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
The moon hangs large and pregnant within her sky. She bends low, low towards the earth where the lake gleams like a mirror, reflecting her face back at her. The mountains that gather around frame the lake in shadow and mystery.
The waters do not stir, they lie so still that all seems like glass and little more. Across her surface that great lake paints the sky above and she lies and dreams and wonders.
Tenebrae thinks of the lady of the lake. Wonders what she does in the cold bottom of her watery home. Is it light down there? Does she banish the darkness with the glory of her light? Does she glow like the moon with a dress that dances in the water?
Ah, The Lady of the Lake. The Disciple smiles for always has he been enchanted by stories. Always has he listened as they are whispered secretly, written down openly and carved into tree and stone and painted upon flesh. So many ways to tell a story and every word enchants him. Maybe even his own is a fearful tale upon the tongue. His story is sharp and full of blood and yet full of darkness so complete and suns that taste as sweet as dawn’s first dew.
Tenebrae stands within his shawl of darkness. He does not need his magic this night, not when he is stood beneath the bough of a tree that leans out over that too-still water. It is a full silhouette within the night and her boughs are thick and laden with leaves of startling crimson and gold. But in the dark they are all black or sprayed ethereal silver. They let no light down to the monk below and Tenebrae stands in black as dark as pitch.
One cannot know the thoughts that pass through the quiet of his mind. None can say what secrets Tenebrae holds there. The only creature that might ever come close to knowing him, truly, is Caligo herself and she had been absent for so very long. Deeply Tenebrae breathes, in and in and in until all his lungs are filled with midnight and starlight. Slowly he turns his gaze to behold a girl who steps down into the lake.
She makes for him a story as she walks like a goddess into the sea so much more than just a girl into a lake. Her bones are fine, her legs slim. He looks to her and might never imagine her questionable deeds. Except he already marks her dangerous. Like all girls are dangerous.
Looking leads to touching… They said. But already Tenebrae is condemned. He has already touched. He confessed his sins and rose up clean but slipped and slipped and slipped until Moira. Until he saw the emptiness of her and knew that love was never for him, that he was strong and able and he would never let himself succumb to flesh.
Oh he yearns for a story on this night when he has been set free. He looks to the moon and knows he has but an hour. An hour until he will be on his knees again, confessing his sins out. So what harm is there in sinning now?
The darkness does not try to hold him. She does not whisper warnings in his ears nor press her hands to his chest and to his shoulders to say stop… stop! No, she lets him pass and does not even sigh nor ripple like a lake. She parts like the sea for him, falling away and leaving only the parts of him that shroud him in shadow armour.
The water is cool as he steps in like a man determined to drown. It reaches up his legs his knees and its wet grasp gropes for his chest and shoulders. It wants him. It wants to steal his sins from his tongue and fill him up with cold. He looks to the girl he draws up beside. He looks to where she looks and wonders what the lake will give her. Will the Lady bear up her sword for this girl?
They break the glass of the water together. It turns to liquid and dances in ripples about them. Upon her brow a diamond glows white and bright and as yearning as the half-moon sigil upon his. He moves before her, because she has already stopped. He holds her in his gaze and does not know whether it is the sharp hold of a warrior or that of a boy made soft with words of fantasy and dreams of tall tales.
He holds her all the same and murmurs like a man with whiskey on his tongue, “What are you running from?” For Tenebrae knows that none come here when Night is at her fullest for any other reason but to escape. Yet Manon has not escaped, not when she is ensnared in the white light of a Disciple’s too-bright eyes.
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