(no subject)

Mar. 18th, 2013 12:27 am
[identity profile] regal-vigilante.livejournal.com
Regrets collect like old friends
Here to relive your darkest moments
I can see no way, I can see no way

And all of the ghouls come out to play
And every demon wants his pound of flesh

Wednesday Morning
Mab's Apartment, and then out to the Dark Forest

I woke up this morning to voices in my apartment. And for some reason it wasn't strange at all- no, it seemed perfectly normal. Perfectly reasonable for my parents to be in my kitchen. Parents do visit their children occasionally, I know.

Of course, mine have been dead for more than half my life. So it was a little strange to see them again.

It was more disturbing that it took me nearly half an hour to realize that they shouldn't be here. The sodden clothes really should have given it away faster.

Went back into my room to dress. So very calmly, I put on my leathers and my coat. Gathered my kit and buckled on my sword. Went out and kissed them both, then left. Stood in the hallway a full minute before I could make myself move. Stood there and listened to the noises coming from inside as I looked out the hall window.

I distinctly recall there being no forest near my yard yesterday.


I'm out of the building and on my way into it before I even think to leave anything resembling a note.
Time to get to work.

{OPEN}
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Criticism, like pain, calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.

Aug. 13th, 2012 08:50 am
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Pre-dawn darkness, Thursday, August 4 (day 431)]
[Interrupted when returning from the Whitechapel]

The pain is really quite astounding. I hear a garbled sobbing and persist in reading those words into it. Like wind in the trees, water dribbling onto stone, breath over broken teeth. You could hear anything in it, you could...

The world seems quite gray, for a long moment, and when it passes the surface I am leaning--laying?--upon is beginning to dry, and there is a dull tackiness when I try and move away. I manage, eventually, but it is more of a roll than anything else. It is slightly easier to breathe, now, though. I can see something ahead, the patterned gleam of light on cobbles, and when I try to focus the curves and shadows boil up and break apart and I vomit and the pain--

Pieces, inside, raw and tearing--like fruit in a bag of broken crockery, shaken and split. I think I have had something quite horrible happen to me. The mutter of words, or of something close to them, or only a memory. The sobbing.

I don't remember where I was going. Someone, please...

The pain is really...

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...these eyes of smoke, of darkness... these eyes of glass.

Apr. 3rd, 2012 11:00 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Early morning of Saturday, July 3 (day 398)]
[At home with breakfast, making plans]

It is a pleasant morning; I admit that we had nothing like this in Dunwich, certainly not in the heart of town. There was always a certain closeness to the gabled streets, a certain grounding warmth to be found in the weathered brick. But this day is a balance of spring rush and summer warmth, and I feel my spirits quickening.

I have lain fallow too long; it does me no good to leave my plans unrealized. Nothing of note was ever created by one who could not move past the stages of planning.

( Creepy. )

I imagine it would not be that hard; she does occasionally stop by, and the shop (such as it is) is never very busy.

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...these eyes of smoke, of darkness... these eyes of glass.

Apr. 3rd, 2012 11:00 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Early morning of Saturday, July 3 (day 398)]
[At home with breakfast, making plans]

It is a pleasant morning; I admit that we had nothing like this in Dunwich, certainly not in the heart of town. There was always a certain closeness to the gabled streets, a certain grounding warmth to be found in the weathered brick. But this day is a balance of spring rush and summer warmth, and I feel my spirits quickening.

I have lain fallow too long; it does me no good to leave my plans unrealized. Nothing of note was ever created by one who could not move past the stages of planning.

( Creepy. )

I imagine it would not be that hard; she does occasionally stop by, and the shop (such as it is) is never very busy.

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A book...is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.

Jan. 29th, 2012 03:22 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Late morning of Thursday, June 17 (day 382)]
[Sagert's Books]

It is rather a pleasant day; blustery but not cool. My legs feels rather better today, and I spend the morning on light errands. A stop by the library (really, I must suggest that they see about shimming up some of the shelves; I find that I am rather tired of the occasional volume dropping on me), and then the General Store and the bakery, and a pleasant stop at the Miskatonic before returning home.

