Day 8 of 360 Days of Symbols. Today’s symbol? River.
Round riverbend through island the bodies floated face down, spines turned towards the red sun and a sky filled with the roar of airships. More whistles in the wind as silver eggs fell from the ships and burst on the ground with an expulsion of magic, dropping more bodies where they stand. Doing chores like every day things, the sick magic corpsing them without thought, without a second beat.
One minute: dishes, playing in a circle, running through the streets. The next? Dead. On the ground, on the floor, on the roof. Dead. Falling down, the body rolling on the earth. A few the magic did not touch, shamans, mystics, oracles, people protected by things unknown. Demons, gods, ghosts.
They walk now, weeping of the dead as more eggs fall from the sky, pushing the corpses of their family, their loves, pushing them into the hungry river. Watching it drag the bodies away and out into the mountains, into the caves beneath, were old gods sleep waiting. Their death will not be a war casualty. Now they will rise again in the heart of the mountain. Now they will bring out the fury of the dead, and ride the volcanic ash into the air, and burn down the ships in the sky itself.