tenebrae
let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final
Would it change Morrighan’s opinion of him to know that, he had killed? Serving Caligo, defending Denocte, it all came with the understanding that violence brought death. Tenebrae was a warrior monk, of course they wished to avoid death, but they were trained for it all the same. What he was not trained for, was love beyond that of his goddess. What he was unprepared for was a love that seemed to sink so deep into his bones and soul that it seemed to surpass even death. Tenebrae thinks, then, that love might have been the most dangerous thing of all. The sins he had committed in the name of love…
When he tells her of his transgressions, the firelight across Morrighan’s face reveals how her face smooths. How there seems to be… what? Humour? It lingers there and Tenebrae gazes, he cannot help but think how she should look liek that more - even though her humour is not what he wants, what he needs.
But that look is gone as fast as it comes. The monk blinks slowly and their gazes part. Morrighan looks upon the statue of Caligo and Tenebrae does no longer. He cannot bring himself to. Especially not when Morrighan speaks of love and her daughter. Her words reach in to him, draw out some truth. The monk still does not know what it was that passed between Elena and he. It felt like love, like ruining, excruciating desire. He made foolish mistakes for it. Ones he will pay for for the rest of his existence. Blindness, loneliness, loss…
Then Morrighan speaks of her daughter. Maeve. Tenebrae smiles, the curve of his lips feels lighter, a balm when he thinks of the little phoenix girl. How she feared the magic Morrighan wove, but also how much she loved her too. He never questioned it would not be returned, such deep love that would bring Morrighan to put nothing else before her daughter… “I have met her, Maeve,” he says lightly. The Disciple looks up to his friend (for he cannot think of Morrighan as any less now), “She is a testament to your love and care. A delightful little girl.”
And he thinks of Elena and her daughter. The daughter he feared once was his. It was a blessing she was not (no monk should have a child, no father should spend an eternity unable to see his daughter). He was relieved the little girl was not his but… But it hurt to know she wasn’t all the same. That even whilst he was with Elena, loving Boudika, Elena was doing the same in turn, her second love, a deeper love with another man. Their child… Tenebrae thinks of how Morrighan spoke of her child, how close he once thought he was to that. Then, the shame of realising how much he might have wanted a daughter.
Forget them.
Tenebrae turns to Morrighan and laughs lightly, despairing. “How, Morrighan? She is in my heart, my bones, my skin. She has changed my body for her and I… I am shattering within for my want of her and I cannot look at myself without being reminded of her.” But maybe that would be easier soon, when his sight is gone, when he never has to look upon his body again and see the scars of her teeth as his throat. But he will never stop feeling them, where she kissed him, held him, touched him as they danced.
“You say forget her like it is easy.” The monk whispers. “Tell me how. How did you survive Maeve's other mother?” He groans, breaking like a ship over the rocks of his love.
