right in the same spot he stood yesterday. On an unrelated note that's also where he stood two and a half millennia ago, but that doesn't matter.

"One charlie, this is tree echo, west slope secured, moving south by lake side, over."

"Tree echo, this is one charlie, roger, be advised of hostile on east, prepare to cover fife romeo, over."

"Wilco, out."

Every now and then, usually 950 years or so apart, a phoenix pays a visit. Naturally, things look a little different at each such visit, but the phoenix doesn't concern herself. Her beak is strong but plain, carrying five smooth shades of brown and black; brown for centuries long past, black for millennia yet to dawn, but no red for the end of times. The phoenix is an embodied duality in her realm, much like many humans are in theirs. On one hand she is physical, current, here and now, a creature among others, able to interact with wind and water, bee and human, flower and mountain. On the other hand she's consciously historic, concerned with the wonders of her realm, not able to relate to primitive, short-lived creatures such as the bee and the human, as equals.

The men crawling about cliffs and ducking behind rocks are concerned with information, position, angle, second and minute. With all their detailed maneuvers, the ultimate concern is for the ownership of the mountain, important both from a tactical standpoint and for natural resources such as bismuth ore and strawberries. Strawberries are psychologically valuable as they provide variety from blueberries and bismuth is mainly for nail polish, but first and foremost there is no way these people would settle for a happy, carefree life when they could sacrifice it all for some... achievement. The mountain doesn't concern himself. The phoenix however momentarily notices a man  anxiously entertaining a radio. "Seriously?", she thinks within herself.

"One charlie, this is fife romeo, east slope surrounded, … [transmission unintelligible] … to engage, over."

"I do not concern myself with great matters, or things too wonderful for me."

"One charlie, this is fife romeo, say again, over."

"Just watch the sun, how steady it sits there. You're not getting any attention, buddy."

"One charlie, this is fife romeo, suspecting hostile radio interference, say again, over."

"Fife romeo, this is one charlie, the mountain is watching the sun and won't be bothered, cut yourself some slack, out."

The phoenix sitting atop the mountain tilts her head and thinks within herself, "A dragon he is, in his realm". Then she lowers her beak, brushing it against gravel and the odd small rock, almost in a loving way. Very soon the beak is sharp again, the brown tip ever so slightly lighter, the difference hardly visible to the naked eye. The gravel and little rock engaged in the encounter also look just about the same. Whether weather, whispering wind with washing water, will whither withal, who withholds withershins wander will witness. Incidentally, the phoenix will.

"Tree echo, this is fife romeo, do you have visual on one charlie? Over."

"Fife romeo, this is tree echo, affirmative, radio is unmanned, operator is doing uh... tango in november sun, no uniform, over."

"Explain, who are tango november and zulu uniform? Over."

"You misunderstand, operator has removed his clothing and is dancing around between logs and bushes, with the red hot sun shining into his eyes and mind, singing hymns of awe and wonder, I hear him loud and clear, over."

As the sun is setting across the lake, bathing the mountain slope in red, a bee crawls across an autumn leaf on the mountain's west slope. She was born in the spring and will die before winter, as oblivious to any previous or following year as though it never was. Flowers were her possessions, honey her achievement and summer her realm. Now, she has only a brownish leaf to tickle with death cramps. The bee writes her will by wagging her tail, concerned with relaying information to the afterworld about the position of her possessions, using the angle to the sun as it was the second nectar was found and the minute her sweet reward of achievement was tasted. The flowers don't concern themselves. Soon the bee will become the possession of the children of her possessions as her dry corpse turns into mud for the flowers of next season, but that doesn't matter.

As the sun is setting across the lake, bathing the mountain slope in red, a bee crawls across an autumn leaf on the mountain's west slope. Another bee did the same thing nine hundred years ago, but that was a different realm and doesn't matter. Below the bee is the dirt where flowers grow, and to where the bee will return at the end of a realm. In this dirt, together with the fortunes of forgetful squirrels, was also buried the remains of those who once fought for the ownership of the mountain and lost. Those who called themselves winners and owners are just as dead, only buried further away with nail polish. The mountain doesn't concern himself. As the bee writes her will, drawing a map of how to follow the flowers, the flowers themselves follow the sun, who shines bright over the bee. With a sudden flap a shadow passes swiftly across the bee and the phoenix sets its feet atop the mountain.

"How lovely to see you again", the mountain thinks within himself to the phoenix, "although our relationship isn't completely without friction. But I don't concern myself with it, at the current pace it'll take an eternity for me to get grinded down."

"You are rather short sighted", the phoenix thinks within herself but not to the mountain, "you are my fifth mountain this week."

As a random coincident the phoenix calls herself Tree Echo, but hasn't told anyone so. On an unrelated note the mountain calls himself Tree Hotel, but that doesn't matter.

The bee calls herself lucky.