It is something he is unused to, something that a creature of his stature has never found necessary before his arrival in the drabwurld. As the Creator of Narnia, its King and Overseer, Aslan has ever known the path he must take moving forward. From the foundation of the world, his vision was written into the very fabric of existence with authority and certainty. Now, separated from his children and rendered nearly blind, Aslan works with his shard – the one link he has to the place he truly belongs.
Having been shown the basics by Diarmuid, Aslan finds his task isn't exceptionally difficult – or at least not at the level he is currently trying to master. He managed to awaken his shard the first time, and thanks to Diarmuid's guidance, it is becoming easier to access. The green light that is becoming ever more familiar, has a soothing feeling to it, a warmth that calls to his own inner light.
It is this light that makes him sing.
The memory of his world, the Creation shaped by his own Word, a Song of Beginnings – the moment the stars first found their airy, tingling voices, the triumphant burst of light when the sun rose for the first time, when the trees began to dance, and waters became divine... Aslan thinks on these things as he brings forth the light of his shard, a soft, lilting note of sound rising in the air, a vibrant hum that might very well be tangible for all the space around him seems to shimmer. Were he closer to Caer Glaem, it's entirely possible he might have been noticed. A singing lion is a strange sight in most places, including the drabwurld, which is why he lingerscloser to the woodlands – trees that are still stripped and devoid of life...except they stir, upon hearing his song.
Intent upon his work as he is, Aslan almost doesn't notice the music that soon joins with his. It rises with his high notes, and falls too as a more earthy sort of rumble escapes him. Fur bristling a little, Aslan growls softly, instinctively as the sound persists. The pitch of it is strange, unnatural – something that doesn't quite belong even though he cannot pinpoint exactly why. Not at first.
Tail twitching in an agitated fashion, the sounds he makes deepen, lower, rougher, hinting at something wilder, more dangerous. His frustration over being separated from his own world is slowly being made manifest, and in time, his concentration and connection with the shard breaks. A rare fit of anger swelling inside him, Aslan rises to his feet and releases a terrifying roar.
Brittle, rotting trees crack behind him, a light tremor moves through the earth, and any animals within the immediate vicinity spook and flee. There are no words, only a thunderous expulsion of emotion he would normally never show or allow to rule his actions. He is better than this, patient and kind and forgiving. For now, though, a darker melody plays, and for about an hour, Aslan races through the countryside, all snarls and discontentment. He is doing things he should not have to, enduring inconveniences he should never should have been saddled with, and above all else, he seethes over being stolen away from his rightful place. He is the linchpin of his world, the one who was there before the Beginning, destined to reign even after the End. He should not be apart from it, and none of this is right...
Or so he tells himself until the melody that interfered with his falls silent.
Aslan stops abruptly, his fury suddenly fading as the lingering taste of foreign magic fades into the air. The day grows dim, the stars will soon be shining, and for a long moment, Aslan is...at a loss. He realizes how easily he was affected by the power of another, how his flesh burned and began to slough away during his encounter with the young Jabberwock), the reality of pain and mortality he has endured in times past, but usually at his own discretion.
Aslan looks around him, at the trail he has left in his wake – splintered trees fallen in his wake, a sort of silence that ought not be, even with the rot still so much in evidence. A twinge of guilt brushes his conscience, yet another sensation he is unused to, as he looks upon the mess. The lands that have been torn asunder and rendered lifeless already deserved no further ire from powers beyond the human scope.
Moved with regret, Aslan turns about and slowly re-traces his steps, singing softly once more in the cool of the evening. The reparations do not come instantaneously, and life does not spring forth immediately. It is a gradual mend, a bringing together of disrupted soil and trees that have fallen down. They move, straighten, and recover what has been lost in the wake of his rage...but still they do not yet bloom.
Aslan considers this too, for a long while, before his song rises once more, calling for life and an abundance thereof. Branches crack and stretch as old bark falls away, replaced by the new. This is his own power, not the power of the shard, and even as life comes forth from death, Aslan is still sober.
