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 candles flicker in the breeze together. Their light dances warm and bright beneath black of the endless sky. Each lit candle was a soul, the flickering of its light a memory of the life once lived. Like a tattered film the memories play out in light across the bodies of those who pass by the place of remembrance. The Disciple wonders how many of those who pass by carry the grief of souls gone before them. He wonders how many keep their hearts whole - surely none were unblemished. Surely some were split open and still unhealed.
His darkness maps her and it is almost a shame. She is pale, the scars across her skin a mirror of those upon the face of the moon. If Tenebrae ever dared to, he might say she was lovely. He notes it and yet his tongue knows the weight of that dangerous sin and he speaks it not. The observation does not turn to ash within his mouth (like so many things seem to of late). Instead, the words sit weighty and bright, something beautiful, as preciosu as a stone to be mined. Maybe one day it would be, but for now there are parts of Tenebrae that are not to be explored. He buries such observations there and welcomes his shadows as they draw themselves across her skin - like night.
The girl is war ready, her scars sharpen the soft lines of her form. There is as much of her that is violent as is soft and penitential this night. She thinks of the dead, of those by her hand and those she has lost. Tenebrae meets her there, in the darker places of their souls. Yet it is here, in the darkest, deepest parts of them that they discover their souls are both frayed and broken.
The snow blows melancholy between them. White flakes snag in the tangles of his mane and hers. In hers they seem almost grey, tainted in the pale white of her hair. Was there nothing in life untainted? Tenebrae knows he is destined to be a sinner, yet no matter how many times he cleans his deeds from his flesh, his soul, the dirt only returns, thicker, darker.
The monk turns from where snow frames the dark of her lashes and looks up toward the sunless skies. “The Stallions Made to Swallow the Sun. Caligo made them, originally, during the dispute with the other gods. When that was over she set the Stallions loose and all their sons since carry her mark. We are born to serve Caligo. When she called us back I came to serve her.” The explanation feels rough upon his tongue, it feels shallow and without weight. He does his brothers no justice with such an explanation and he sighs, still gazing at the sky. “I am a Disciple of the Night Order, vowed to protect my goddess and Denocte.”
Slowly his white glow eyes lower from the sky, where far flung stars reach out on and on into eternity. He wonders what it might be like to be amidst them. Yet he looks down, down to where the wolf stands beside him, her eyes painted with the dark of his shadows. She is a silhouette of elegance but the darkness makes her scars ever more stark. He feels comfortable here, beside her. A smile draws across his lips as the warmth of his whiskey voice fades into the night, replaced by prayers and distant music. Tenebrae studies the delicate contours of her face where his shadows do not hide her. “It was good to meet you. Maybe we can meet again because I would like to know where were you from before, Castalla. I wonder if it was it a place so full of revelry as Denocte?” And about them the festival seems to come to life, as children rub by with sugar upon their fingers and cheeks, sky lanterns lighting the night sky and dancers dressed in finest silks as they swirl in a waltz.
Tenebrae smiles to her, before he turns, disappearing into the crowds, his shadows swallowing up the night. He knows that this will not be their last meeting.
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