![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
anushka-excolo.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
estdeus_innobisMonday October 12th, dusk, the Voronin Manor.
By now they have found the body and the sheriff is seeing that Glass is told. By now the whore who wants to be mayor is beginning to miss her dreams. I see them, even if she does not. By now Gaueko will be settled at the Whitechapel. The house is silent. I sit on the great swoop of the staircase and listen to the thoughts of the town. It does not block out my own so well as I would like.
Does Iblis think his un-flesh bestows the same power that humans have forged gods with? It does not. It is something altered, whether he and Gaueko see it or not. It is a smooth marble statue carved with a bright chisel, where humans weather their gods to shape over centuries, each whisper of their name, each prayer or moment of fright a drop of water, and the stone grows into wild and terrible shapes, wonderful shapes, beautiful strong shapes.
But the end times smashed all those stones to rubble and they can never be rebuilt, never mind the darting dogs in the night time woods, never mind the crunch of bones. Perhaps some part of me still hoped for Gaueko when he came back that night, dragged his broken self across the marble hall and lay there knitting himself back towards wholeness slowly. I helped him into my bed, though I do not sleep in it now. There was something right about the way he healed himself, the way his great body grew to know its own hurt and accepted it.
Perhaps a part of me thought, however briefly, that there was a sliver of hope for the gods, if they could take their own fall with such acceptance, such dignity in their lack of dignity, if they did not shy from the long process of power seeping back into them.
Then Iblis, and his quick fix. I could have wept, but it was not in me. I was right to despair of the gods. And the night was ringing like a bell with Wanda's white shape darting through the woods, laughing and kneeling and screaming, and with Iblis with his heart and his tears and his girlish sighs, and the war god spilling his own blood to ease the ache of sadness in him. I sat in the house and I wished I could not see. I am tired with this town. What a fool I have been.
[closed]
By now they have found the body and the sheriff is seeing that Glass is told. By now the whore who wants to be mayor is beginning to miss her dreams. I see them, even if she does not. By now Gaueko will be settled at the Whitechapel. The house is silent. I sit on the great swoop of the staircase and listen to the thoughts of the town. It does not block out my own so well as I would like.
Does Iblis think his un-flesh bestows the same power that humans have forged gods with? It does not. It is something altered, whether he and Gaueko see it or not. It is a smooth marble statue carved with a bright chisel, where humans weather their gods to shape over centuries, each whisper of their name, each prayer or moment of fright a drop of water, and the stone grows into wild and terrible shapes, wonderful shapes, beautiful strong shapes.
But the end times smashed all those stones to rubble and they can never be rebuilt, never mind the darting dogs in the night time woods, never mind the crunch of bones. Perhaps some part of me still hoped for Gaueko when he came back that night, dragged his broken self across the marble hall and lay there knitting himself back towards wholeness slowly. I helped him into my bed, though I do not sleep in it now. There was something right about the way he healed himself, the way his great body grew to know its own hurt and accepted it.
Perhaps a part of me thought, however briefly, that there was a sliver of hope for the gods, if they could take their own fall with such acceptance, such dignity in their lack of dignity, if they did not shy from the long process of power seeping back into them.
Then Iblis, and his quick fix. I could have wept, but it was not in me. I was right to despair of the gods. And the night was ringing like a bell with Wanda's white shape darting through the woods, laughing and kneeling and screaming, and with Iblis with his heart and his tears and his girlish sighs, and the war god spilling his own blood to ease the ache of sadness in him. I sat in the house and I wished I could not see. I am tired with this town. What a fool I have been.
[closed]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-05-14 10:13 pm (UTC)Monster stands in my kitchen looking at the picture intently, before he tucks it away. It is a strange thing, but I feel as I kiss him that we two would have been suited another age better than this one, for all our peculiarities. I wind my arms around his neck and though I taste the blood from his lip, it is meaningless now as it has never been before. I close my eyes and kiss him, and I imagine the kitchen awash with fire, and the house crumbling around us, and the clean feeling one gets when pain releases one from its grip. The woman in the photograph is crying. I would like to stay in this moment for ever.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-14 10:30 pm (UTC)I kiss her goodbye.