The stares have already begun their dance across the sky when Aslan is finally finished. A swatch of greenery now exists in a mostly barren land, and Aslan considers his work with a somber air. The power he wield, the deep magic meant to bring life to emptiness, light to a void; he does not know how far it is proper for him to stretch forth his (figurative) hand.
Glaschu requires a healing. He already knows this. There are other places too that made need the healing touch that he can bring.
He is still undecided, however. Still uncertain how much he ought to invest himself in a world that is not his own.
Balance in all things.
Aslan contemplates these things late into the night, and though he does not often sleep, he does dream. He walks through darkness, through the sharp, bitter cold of Nothing, towards an eerie sound that speaks of Endings without Beginnings.
It is a difficult path, his paws hurt and grow numb, but he continues. When he has gone far enough, it is a harp that appears before him, and he recognizes the same magic as before.
Face stern, Aslan stares at it a moment before drawing closer, the music pulsing with subtle violence across the landscape of his dream. He lets it play for one minute longer before he's had enough.
Aslan's maw opens, and a sound the likes of which very few have ever heard comes forth. It is a roar of triumph and of power, and echo of worlds crashing together, of the sun, moon, and stars suddenly crackling to life in a brilliant burst of light.
The harp shatters, and brilliance floods Aslan's dreamscape, illuminating the far corners of every mountain and valley, every sea and every nation, from the southern lands of Calormene, to Etinsmoor and beyond.
Narnia burns brightly in his mind's eye, a beacon of all that is good and right that has been wrought with his power. His judgment is no less sound or sure than it ever was, and a peace and contentment fills him as he stands at the edge of his own lands.
He smiles as he looks at it all and remembers.
The next morning, Aslan rises from his slumber refreshing and rejuvenated. He greets the morning with a roar and a easy romp through newly healed woodlands.
Late April - Harp Event Narrative
It is something he is unused to, something that a creature of his stature has never found necessary before his arrival in the drabwurld. As the Creator of Narnia, its King and Overseer, Aslan has ever known the path he must take moving forward. From the foundation of the world, his vision was written into the very fabric of existence with authority and certainty. Now, separated from his children and rendered nearly blind, Aslan works with his shard – the one link he has to the place he truly belongs.
Having been shown the basics by Diarmuid, Aslan finds his task isn't exceptionally difficult – or at least not at the level he is currently trying to master. He managed to awaken his shard the first time, and thanks to Diarmuid's guidance, it is becoming easier to access. The green light that is becoming ever more familiar, has a soothing feeling to it, a warmth that calls to his own inner light.
It is this light that makes him sing.
The memory of his world, the Creation shaped by his own Word, a Song of Beginnings – the moment the stars first found their airy, tingling voices, the triumphant burst of light when the sun rose for the first time, when the trees began to dance, and waters became divine... Aslan thinks on these things as he brings forth the light of his shard, a soft, lilting note of sound rising in the air, a vibrant hum that might very well be tangible for all the space around him seems to shimmer. Were he closer to Caer Glaem, it's entirely possible he might have been noticed. A singing lion is a strange sight in most places, including the drabwurld, which is why he lingerscloser to the woodlands – trees that are still stripped and devoid of life...except they stir, upon hearing his song.
Intent upon his work as he is, Aslan almost doesn't notice the music that soon joins with his. It rises with his high notes, and falls too as a more earthy sort of rumble escapes him. Fur bristling a little, Aslan growls softly, instinctively as the sound persists. The pitch of it is strange, unnatural – something that doesn't quite belong even though he cannot pinpoint exactly why. Not at first.
Tail twitching in an agitated fashion, the sounds he makes deepen, lower, rougher, hinting at something wilder, more dangerous. His frustration over being separated from his own world is slowly being made manifest, and in time, his concentration and connection with the shard breaks. A rare fit of anger swelling inside him, Aslan rises to his feet and releases a terrifying roar.
