Oba sits on the Throne of Old. Of course,
she may only keep it warm for her brother,
Valka-the-Grey,
While he is away in the Depths--
In exile, she thinks, but she does not like to think.
She twirls her Summer-gold braids absentmindedly.
Oba is still a girl, but
Above the people she sits,
Living amongst clouds.
After five hundred years she was to send the sun-
After the People-Watcher had done his deed-
And! She sees, peering below the clouds,
A lone bird circling past with a weapon
Clenched in her beak.
Carved in the bone of the knife's handle
A lion, majestic mane ruffled by wind,
Roaring spectacularly- the sign of the Old,
The sign that belongs to the Old, as the People-Watcher does-
Oba presses her hands to the clouds.
Sunlight seeps through, lighting the world below,
Its soft shine reaching even the Depths
Of the blackest oceans.
In the Depths of the blackest oceans
Lies Valka. Eyes redder than cherries,
He fixes his bloodshot pupils upon the Sun.
He is waiting.
The Sun does not bestow obsidian waters with light
--cursed seas they are.
Valka shifts his mangled Winter-grey limbs under him.
Five hundred years ago
Was when last the Sun had shone
With his ruby irises he watches.
His soul stirs the blackened waters; he
senses it before it comes,
A weak ray of sunlight, filtering
to the Depths.
He lifts his bony arms, ashen from
years long past,
Swims, far past the looming sharks
and rays,
Above the surface he stops. Takes a breath.
Knives hail
From the skies, carried by a single dove.
Valka pushes his blue lips into a smile, his red eyes blinking.
The People-Watcher has done his work.
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