I actually do manage an hour or so in the basement. Just planning, really, but I have a few ideas I would like to note down...

I am feeling quite refreshed when I come back up. Not exactly enough to go out again, but I set the sign out to indicate I am open, and brew up a cup of tea. Perhaps someone shall stop in; if not, well, I can certainly look forward to sitting and reading for a moment.

[Open to Samuel, and possibly others]
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A book...is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.

Jan. 29th, 2012 03:22 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Late morning of Thursday, June 17 (day 382)]
[Sagert's Books]

It is rather a pleasant day; blustery but not cool. My legs feels rather better today, and I spend the morning on light errands. A stop by the library (really, I must suggest that they see about shimming up some of the shelves; I find that I am rather tired of the occasional volume dropping on me), and then the General Store and the bakery, and a pleasant stop at the Miskatonic before returning home.

I actually do manage an hour or so in the basement. Just planning, really, but I have a few ideas I would like to note down...

I am feeling quite refreshed when I come back up. Not exactly enough to go out again, but I set the sign out to indicate I am open, and brew up a cup of tea. Perhaps someone shall stop in; if not, well, I can certainly look forward to sitting and reading for a moment.

[Open to Samuel, and possibly others]
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There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

Dec. 27th, 2011 09:37 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[A bright and crisp mid-morning, June 8 (day 373)]
[At the library]

It is quite a lovely day; cool and crisp and not at all cold enough to ache. I was somewhat apprehensive about stepping outside yesterday, but the snow hardly seems to cause a slip at all. And as it seems to be here still, I suppose I should not get into the habit of letting it keep me inside.

I cannot bring by all the books I thought might be of use, of course, but I do manage to fit nearly a dozen into a string bag, and slip the handles over one shoulder. It is merely a matter of going carefully, and I make my way to the library without incident. Really, the trickiest part of it is knocking the snow off my boots before I enter.

I glance around as I come inside, not seeing anyone for the moment, and go to set the books down on the front desk. Mrs Stephanides is not in evidence, and neither is the senior librarian. (Come to think of it, I can't recall meeting her... well, I am sure I shall have the chance at some point.) "Hello?"

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There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written.

Dec. 27th, 2011 09:37 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[A bright and crisp mid-morning, June 8 (day 373)]
[At the library]

It is quite a lovely day; cool and crisp and not at all cold enough to ache. I was somewhat apprehensive about stepping outside yesterday, but the snow hardly seems to cause a slip at all. And as it seems to be here still, I suppose I should not get into the habit of letting it keep me inside.

I cannot bring by all the books I thought might be of use, of course, but I do manage to fit nearly a dozen into a string bag, and slip the handles over one shoulder. It is merely a matter of going carefully, and I make my way to the library without incident. Really, the trickiest part of it is knocking the snow off my boots before I enter.

I glance around as I come inside, not seeing anyone for the moment, and go to set the books down on the front desk. Mrs Stephanides is not in evidence, and neither is the senior librarian. (Come to think of it, I can't recall meeting her... well, I am sure I shall have the chance at some point.) "Hello?"

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It's a beautiful day in this neighbourhood.

Oct. 10th, 2011 03:41 pm
[identity profile] mister-foxton.livejournal.com
Thursday, May 20th
The Manqueller residence and the streets of Excolo

I was woken early by the kittens, the vile brute-beasts. I have asked and asked Mrs Betton to make sure she keeps the door to my bedroom closed, but there they were, tumbling across the bed quilt and climbing on the pillow to stand on my face.

"You are infernal creatures," I tell them as I dress. The weather has cooled, but none the less I fold the well-pressed sleeves of shirt to just below my elbows and leave the collar of my shirt unfastened: after a long winter, there is a great pleasure to be had in feeling the air upon my skin.

"Mrs Betton," I say, sitting down to the breakfast she has provided, "I fear I must remonstrate with you again. Those confounded animals woke me up again - I would swear that they do it on purpose."

"I can't tell you how it happens, Mr Manqueller," she says calmly, setting salt and pepper in front of me with my eggs. "I do my best to keep them out." I am quite sure that she does it on purpose, to make sure I keep hours she approves of.

