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
A monk is only a man.
There in the calm of Lyr’s eyes is a well, deep and terrible. Tenebrae gazes upon it and wonders what secrets lie there where the sun does not pierce. Oh what do you draw out when you lower your bucket into that crimson water, Lyr?
They are close, close where the crimson paint of Lyr’s intricate mask is a maze through which Tenebrae’s darkness wanders. There is an intimacy there - but they are in a religious place and all encounters here are intimate and bathed in the holy.
Lyr’s words seem to carry a double meaning. It seeks to cut to remind him that all men are sinners, weak against mortal pleasures. All monks are men and thus are sinners and fools by nature. Tenebrae lets a smile gleam in the corner of his eye, sharp as a pinprick, bright as a blade unleashed before the sun. “What else would we be?” The monk murmurs and the smile is gone from his eyes, lost to the sharp white of his gaze that follows each crimson ribbon of Lyr’s painted mask like a scalpel.
When the last of his words fall to silence, there is nothing but the pull and push of their breaths. The sigh and groan of the night as it keens between them. Denocte twists in tension, even as a part of her dances bright and alive. Something brews between the monk and the unholy. It is something ominous. It swells, it hums with chaos and violence. It is the song of a thousand wasps readying for flight.
Lyr is the moon cradled in the dark of Tenebrae’s shadows, of Caligo’s holy space. The moon speaks of not liking crowds and the Disciple blinks, slow, slow. “And so you chose to come here?” Non-believer Tenebrae does not label him but watches the shadows that loom in the dark of Lyr’s eyes. He holds that gaze and counts each shadow that dances - how many do you have Lyr… 1, 2, 5, 10 a dozen? A thousand?
Lyr of Terrastella is a cat prowling, waiting, waiting to strike. He baits like a hunter and Tenebrae plays the part he is cast. He is no deer, no fox, no lamb for the slaughter. The monk stands a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His skull tilts, curious. “Would it make a difference if I said no?” Already the monk knows it will likely not. Already he can feel how the air trembles between them.
“I have not.” The truth slips out soft as satin. “I was a savage orphan until Caligo summoned her Stallions back to herself.”
@Lyr
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