tenebrae
let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final
The bells are ringing. Tenebrae hears their chiming even from up in the mountains. Word had been spreading like wild fire. Little whispers like licks of flame. No matter how much truth they carried, the words were incendiary. Talk rose like consuming fire. It was fitting, then, that Morrighan should be at the heart of it.
A new queen. He hears it first from a nurse in the infirmary of the monastery. He hears it out on the road (for upon such news, the first thing Tenebrae sought to do was to find Morrighan). A passing trader whispers to a farmer as they exchange goods. They gossip at how Antiope has left, how Morrighan has ascended.
At once the monk slows. It is a blessing that he need rush no more, than Morrighan is not compromised but elevated. Yet Tenebrae does not turn back for the Night Order barracks either. He steps, slowly, carefully, with the hesitancy, the hither and thither of a moth. His shadows skip ahead of him, solid. If there is one blessing since his Blinding, it is that the monk knows his shadow magic even better. He feels them, senses them like an instinct deep within him. They influence him like his tongue influences him to drink, like his skin warns him of heat.
With his shadow communication sharper, the monk moves faster. Soon, the monk hears the pealing of bells. They echo, rippling, loud and demanding. Their summons echoes across the plains, the lake and the meadows. All around them citizens of Denocte are gathering. It seems like only yesterday Tenebrae pledged himself to Antiope. He barely knew her, but he knows Morrighan, he knows her anxieties, he has confided his own in her. The monk already understands that this time will be different. Morrighan is different to him than Antiope.
Tenebrae slowly follows the tide of horses that weave through the cobbled streets of the city. They meander until then, Morrighan is there, newly ascended. A smile slips across his lips, he cannot see her, but her words ring out, louder, clearer even than the bells. In silence he listens and wonders how she might look stood before the crowd. His shadows tremble, but the monk does not understand the strange way they make him feel. His ears twitch, listening to voices that whisper their thoughts, some fearful of the new queen, others curious yet others excited. The monk is confident in their new queen, his pledge will be an easy one to make. He will always be a servant of Denocte, it is only more of a delight to serve beneath Morrighan.
When Morrighan has finished, her speech fair, Tenebrae moves slowly through the crowd, already Azrael is there. The crowd parts for the blindfolded monk and his shadows that crawl before him, testing his path, learning his surroundings, pressing them like instinct upon his skin. Tenebrae stops when he feels his shadows do so. He is at the edge of the crowd - already Azrael is there. So much unease sits between them, yet Tenebrae lets it wash from his skin like rain. This is not the time and oh, he is so wearied with arguing.
Slowly the monk lowers himself upon a knee. His nape arches, muzzle dipping low with his genuflection. “Long live the Queen!” The monk says louder, a smile curling along his lips. “You will do well, your Majesty and I will serve you and Denocte, loyally and with dedication, in any way you will have me. I give Denocte, her people and her goddess, my life.”
