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
It makes sense that the man who bears the stars upon his skin would know when they looked strange up in the sky.
As a worshipper of Night, Tenebrae might have felt some shame in not knowing the map of stars across the midnight sky. But it is not the stars he concerns himself with when he looks up, up. It is the deep dark between each sparkling star.
It is that darkness that breathes and groans and falls endlessly into nothingness that draws the Stallion in. Yet now, guided by Azrael, the monk looks not into darkness but light. He tracks the patterns of fake stars and sees how the island unveils her illusion. She unravels before him, the threads of untruth unspooling before him and Azrael is charming as his knowing fingers tug, tug at the threads.
Together their eyes falls from the night skies, just as Azrael’s ancestors once had. Tenebrae smiles. It made sense that the man who knows the stars and bears them upon his skin, was, indeed one once. Does his blood still burn with starfire? Is his soul made of stardust?
Slowly he breathes. Slowly his lungs ache with the weight of all those dead. But the conversation moves on and oh, what a respite it is. His shadows draw in, a cloak about his muscular shoulders. The island sighs with the monk, her illusion dashed, yet she keeps it up, like a mask that hides her terrible truths.
“I know the shed-stars.” Tenebrae muses softy. “It is no wonder you know how the stars lie here. Does your blood ever feel restless with its distance from the sky?”
The stars laugh as the monk watches them. They swirl as if the world is tilting, and maybe it was. For Tenebrae so much was changing, so much was unsettled. “Many are moving away from Caligo and the other gods,” The monk notes, with only a twinge of sadness. Guilt twinges in his gut for the resignation in his voice. Should he not be fighting harder? Should he not be preaching in the streets? Hypocrite. The word lances in his veins. How could he preach of Caligo when all his mind is filled questions and desires he should not have.
Tenebrae smiles as the man’s gaze turns to his sigil. There is nothing gentle in that smile. It is full of twisting shadows, sharp as an obsidian blade. “I am a Disciple of the Night Order. The half moons are the mark of the Order. It is what identifies us as monks, dedicated to the service of Caligo and Denocte.” Slowly Tenebrae trails off.
He illuminates Azrael in moonlight white as his gaze lifts. “Do you still believe in the gods, Azrael?’
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