Her excellent coffee improves my morning peevishness, however. "I think I will go into town," I tell her. "I have an engagement tonight," with a most pleasant gentleman, though there is no need to say that to her, "but I will take the air this morning, and perhaps take a cup of coffee or chocolate at the cafe later. So there is no need for you to prepare dinner, but if you might provide me with some small meal for my luncheon I would be most grateful."

"And for Mrs Manqueller?" I see her expression. Oh, dear.

"Ah. Is she in a - less than pleasant temper again? I shall see if I can jolly her along a little." I finish my food, blot my lips with my napkin and tell her, "I shall see to that now."

Grandmama is indeed in one of her tempers. The curtains in the library are firmly closed, and she is pretending to be asleep when I go in. "Good morning, Grandmama," I say, pulling back the curtains and letting some light in. "Have you had some breakfast?"

She ignores me peevishly. She can be so very trying. "Come, now," I say briskly, "I will have Mrs Betton bring you through a little tray. A cup of tea will set you up pleasantly." I rearrange the blanket over her knees, as best I can with Mibbit purring in her lap. Really, one cannot hold her moods against her: she is so very old, and in such poor health.

"I don't want tea," she said pettishly, and I pat her hand.

"I shall have her bring it anyway. You might find you want it later." I kiss her cheek; In her extreme age her skin holds so tight to her skull that she looks almost mummified, but it feels very soft.

I wave away the coat Mrs Betton brandishes at me. "A light jacket will be quite sufficient," I tell her, pulling it on, and step out into morning sunlight that makes me squint and smile together.

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It's a beautiful day in this neighbourhood.

Oct. 10th, 2011 03:41 pm
[identity profile] mister-foxton.livejournal.com
Thursday, May 20th
The Manqueller residence and the streets of Excolo

I was woken early by the kittens, the vile brute-beasts. I have asked and asked Mrs Betton to make sure she keeps the door to my bedroom closed, but there they were, tumbling across the bed quilt and climbing on the pillow to stand on my face.

"You are infernal creatures," I tell them as I dress. The weather has cooled, but none the less I fold the well-pressed sleeves of shirt to just below my elbows and leave the collar of my shirt unfastened: after a long winter, there is a great pleasure to be had in feeling the air upon my skin.

"Mrs Betton," I say, sitting down to the breakfast she has provided, "I fear I must remonstrate with you again. Those confounded animals woke me up again - I would swear that they do it on purpose."

"I can't tell you how it happens, Mr Manqueller," she says calmly, setting salt and pepper in front of me with my eggs. "I do my best to keep them out." I am quite sure that she does it on purpose, to make sure I keep hours she approves of.

Her excellent coffee improves my morning peevishness, however. "I think I will go into town," I tell her. "I have an engagement tonight," with a most pleasant gentleman, though there is no need to say that to her, "but I will take the air this morning, and perhaps take a cup of coffee or chocolate at the cafe later. So there is no need for you to prepare dinner, but if you might provide me with some small meal for my luncheon I would be most grateful."

"And for Mrs Manqueller?" I see her expression. Oh, dear.

"Ah. Is she in a - less than pleasant temper again? I shall see if I can jolly her along a little." I finish my food, blot my lips with my napkin and tell her, "I shall see to that now."

Grandmama is indeed in one of her tempers. The curtains in the library are firmly closed, and she is pretending to be asleep when I go in. "Good morning, Grandmama," I say, pulling back the curtains and letting some light in. "Have you had some breakfast?"

She ignores me peevishly. She can be so very trying. "Come, now," I say briskly, "I will have Mrs Betton bring you through a little tray. A cup of tea will set you up pleasantly." I rearrange the blanket over her knees, as best I can with Mibbit purring in her lap. Really, one cannot hold her moods against her: she is so very old, and in such poor health.

"I don't want tea," she said pettishly, and I pat her hand.

"I shall have her bring it anyway. You might find you want it later." I kiss her cheek; In her extreme age her skin holds so tight to her skull that she looks almost mummified, but it feels very soft.

