Enamored with the night – her fortune's splendor embellishes the runes inscribed on the opaque walls of the temple; they are words, or tomes, or an otherworld gibberish none can fathom – but as he eyes the constellation he finds little familiarity. They are pricks in the quartz, here and there dimples that connect in odd and uncertain forms and shapes that collect and loosen and shimmer ambiguously winking from between the shifting shadow and strains of marbling. Their encryption is one he is not certain he is even meant to decode – but he strains, o, it is another conquest he seeks desperately in the dark. And he thinks - (though he wants to know, he aches for it) that he spots a few glimmering twins to the etchings, but he isn't sure all is for naught, and everything seems to change with every cloud that mists over the glow of the moon.
For long he remains suspended in awe and study, his gaze pressed tight to the cut stone. And whether he imagines or falls in with truth in his findings, he suspects that their relation to the skies above is still betrothed to a heavy mystery, one a foreigner cannot be expected to understand.
His eyes stray, and fall upon the altars placed in the corridors. And perhaps, how he thirsts for the possibility, this is his lock and key for understanding. But those shelves are empty – except for what nature has provided, the coagulation of dust and shed leaves and whatever manner of insects that scurry about beneath – and he can only assume what their nature may be. By recollection, his tribe had honored few gods, but were keen to celebrate the faces of nature – and their sacrifices were few but thoughtful, all things of value that a god could ever ask for. And what is it that a god truly wants? He assumes their power can only come from their patrons, fueling their pleasure with the utmost veneration of squabbling armies and murmuring scholars. So is it blood, then? Blood, and blind adoration, and the pact only a soul can make when kneeling before the lifeless stone. These things could not sit on those shelves. But blood, he could provide.
During the wild passages of his mind, he had heard the faint change in the breeze behind him, and so an ear swung in its direction before she spoke. He turns, and for a moment he remembers that his mind cannot grasp for his prized dagger at his side, nor reach for an arrow from a lost quiver. But he himself is fangs and claws and a desperate need to survive, all things sharp and gnarled and feral. And it is in his eyes, and it in his teeth, and it is in his blood, as he turns to face her. His chin raises and the moonlight traces over his austere features – it pools against the sharp cheekbone, slips across his square jaw and the angles of his nose. But they do not reach for his eyes, no, they do not dare. Those speculate and calculate, their bright gold slivers peering from a vat of black, penetrative and cold. For a moment he drinks her in, all curves and brightness and a softness he does not know. But she has not come to harm him.
She speaks again, and he recalls her only vaguely from the halls of the Night Court. All faces are a blur, and names are lost on him. But he secures her in his mind now. “Erasmus," he breathes like a spell, and it slips from his tongue like a whisper as the shadows quiver. As he stands beside the starlit stone, his reflection in it is dark and looming, a pool of misting shadow interrupted by strains of gold that are found amicably by the hungry mirror. They too share their wealth with him, and between them it is uncertain where one strand begins and another ends. “I came across it some nights ago, on my way north. But it was occupied." And I lack patience for the living. His words do not reflect this impatience, and they are not even empty or disillusioned – they are full, and echo softly from the dark that slips between the cracks and crevices, curious and pliant. “I want to know what it is." As if she could provide answers – he could tell she was older than he, but not for the lack of looks. The way she moved, spoke, he allowed his assumptions to wander over how long she had lived in the Night Court. And he hoped that she had more answers than he did.
For long he remains suspended in awe and study, his gaze pressed tight to the cut stone. And whether he imagines or falls in with truth in his findings, he suspects that their relation to the skies above is still betrothed to a heavy mystery, one a foreigner cannot be expected to understand.
His eyes stray, and fall upon the altars placed in the corridors. And perhaps, how he thirsts for the possibility, this is his lock and key for understanding. But those shelves are empty – except for what nature has provided, the coagulation of dust and shed leaves and whatever manner of insects that scurry about beneath – and he can only assume what their nature may be. By recollection, his tribe had honored few gods, but were keen to celebrate the faces of nature – and their sacrifices were few but thoughtful, all things of value that a god could ever ask for. And what is it that a god truly wants? He assumes their power can only come from their patrons, fueling their pleasure with the utmost veneration of squabbling armies and murmuring scholars. So is it blood, then? Blood, and blind adoration, and the pact only a soul can make when kneeling before the lifeless stone. These things could not sit on those shelves. But blood, he could provide.
During the wild passages of his mind, he had heard the faint change in the breeze behind him, and so an ear swung in its direction before she spoke. He turns, and for a moment he remembers that his mind cannot grasp for his prized dagger at his side, nor reach for an arrow from a lost quiver. But he himself is fangs and claws and a desperate need to survive, all things sharp and gnarled and feral. And it is in his eyes, and it in his teeth, and it is in his blood, as he turns to face her. His chin raises and the moonlight traces over his austere features – it pools against the sharp cheekbone, slips across his square jaw and the angles of his nose. But they do not reach for his eyes, no, they do not dare. Those speculate and calculate, their bright gold slivers peering from a vat of black, penetrative and cold. For a moment he drinks her in, all curves and brightness and a softness he does not know. But she has not come to harm him.
She speaks again, and he recalls her only vaguely from the halls of the Night Court. All faces are a blur, and names are lost on him. But he secures her in his mind now. “Erasmus," he breathes like a spell, and it slips from his tongue like a whisper as the shadows quiver. As he stands beside the starlit stone, his reflection in it is dark and looming, a pool of misting shadow interrupted by strains of gold that are found amicably by the hungry mirror. They too share their wealth with him, and between them it is uncertain where one strand begins and another ends. “I came across it some nights ago, on my way north. But it was occupied." And I lack patience for the living. His words do not reflect this impatience, and they are not even empty or disillusioned – they are full, and echo softly from the dark that slips between the cracks and crevices, curious and pliant. “I want to know what it is." As if she could provide answers – he could tell she was older than he, but not for the lack of looks. The way she moved, spoke, he allowed his assumptions to wander over how long she had lived in the Night Court. And he hoped that she had more answers than he did.
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