T E N E B R A E
On my body, the grace of shadows
and in my heart: all Hells
and in my heart: all Hells
Pumpkins cackle with their jagged, candle-lit smiles as he passes them. Some hang from the gnarled arms of tall trees, others lie like lamps along the paths. The moon is slumbering in the sky, dark clouds broiling in as a storm gathers out at sea. A hallowing wind gusts its way through the markets, trembling candles and tugging at decorations. Upon it rain begins to fall, thin as drizzle, as soaking as the sea.
Tenebrae feels that cold kiss of rain, how the damp gathers along the contours of his spine, how it turns his silver skin as dark as smoke. If he were not lazy, if his fellow disciples were beside him, they might make a shelter of their shadow magic. Yet this night Tenebrae is alone and such magic is a far cry from him.
Yet the shadows are a part of him and they gather together, shrouding the warrior from the firelight. The darkness is keen as she swallows him in black, keeping him from the watches of the Night.
On and on the Night Order monk moves, until he gets to a sea of candles. A sea of firelight that reaches out across the cliffs and on into the sea that gleams purple-blue with its deep night hue. Ther Tenebrae stops and there his shadows recede. They fall away until they drape across his back like a cape. No more do they billow, no more do they fight back the light of the candles, but succumb to their illumination.
Tenebrae looks and wonders just how many souls are here, each lit by a small candle. They number the stars that scatter above their heads. They number the living who gather to remember them. A girl stands near and how he should not look - how he now knows better!
But he looks. He sees and he recognises how her body is toned. She is the light to his shadow. She is the press of ivory bone, strong and sculpted and unyielding. Upon her limbs two swords glint with steel smiles that cut the air with their sharp lines. Ah, real weapons are like stangers to him. Never had he needed a weapon of metal when all of his are shadow forged - black and savage and as sharp as his magic demands. His weapons are whatever he desires them to be and always are his shadows willing and obedient.
But never has he held a sword of steel. Never has he touched the sharp lines and the cold metal. The Disciple moves to her, his gaze upon the sword that sings from its place upon her slender limb. He begs to ask her with his deep-spirit voice. He longs to demand of her what a weapon like that feels like to weild. Yet he does not. He does not reach to run his lips along the metal, but stands beside her and asks instead, “Have you lit a candle for your dead?”
Never does he stop to think she might not grieve - for what warrior enters into battle and returns unblemished and unbroken by loss? Tenebrae could light a hundred lights and still it would never be enough.
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