Brittle, rotting trees crack behind him, a light tremor moves through the earth, and any animals within the immediate vicinity spook and flee. There are no words, only a thunderous expulsion of emotion he would normally never show or allow to rule his actions. He is better than this, patient and kind and forgiving. For now, though, a darker melody plays, and for about an hour, Aslan races through the countryside, all snarls and discontentment. He is doing things he should not have to, enduring inconveniences he should never should have been saddled with, and above all else, he seethes over being stolen away from his rightful place. He is the linchpin of his world, the one who was there before the Beginning, destined to reign even after the End. He should not be apart from it, and none of this is right...
Or so he tells himself until the melody that interfered with his falls silent.
Aslan stops abruptly, his fury suddenly fading as the lingering taste of foreign magic fades into the air. The day grows dim, the stars will soon be shining, and for a long moment, Aslan is...at a loss. He realizes how easily he was affected by the power of another, how his flesh burned and began to slough away during his encounter with the young Jabberwock), the reality of pain and mortality he has endured in times past, but usually at his own discretion.
Aslan looks around him, at the trail he has left in his wake – splintered trees fallen in his wake, a sort of silence that ought not be, even with the rot still so much in evidence. A twinge of guilt brushes his conscience, yet another sensation he is unused to, as he looks upon the mess. The lands that have been torn asunder and rendered lifeless already deserved no further ire from powers beyond the human scope.
Moved with regret, Aslan turns about and slowly re-traces his steps, singing softly once more in the cool of the evening. The reparations do not come instantaneously, and life does not spring forth immediately. It is a gradual mend, a bringing together of disrupted soil and trees that have fallen down. They move, straighten, and recover what has been lost in the wake of his rage...but still they do not yet bloom.
Aslan considers this too, for a long while, before his song rises once more, calling for life and an abundance thereof. Branches crack and stretch as old bark falls away, replaced by the new. This is his own power, not the power of the shard, and even as life comes forth from death, Aslan is still sober.
The stares have already begun their dance across the sky when Aslan is finally finished. A swatch of greenery now exists in a mostly barren land, and Aslan considers his work with a somber air. The power he wield, the deep magic meant to bring life to emptiness, light to a void; he does not know how far it is proper for him to stretch forth his (figurative) hand.
Glaschu requires a healing. He already knows this. There are other places too that made need the healing touch that he can bring.
He is still undecided, however. Still uncertain how much he ought to invest himself in a world that is not his own.
Balance in all things.
Aslan contemplates these things late into the night, and though he does not often sleep, he does dream. He walks through darkness, through the sharp, bitter cold of Nothing, towards an eerie sound that speaks of Endings without Beginnings.
It is a difficult path, his paws hurt and grow numb, but he continues. When he has gone far enough, it is a harp that appears before him, and he recognizes the same magic as before.
Face stern, Aslan stares at it a moment before drawing closer, the music pulsing with subtle violence across the landscape of his dream. He lets it play for one minute longer before he's had enough.
Aslan's maw opens, and a sound the likes of which very few have ever heard comes forth. It is a roar of triumph and of power, and echo of worlds crashing together, of the sun, moon, and stars suddenly crackling to life in a brilliant burst of light.
The harp shatters, and brilliance floods Aslan's dreamscape, illuminating the far corners of every mountain and valley, every sea and every nation, from the southern lands of Calormene, to Etinsmoor and beyond.
Narnia burns brightly in his mind's eye, a beacon of all that is good and right that has been wrought with his power. His judgment is no less sound or sure than it ever was, and a peace and contentment fills him as he stands at the edge of his own lands.
He smiles as he looks at it all and remembers.
The next morning, Aslan rises from his slumber refreshing and rejuvenated. He greets the morning with a roar and a easy romp through newly healed woodlands.
He is ready once more for adventure.