I wave away the coat Mrs Betton brandishes at me. "A light jacket will be quite sufficient," I tell her, pulling it on, and step out into morning sunlight that makes me squint and smile together.

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(no subject)

Aug. 1st, 2011 11:57 pm
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.”


Monday, 3 May, afternoon
The Carnival

It has been some time since I wore this little child's body, a pretty empty vessel. I find some relief in it, the shell of it like a vase. Its flesh does not tug at me so. Inside the body there is a coolness like clear water. It wears a prairie dress, clearly made at home, and scuffed brown leather shoes with tarnished buckles. Its knees are scraped and its hair tousled. It walks out to the carnival and buys a caramel apple so its face is soon smeared with sugar. It is in all ways a sweet looking thing, and I remember its casual cruelty to the priest Laurence and smile to myself. It skips through the carnival, half-eaten apple in hand, and I look out for those who can be hurt by truths.

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(no subject)

Aug. 1st, 2011 11:57 pm
[identity profile] al-shairan.livejournal.com
“When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.”


Monday, 3 May, afternoon
The Carnival

It has been some time since I wore this little child's body, a pretty empty vessel. I find some relief in it, the shell of it like a vase. Its flesh does not tug at me so. Inside the body there is a coolness like clear water. It wears a prairie dress, clearly made at home, and scuffed brown leather shoes with tarnished buckles. Its knees are scraped and its hair tousled. It walks out to the carnival and buys a caramel apple so its face is soon smeared with sugar. It is in all ways a sweet looking thing, and I remember its casual cruelty to the priest Laurence and smile to myself. It skips through the carnival, half-eaten apple in hand, and I look out for those who can be hurt by truths.

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It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Jun. 12th, 2011 11:29 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]

It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

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It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Jun. 12th, 2011 11:29 pm
[identity profile] westin-sagert.livejournal.com
[Late evening of Wednesday, April 21 (day 325)]
[Approaching one's goal, or the end of one's rope, in the less reputable part of town]

It was the soup spoon, oddly enough. An accidental jostle of the draining rack while I was washing up after Sunday dinner, and I saw it start to fall and reached out on simple reflex to catch it easily out of the air. And then I stood in the kitchen for a moment, looking at it and turning it slowly between my fingers, which did not tremble or break.

I know--I have known quite well that the dreams are only that, even a shared phantasy is still only smoke and mirrors, but they have affected me quite strongly; I have been haunted by the uncanny clarity of the memory of my hands burning and shattering, and the lost and crumbling words of Bethlehem. And sometimes I will wake in the night and I am unwilling to reach for a light, out of fear that touching something will make my hands fall to pieces. I can certainly keep my home and person presentable, but my movements and grip have become taut and awkward when I pay any attention, as if I feared (so foolishly!) that whatever I was touching would turn to hot brass and sear me to the bone.

But I am well again, I have been since I reached my agreement with Morningstar. I know this, and while I am certainly willing to grant that there are things I do not fully understand, that does not excuse such unthinking and unnecessary avoidance of my calling. A man may accept that he does not possess the sum total of all knowledge without being reduced to a superstitious coward.

I have nothing to fear from dreams.

And it has been months since I worked properly on something.

So I have nerved myself to come out, and come looking for raw material. The streets south of my home are pleasant enough for a short distance, but as you go further and towards the west, a certain dilapidation grows. If I do not find someone, then there will be other nights--perhaps during the weekend, Market always seems to bring in rather a crowd--but I am rather optimistic.

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but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you

Apr. 4th, 2011 08:11 pm
[identity profile] hermia-sophia.livejournal.com
Sunday, April 4
The garden behind the Whitechapel Inn

We awoke in each other's arms, both terrified. Valmont, because he feared that I was being attacked; I because I felt something wrong in the world, something beyond the long sleep and painful thirst and weakness. Some ripple of Power that was twisted and wrong. But under it all I could sense Nanshe's presence helping to set the dream-world right again. And Valmont and I had each other, and we were safe, and despite everything, that makes the waking world right.

