Bran at the Brink

A poetic response to Bran's moment at the cliff, where fear pressed close and wings rose to meet it.

I stood upon the cliffside,
The wind tore through my chest,
The river roared beneath me,
And silence did the rest.

The stone beneath was ancient,
It whispered of the fall,
Its tongue was carved in granite,
And it spoke to end us all.

My brothers laughed behind me,
Their voices rang with cheer,
But terror claimed my breathing,
And the void drew ever near.

The cliff became a sermon,
Of frailty and of bone,
It told me I was nothing,
And it carved me into stone.

I clutched at air for balance,
My knuckles white with strain,
The world was wheeling round me,
A carousel of pain.

The gulls wheeled out in silence,
Their wings were knives of glass,
They marked my trembling spirit,
And they watched my courage pass.

The river sang beneath me,
A hymn of ancient stone,
It promised me no mercy,
And it vowed I’d be alone.

Then sudden light was breaking,
A shimmer in the sky,
And turquoise feather kindled,
Where none had thought to fly.

He rose with wings of malachite,
Runes burning in his hand,
He carved the air with radiance,
And pulled me back to land.

The cliff recoiled in silence,
Its hunger left unsaid,
For magic had defied it,
And mercy broke its thread.

My breath returned in fragments,
Like glass upon the shore,
I trembled at the memory,
Of falling evermore.

His wings were sudden wonder,
A blaze I scarce could name,
They tore me back from silence,
And left me changed with flame.

My brothers gathered round me,
Their jesting hushed to care,
They saw the cliff had spoken,
And left its mark in air.

My eyes were wide with wonder,
Yet shadow lingered still,
For cliffs are not forgotten,
They haunt the heart at will.

And so my tale is written,
Not on my strength alone,
But on the brink that shaped me,
Where wings and fear were sown.

- written in the voice of Bran Renstone, who once looked into the abyss.
A poetic spotlight by Chaiga T. Cheska