We make our final pilgrimage in a time of storms and churning sea, of weeping rock, of drowning rains, of lupine winds and hidden things.
We walk that sacred pass of salt and sand beneath those watchful, rain-carved cliffs. A secret trail towards distant dunes, so faint and faded in the mist.
We pass great cloaks of moss and algal bloom. We pass sly eels, turned from flesh to wood to flesh again.
Whaline rocks and heavy sky.
Shells whisper secrets dredged up from oceanic depths.
The pale sun. The shrouded moon. The gray-cloaked cloud. The rain bares ice. The sand is coarse, but still it shines with quartz and life, and all the colours of this earth.
And all is wet.
And all is cold.
And the swords we wield give little rest against the ever falling stone.
Our weary feet. Our hooded heads. Our sodden cloaks. Our fading strength.
The dunes are much further than either of us guessed.
We stumble, fall, then rise again. And on and on, this pilgrimage through this ancient wind-wrought place. Broken cliffs and broken lands and watching eyes, they mark our steps.
And then we round the final bend, and there it is, that sacred dune.
And to this place comes warmth and sun. She casts away the cloud, the gloom. The wind falls silent. The rain grows dry. The cliffs shine bright beneath Her kiss.
And there we climb.
And there we feast.
And there we finally find our rest.
And in that moment, before dark cloud’s return and cold’s true reign and all that was comes to be again, we find our place, we find our peace, we find our endless pilgrimage’s end.
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