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estdeus_innobis[Until dawn on Friday, October 23 (day 145)]
[Ruins of the Voronin Manor]
A last time, I promise--valerian, bitter and strong. And the long walk out to the charcoal and soot crumbling into the ground, the night air stretching like honey in this hour where dawn might never come. Safest in the dark, you see, with the stories folk tell about this place.
'd already looked to some of this when Lysander Vassos and Valmont Laclos were after duelling. Of course, given the state Marks is like to be in, it was well past the point where he could've been laid out or anointed and carried out in a funeral procession by the time I'd heard of any of it. Not that I'm sure that's how to handle a dead god, but...
Well. Suppose cremation of the body was handled well enough.
Didn't particular know him, didn't particular care for him. Knew the other a little better, and as to that--
--set it aside. What'd I tell Kate, once? The dead oughtn't suffer, they're meant to rest. Even those that were monsters in life. Let it be over.
Let it be over.
Stone shattered in heat and timbers a collapsed shadow of themselves in soot. A brick or two fired to a glaze, and a faint slagged glitter where windows used to be. And ashes. And ashes. They've silted out slow since it happened, the edges of it all blurring out like milk and ink. I stand in the center of it and turn a slow circle, deosil, and I think of places I have passed through on the road, places which glimmered oddly at night.
Ought not stay here overlong.
Folk have come, dug through and turned over pieces of this place--most after looting, I suppose, though I think there've been some tributes, flowers blossomed and withered, unburnt shoes. I was here once only, and I'm not sure what the place I settle on was. But of the marble shattered there are larger chunks here, jagged and pale as ice when the waters burst through in spring. Dig them out slow, hands rubbing raw even under the gloves and arms and back starting to ache even through the valerian haze, keep those with smooth edges close, carry aside those jagged.
And then the ground is bare, baked and gouged, and I scrape it even again--for a mercy it was groomed and likely floored before the fire, makes it all smoother--and then lay out the marble with its breaks buried deep and the smooth edges patterned pale above the ground. Remember the dreams of lying in the cemetery sea, adrift in the earth and face to the air, the peace of being embedded in the patient earth.
No bodies to be had. Stone's strength. Marble's pallor.
Sit back when I've set out all the smooth-edged pieces I can find in the earth, pale mosaic in a stretch wide enough to be a bed. It's raw, and I imagine a stonewright'd look on the assembling of the pieces and spit. But there's little enough that I can bring to this, and I think it the best of what I can do; ground that held their ashes in its depths, and stone catching the sky's warming light as dawn comes on. No names, but no accident, and bare enough that I'm not thinking anyone'll be after digging it up much. Still need to come back to check on it, though.
Get to my feet and begin heading home, tired and sore. Time for a few hours sleep, but I think I'll be outpacing Lucien in terms of needing coffee today.
[Closed]
[Ruins of the Voronin Manor]
A last time, I promise--valerian, bitter and strong. And the long walk out to the charcoal and soot crumbling into the ground, the night air stretching like honey in this hour where dawn might never come. Safest in the dark, you see, with the stories folk tell about this place.
'd already looked to some of this when Lysander Vassos and Valmont Laclos were after duelling. Of course, given the state Marks is like to be in, it was well past the point where he could've been laid out or anointed and carried out in a funeral procession by the time I'd heard of any of it. Not that I'm sure that's how to handle a dead god, but...
Well. Suppose cremation of the body was handled well enough.
Didn't particular know him, didn't particular care for him. Knew the other a little better, and as to that--
--set it aside. What'd I tell Kate, once? The dead oughtn't suffer, they're meant to rest. Even those that were monsters in life. Let it be over.
Let it be over.
Stone shattered in heat and timbers a collapsed shadow of themselves in soot. A brick or two fired to a glaze, and a faint slagged glitter where windows used to be. And ashes. And ashes. They've silted out slow since it happened, the edges of it all blurring out like milk and ink. I stand in the center of it and turn a slow circle, deosil, and I think of places I have passed through on the road, places which glimmered oddly at night.
Ought not stay here overlong.
Folk have come, dug through and turned over pieces of this place--most after looting, I suppose, though I think there've been some tributes, flowers blossomed and withered, unburnt shoes. I was here once only, and I'm not sure what the place I settle on was. But of the marble shattered there are larger chunks here, jagged and pale as ice when the waters burst through in spring. Dig them out slow, hands rubbing raw even under the gloves and arms and back starting to ache even through the valerian haze, keep those with smooth edges close, carry aside those jagged.
And then the ground is bare, baked and gouged, and I scrape it even again--for a mercy it was groomed and likely floored before the fire, makes it all smoother--and then lay out the marble with its breaks buried deep and the smooth edges patterned pale above the ground. Remember the dreams of lying in the cemetery sea, adrift in the earth and face to the air, the peace of being embedded in the patient earth.
No bodies to be had. Stone's strength. Marble's pallor.
Sit back when I've set out all the smooth-edged pieces I can find in the earth, pale mosaic in a stretch wide enough to be a bed. It's raw, and I imagine a stonewright'd look on the assembling of the pieces and spit. But there's little enough that I can bring to this, and I think it the best of what I can do; ground that held their ashes in its depths, and stone catching the sky's warming light as dawn comes on. No names, but no accident, and bare enough that I'm not thinking anyone'll be after digging it up much. Still need to come back to check on it, though.
Get to my feet and begin heading home, tired and sore. Time for a few hours sleep, but I think I'll be outpacing Lucien in terms of needing coffee today.
[Closed]
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