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
Neither of them belong in the bustle of the Night Markets. But where the crowds part for him, yielding to the swallowing dark of his shadows, they push, pull and pluck at the winged girl who trails him.
If Tenebrae knew Euphrosyne was following him, he does not let it show. Still he moves with grace, even as awareness tip-toes up his spine like fingertips. He should be shivering at the touch of her unwavering gaze, yet it is she who quivers like a leaf clinging to the tip of a branch.
She draws level beside him and he turns to look at her. The girl is slim like a bird. Lamp light pours in caramel gold along the fine bones of her wings. He can taste sugar upon his tongue; a sweet smell that drifts through the air from bakers stalls selling fresh honey cakes. He wonders if the caramel light across the bones of her wings tastes as sweet.
The heart of Denocte beats before the duo. Her soul breathes around them, lit by firelight. But it is here, where the great stone statue of the crescent moon lies that all is bathed in moonlight. It turns the cobbled streets into a silver pool and in the deep light Euphrosyne and Tenebrae stand together.
The monk’s gaze is no longer upon Denocte. It rests, instead, upon the girl beside him. The hue of their skin is similar, though the Disciple is the cold of winter and she, warmer. She is lit by firelight, warmed by the sun. Yet they were still painted in hues of snow-white, silver and honey brown. The breeze sways, twines itself about her slender legs and between the delicate feathers along her wings. When it comes to him Tenebrae smells Terrastella upon her skin: the heat of the swamp, the rugged salt of the wind-swept cliffs, the wildflower fields. He thinks too of Elena, the girl of sun who would sooner dance barefoot upon the cliff-top edge. What is it, Tenebrae wonders, about the wild girls of Terrastella?
He blinks slow, slow. There is no rush, not in the silence that draws out between them. The silence that hears the echo of his prayers. Piety and joyful abandon meet and are hushed here, where Denocte’s heart glows, silver and moonstruck. His shadows reach for her (for they are always reaching), they press along the dark of her body, accenting the dark contours of her face. She looks up beneath pale lashes and the darkness gathers along her lips as moonlight illuminates her pale skin. Euphrosyne glows ivory white, as bright as his half-moon sigils upon his brow and shoulder. As bright as his eyes that glow star-white.
Do you feel lost too?
Frail, frail is her voice. As fragile as her wings and her body, made of air and light. Yet the wind does not snag her words, it does not pull them apart as one would think it might. The monk says nothing but continues to watch her, holding her in light and letting the silence fall between them. It is a veil that feels almost holy. Denocte holds her breath, but there is no tension. Ah the silence waits, it waits for the monk who bathes in the utter stillness and uses it to scour the sins of the day from his body, his soul.
“I do,” he confesses to her at last, watching the way her eyes blink, the way she trembles, trembles. “I am always lost.” Slow is the smile that tips up the corner of his lips, dark are the shadows that bloom there and reach for Euphrosyne’s own lips too. “But is that not part of living, to find yourself?” Then, lower, darker, more pained, “No matter what you might find?”
Silence again, deep and holy and limned in silver. Not once has he taken his eyes from her. Not when her wings are crying for the sky and the wind answers as it tugs at her feathers. He wonders if she might rival any god when she at lasts decides to make the sky her own.
“What do you fear,” The monk whispers, wonders, as he watches her, “when all of the sky is yours?”
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