tenebrae
The work of the eyes is done.
Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
~Rilke
As Tenebrae stands, a man changed upon the parapet of the Dusk Court tower, he does not know how secrets are kept from him behind Azrael’s tongue and teeth. Secrets that will irrevocably change him ever more. Maybe it is a blessing then, that his hurt and ire abate like a monsoon running dry. Maybe he is a storm lacking energy, flickering low into nothingness.
Or.
Maybe… Maybe he merely does not know the depths of his energy. That the things he has done, the punishments he has born, have not tapped deeply enough within him to know how deep his reserves run. But those secrets will. He will know it when they come. They will arrive upon him like acid rain, chased by a tsunami of drowning grief.
Tenbrae does not know how the truth begs itself to be spoken, where it presses against Azrael’s conscience. Instead the men let themselves be filled upon the qualities of their daughter; belonging to one by blood and mystery and the other by love. Maybe Tenebrae could also be bound to his daughter by love, if only he knew her.
The monk feasts upon the tidbits Azrael feeds him about Elena’s daughter. He does not listen as a father would, filled with pride or love. He listens as a shamed monk and a man who wonders what might have been, if the child was his.
“She sounds like you and Elena,” The Disciple says with a small smile, absent of any insincerity. “I have never known anyone with a soul as old as yours, Azrael.” Tenebrae thinks he should hide his hurt better but his trying is a futile thing. Already he has begun to reflect upon how easy it would be to merely succumb to the rapids of his feelings, let them carry him where they may.
But that way lies danger. He knows. He has experienced similar before.
And then Azrael describes Elena’s creation and the night’s sky. Even as his brother’s words paint a beautiful portrait, Tenebrae cannot help but see condescension in the tone of the shed-star’s voice. Forgiveness, freedom of jealousy, Tenebrae realises, is not so easily achieved.
I am sorry too
It is the final straw and the monk breaks like metal corroded by too many, nameless emotions. “I am blind, not a child, Azrael. You can save your condescending tone for Elliana.” As Tenebrae turns away from the other stallion’s voice, he cannot help how it feels like slashing a knife through the beautiful picture his friend created of the night.
