T
enebrae moves through the city slowly. He began his journey well before the time Moira’s letter said they should meet. His path is circuitous, taking him past the parts of the city that have always stolen his breath - the poorest parts (so that he might never lose focus of those he fights for), the most beautiful parts (so that he can always see the beauty of his city in his memories) and the parts so filled with love that he remembers the sight within his heart for years to come.The monk does not rush himself. He lingers in these places of pain and joy and love and beauty. He lets the impact of them wound him and save him. By the time he reaches the fringe of the city, he is filled to aching. Tenebrae is overjoyed and yet so full of pain.
Even when spotting Moira increases only his love and his appreciation for all he can see, he does not let it cloud the bruises he feels for his city’s pain. Tenebrae has sought to remember all these things, even as the day of his Blinding slips closer and closer.
He does not know that she already expects him to be blind. If he did he hopes the sight of him with eyes still unbound will be a comfort for her.
The monk moves into the light of her, into the glow of gold that her magic casts. He presses his brow into her shoulder and drinks in the scent of his closest friend. For a moment he does not move, but basks in their friendship. Her scent is familiar to him now, it is honeysuckle sweet and smoky like incense. “Thank you, for everything Mo,” The man breathes into her warm, familiar skin.
So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction.
