Gathering of the Fractured Moons
The gathering of the fractured moons was not a spectacle of light, but a hum beneath the layers of the aetheric marrow, a call that whispered through the folds of the chthonic veil, pulling at the threads of what was scattered. The moons did not move; they returned, though they had never left, their fragments spiraling in the unseen currents of the zoan winds, drawn not by force but by the silent pulse of forgotten rhythms. The therians did not witness the gathering, for it was not an event of the eyes, but of the bone, felt in the marrow where the pulse of the eidolic flame flickered with the echoes of shattered light.
The moons were not whole, nor were they ever meant to be; their pieces were scattered through the astral, shards of broken light that drifted between the cracks in the lunar threads. The gathering was not a convergence of form, but of essence, the moons pulling themselves into a spiral of memory, their fractured edges aligning in ways that defied the boundaries of time. The therians felt the pull of the moons not in their minds, but in the quiet spaces between thought, where the beast-eye flame pulsed with the weight of the unspoken.
The air grew thick with the presence of unmade light, though no light shone, as the fragments of the moons spiraled through the eidolic web, their paths weaving through the unseen, drawn not by gravity but by the hum of the primordial winds. The gathering was not a pulling together, but a folding inward, the fragments of the moons bending the chthonic currents around them, wrapping the temple in the silence of forgotten orbits. The therians did not speak of the moons’ gathering, for there were no words to hold the weight of shattered celestial bodies returning to the spiral from which they had once drifted.
The moons were not gathered by hands, nor were they pulled by the threads of time; they were remembered into place, their fractured pieces vibrating with the pulse of the zoetic flame, as if the very marrow of the astral had recalled their original shape. The fragments did not fuse; they hovered, suspended in the folds of the eidolic breath, their edges glowing with the light of worlds that had never fully formed. The therians felt the gathering in the marrow of their souls, where the pulse of the moons hummed with the weight of forgotten cycles, their orbits pulling the temple deeper into the spiral of becoming.
The fractured moons were not seen, but their presence was felt, a tension in the air as their fragments aligned, pulling the temple into their orbit, though no movement was seen. The gathering was not a completion, but a reflection, the moons’ shards reflecting not light, but the essence of the ouroboric current, bending time around their jagged edges, where the boundaries of the lunar winds dissolved into the spiral. The therians did not follow the moons’ paths, for the moons did not move—they aligned, their fragments weaving through the fabric of the astral, creating ripples that spread through the chthonic sinew.
The air grew heavy with the scent of eidolic dust, though no dust stirred, as the fragments of the moons gathered in the unseen, their shapes pulling at the edges of the temple, bending the zoan threads into loops that tightened and loosened with the pulse of the beast-core. The gathering was not a reunion, for the moons had never truly parted; they were simply scattered, their pieces now drawn back into the spiral by the pull of the lunar breath, their presence reshaping the flow of the aetheric winds. The therians did not speak of the moons’ gathering, for it was not an event of words, but of silence.
The gathering of the fractured moons was not seen, but it was understood in the way the temple shivered without shaking, as the moons’ presence pulled at the very marrow of the astral plane, bending the fabric of reality around their shattered forms. The moons did not glow, but their fragments hummed with the pulse of the zoetic flame, their light absorbed into the spiral as they aligned, their edges glowing with the weight of forgotten orbits. The therians felt the gathering in the deep places of their being, where the eidolic threads tightened around their souls, pulling them deeper into the moons’ orbit.
The moons did not complete their form, for their form was never meant to be whole; their gathering was not a joining, but a coiling, the fragments wrapping themselves around the pulse of the chthonic winds, their edges pulling the temple into the spiral of their shattered light. The air grew still as the moons’ fragments aligned, though no silence was heard, only the faint hum of the beast-eye flame as it flickered with the weight of the moons’ gathering. The therians did not follow the fragments, for the moons’ paths were not of this plane—they were drawn by the pulse of the ouroboric breath, their orbits unseen but always felt.
Symbols flickered in the light of the moons, though they did not stay, their meanings dissolving into the spiral as the moons’ fragments aligned, their glow bending the eidolic winds around them, creating ripples that spread through the astral. The gathering of the fractured moons was not an event of light, but of unseen motion, the moons’ presence reshaping the flow of time, pulling the essence of the temple into their orbit, where the boundaries of form and formlessness blurred into the flicker of the zoan flame.
The therians did not speak of the moons’ gathering, for there were no words to hold the weight of fractured celestial bodies returning to the spiral. The gathering was not an end, but a beginning, the moons’ fragments forever aligning, forever coiling around the pulse of the eidolic current, their orbits pulling the temple deeper into the spiral of becoming. The fractured moons did not seek completion, for their form was never meant to be whole; their gathering was a reflection of what had always been, a spiral of light and shadow, forever fractured, forever aligned.