And neither of us wanted to postpone the ceremony. We wanted - no, needed to continue. Needed to make some new beginning, needed to make life go on as it was supposed to.

And so, still shaky, we went to the abbey this morning at dawn.

Valmont said that I was the one guiding this part of our wedding solemnities, for I was the one closer to the gods. So I arranged the offerings for us to burn on Nanshe's altar: two little bundles, both the same. Not hair. Not incense. Not anything that would be in an Athenian wedding offering to the gods. We are making our own way, here.

So there are herbs from the garden that I planted and he cooks from. The first lilacs that Valmont gave me, and the lilies I gave him, both now dried into fragrant shadows of themselves. Splinters of wood from an empty keg for his profession; scraps of paper from an old book for mine. (Lydia offered me a book that was falling apart anyway; I would never have taken a page from a book otherwise! She gave us a gift, too: a lovely leather-bound and gilt-edged volume of Yeats.) And cotton candy - even though it made everything terribly sticky and I feared it would melt, I had to put cotton candy in there, for the memory of that first night that we soared above Excolo on the ferris wheel and felt as if we were flying. And because it made both of us laugh when I put it in, and we should begin our life together with laughter.

We smile as we light our offerings, and as we smell the fragrance as it floats up to the heavens.

Now, back in the garden behind the inn, I smile again as I wait to take my place next to Valmont and in front of Mab. I've found more lilacs for the bouquet, white and purple both, standing out against the shimmering deep blue fabric of my gown.

I have no parents to bring me to the altar, and neither does Valmont. We just have ourselves, and are giving ourselves to each other.

There they all are. Our friends - all of the people who have grown dear to us in the last year. Our Alice, looking lovely and more grown-up than ever. Mab, tall and serious. And Valmont, who looks so magnificent that my heart leaps at the sight.

I feel a nervous thrill run through me as I step out. Dear gods, I'm getting married! For an instant, I'm terrified, as I stare down that long aisle. But then I realize, why should I be afraid? At the end of the aisle is Valmont. I have nothing to fear as long as he is there.

At the end of my long journey, he was here waiting for me.

So I take a deep breath and step forward, towards my new life.

[Open to wedding guests!]
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but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you

Apr. 4th, 2011 08:11 pm
[identity profile] hermia-sophia.livejournal.com
Sunday, April 4
The garden behind the Whitechapel Inn

We awoke in each other's arms, both terrified. Valmont, because he feared that I was being attacked; I because I felt something wrong in the world, something beyond the long sleep and painful thirst and weakness. Some ripple of Power that was twisted and wrong. But under it all I could sense Nanshe's presence helping to set the dream-world right again. And Valmont and I had each other, and we were safe, and despite everything, that makes the waking world right.

And neither of us wanted to postpone the ceremony. We wanted - no, needed to continue. Needed to make some new beginning, needed to make life go on as it was supposed to.

And so, still shaky, we went to the abbey this morning at dawn.

Valmont said that I was the one guiding this part of our wedding solemnities, for I was the one closer to the gods. So I arranged the offerings for us to burn on Nanshe's altar: two little bundles, both the same. Not hair. Not incense. Not anything that would be in an Athenian wedding offering to the gods. We are making our own way, here.

So there are herbs from the garden that I planted and he cooks from. The first lilacs that Valmont gave me, and the lilies I gave him, both now dried into fragrant shadows of themselves. Splinters of wood from an empty keg for his profession; scraps of paper from an old book for mine. (Lydia offered me a book that was falling apart anyway; I would never have taken a page from a book otherwise! She gave us a gift, too: a lovely leather-bound and gilt-edged volume of Yeats.) And cotton candy - even though it made everything terribly sticky and I feared it would melt, I had to put cotton candy in there, for the memory of that first night that we soared above Excolo on the ferris wheel and felt as if we were flying. And because it made both of us laugh when I put it in, and we should begin our life together with laughter.

We smile as we light our offerings, and as we smell the fragrance as it floats up to the heavens.

Now, back in the garden behind the inn, I smile again as I wait to take my place next to Valmont and in front of Mab. I've found more lilacs for the bouquet, white and purple both, standing out against the shimmering deep blue fabric of my gown.

