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
Shhh She breathes. Her voice is the soothing sound of a faraway sea to an ailing man’s ears. How had he ever come to be bound so inextricably to the sea? In Boudika’s soul, in Elena’s eyes. It was the sea that wounded him and it is the sea that heals him.
When he looks up, his star-bright eyes no longer blazing with light, but muted with fever. His gaze has dimmed to the hazy, soft glow of a young moon’s light. And maybe that is all Tenebrae is: young, weak, fleeting.
Mortality throbs meekly in his veins. His foolish deeds have brought him to such terrible illness. Death feels only a turn away, looming beyond the veil of existence that has grown so thin. He is not truly near death, no. But it comes close anyway, to remind him of all the ways he is not truly living.
The monk moved to press his forehead to Elena’s but she moves back, their brows untouched. He sighs and the sound is something like loss. Yet he smiles, for feverish delirium curls like a drug through his veins. That ailing smile is slow and lazy, as if all that fills his blood is alcohol, not poison from a festering wound.
Her eyes, chilled to ice with the cool of her concentration is like a balm across his too-hot skin. Can his salvation from his sickness be found in the frost of her gaze? He hopes. He does not take his hazy gaze from his healer’s.
But, as Elena was the one to refuse his touch before, so she is the one to break their gaze as she tells him to stay awake and that she will be back. The monk chuckles. It is a low and listless sound. Like gravel, like water rolling in the deep of the ocean. He knows what that sounds like now - ah, how his wound twinges at the memory. How his lungs remember what it was to strive and suffer.
He stops his laughter and takes a rasping breath. Darkness blooms in the space where her sun-light body once was. Tenebrae is still upon his knees and idly his feverish mind wonders if she has ascended - a divine creature sent down only to test the weak will of man.
The man sleeps. It is yet another example of how he fails to honour requests and expectations:
Pray daily.
Focus upon training.
Worship only Caligo.
Fill your life with serving Caligo and Denocte.
Do not concern yourself with material things.
Do not allow yourself to be distracted by relationships.
Caligo is your only relationship.
Stay awake.
He rouses from slumber as his blood, at last, runs clean. About his throat Elena winds a soft, white bandage. He cannot be trusted with such pure things - why white? He knows why, to see blood, of course. Yet he is unworthy all the same.
They are silent, for a moment. She sits back like the sun at the end of the day. He is warm like the earth, no longer chilled, no longer feverish. How long had she treated him? Did she know? Did he?
Weariness paints itself in dark lines along the contours of her face. Her soft lips are drawn down like a bow. The arrow of her accusation bruises him, the soft her voice little more than a blunt arrowhead. Yet it sobers him, it draws a heavy breath into his tired lungs. “I had hoped it would heal on its own,” The words are rough, coming from his too-dry mouth. It is a partial truth as all things seem to be that pass his lips now. His secrets are gathering, piling up behind his teeth, his tongue, his lips. He can only guard them so long.
“I should not be here.” Tenebrae’s long limbs feel as spindly as a foal’s when he stands, yet his muscles remember what it is to hold him and to fight. They lock, weaker and yet steadfast. “I should go.” He breathes in a low voice still coarse, still rough like sandpaper.
He does not leave then, but steps toward Elena who watches him with large, dark blue eyes. Her forelock covers one eye, the hair golden, sheer as a gossamer veil. His magic is already pressing his gratitude across her face. Without a smile he moves to brush the veil of hair from across her sky-blue gaze. The curve of his nose touches hers as he murmurs earnestly, “Thank you, Elena.” The monk presses a kiss of thanks to the soft of her cheek and is already retreating, turned away from her, when her next words come to him upon the breeze.
A life for a name, Denocte.
The words stop him. They press along his back and swoop to catch his plunging heart. Guilt blooms in bright, jagged flowers, poisonous and unwelcome, through his core. “You put too much of a price upon a name, Terrastella.” He thinks it might be easier if they forever call themselves thus: Terrastella and Denocte.
But he owes Elena. Already her name has a familiar place upon his tongue. Already he knows the shape of it, the sound of it.
Tenebrae is turning, walking back to her. Again his head lowers to meet hers. He stands, no longer feverish, no longer weak. Thanks to her care he stands dark and formidable over her, a warrior, not a young man, an orphan, discovering what it was to be held for the first time. “I have told you it is better that you do not know my name. It is for the same reason I came to you and why I never should have come to you.” Low, low is his voice, soft and quiet enough that only her ears could catch his words. Not even the trees and leaves can discern the words he breathes close, close to Elena’s ear.
“If I tell you my name, will you leave me alone, Elena? I promise I will leave you alone.” He dares to barter and realises how he is taking, taking, taking. Like she always takes, takes the distance between them. They both want too much.
Already the consequences of his proposed agreement sits cold along his skin. Imagining it feels sharp with a sense of loss. He is remembering what it was to be held and touched. He remembers then why it must be done. He wants too much.
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