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
He felt her magic before he saw her. He felt the way Arma mountains sang with her desperate sorrow.
As a mountain crumbling Moira falls apart as she climbs up the mountain path. All of Denocte trembles at her crumbling. All of Denocte feels the shadow of her grief.
So it is no surprise that Tenebrae stands at the end of the path and watches as she ascends. The clouds grow crimson and gold, heralding her climb. Her magic is her torch. It is shards of light that pierce his shadows like arrows. His magic remembers hers. It still feels the wounds of their last meeting, as if she is still there, dark eyed with anguished, hot like rage. The memory is so clear, the imaginary wounds so unhealed that the mountain feels suddenly holy, so like the temple that ill-fated night.
Moira made a rebel out of him that night. He left his station and let her weep before the listening walls of Caligo’s empty temple. He was punished, as any warrior who abandoned his station should be. But it was worth it.
Not that it has helped. She returns again, does she not?
Tenebrae is waiting for her as she rounds a bend. He is the black to her light. Instantly his magic vies to consume hers, to pull from her every ray of light she conjures. But he refrains. He has learnt patience since last they met. He has learned she is broken and even more so now.
“Moira.” He says in darkness and night. That voice is low, low, knowing, knowing what her ire is like, knowing that she cannot break forever.
“You cannot keep let yourself break any more.” He says and it should be a mockery, coming from a monk. But his business is in the souls of Denocte. He knows when they are shattering, when they need stitching back together. “It must end.” He says and there is no leniency in his voice. Sombre is the Disciple as he watches her. Ready is his magic, for he knows how this girl rages, he knows how in her sorrow her magic is a wild thing.
His shadows gather, silently, silently. Her rage will be a beautiful thing and he is ready, again.
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