I have no parents to bring me to the altar, and neither does Valmont. We just have ourselves, and are giving ourselves to each other.

There they all are. Our friends - all of the people who have grown dear to us in the last year. Our Alice, looking lovely and more grown-up than ever. Mab, tall and serious. And Valmont, who looks so magnificent that my heart leaps at the sight.

I feel a nervous thrill run through me as I step out. Dear gods, I'm getting married! For an instant, I'm terrified, as I stare down that long aisle. But then I realize, why should I be afraid? At the end of the aisle is Valmont. I have nothing to fear as long as he is there.

At the end of my long journey, he was here waiting for me.

So I take a deep breath and step forward, towards my new life.

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Mar. 13th, 2011 03:58 pm
[identity profile] npc-excolo.livejournal.com
Time has little meaning here, though your body back home may disagree.

Dream.

A forest.

A forest of the oldest sort, thick with brambles, trees snarled with centuries of life. It stretches for miles, many of them very dark, because the trees grow so close that it is hard to see. From a high vantage point, on one of the hills of the forest, one may glimpse a tower at the heart of the forest, a great graceful column of grey stone. Here and there there are clearings, bright with sunlight, and streams running with clear water. But mostly there is dark.

In the distance, the howl of a wolf.

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(no subject)

Mar. 13th, 2011 03:58 pm
[identity profile] npc-excolo.livejournal.com
Time has little meaning here, though your body back home may disagree.

Dream.

A forest.

A forest of the oldest sort, thick with brambles, trees snarled with centuries of life. It stretches for miles, many of them very dark, because the trees grow so close that it is hard to see. From a high vantage point, on one of the hills of the forest, one may glimpse a tower at the heart of the forest, a great graceful column of grey stone. Here and there there are clearings, bright with sunlight, and streams running with clear water. But mostly there is dark.

In the distance, the howl of a wolf.

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in the gloaming

Feb. 14th, 2011 02:48 pm
[identity profile] goddessnanshe.livejournal.com
The thin hours before dawn, Tuesday 23 March

Excolo has been still these past weeks. Around the feast of Lupercalia there was a small ripple of unsettled dreams, dreams of desire and frustration and longing, but they passed. Some magic there, of a tainted sort, but a small kind, passing out of mind. But for all the quiet I think that something new has come to be. That Wanda has had her child I now know, infant glimpsed in dreams. The child herself has started dreaming. I have gazed into them, but not crossed the threshold. I do not yet know how much of her mind her father watches. Like most infants, her dreams are all noise and colour, no narrative - but there are things I glimpse in the dreams that no infant should know. Things of shadow and of light.

I create another crossroads, but this one is a room with staircases that will serve as paths. A rug lies in the centre of a tea room, and on the rug stands a table crowned with flowers. There are smaller tables nearby laid with napkins and silver, and I seat myself at one of them, pouring tea into a china cup. It is amber and smells of faraway. Perhaps someone will come and drink with me.

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in the gloaming

Feb. 14th, 2011 02:48 pm
[identity profile] goddessnanshe.livejournal.com
The thin hours before dawn, Tuesday 23 March

Excolo has been still these past weeks. Around the feast of Lupercalia there was a small ripple of unsettled dreams, dreams of desire and frustration and longing, but they passed. Some magic there, of a tainted sort, but a small kind, passing out of mind. But for all the quiet I think that something new has come to be. That Wanda has had her child I now know, infant glimpsed in dreams. The child herself has started dreaming. I have gazed into them, but not crossed the threshold. I do not yet know how much of her mind her father watches. Like most infants, her dreams are all noise and colour, no narrative - but there are things I glimpse in the dreams that no infant should know. Things of shadow and of light.

I create another crossroads, but this one is a room with staircases that will serve as paths. A rug lies in the centre of a tea room, and on the rug stands a table crowned with flowers. There are smaller tables nearby laid with napkins and silver, and I seat myself at one of them, pouring tea into a china cup. It is amber and smells of faraway. Perhaps someone will come and drink with me.

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