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
The fog sets in, swimming like eels, drifting like phantoms. It curls about trees, sighing itself between root and leaf. It is the breath of night and Tenebrae makes it stir as he drifts through its mist.
Shadows dance with the silver of mist, it blends until his magic and the strangeness of this woodland fog are one. All of the forest is silent, there is not a breeze to stir the trees or make the woodland boughs groan in their slumber.
Far below the Disciple moves, little more than a slip of the night, loosed upon the forest floor. Tenebrae’s eyes gleam moonlight bright as he looks into the fog that rises, rises and gathers like souls upon the shore of the Styx. He stops, as still as Charon, a sentinel, a guard in the deep of the black wood.
There is no fear in the face he tips up toward the sky. For what has a creature of shadows got to fear of the night? The Stallion looks for the moon, but the fog swallows her like his darkness swallows the sun. Ah, Tenebrae might have smiled, he might have laughed, if not for the cry that waves through the fog. It is joined by another and another until all the woodland is crying out with spirit voices.
Tenebrae listens to the howls and does not move. Oh how steady in his breast is his heart that beats, slow and steady. It is a waltz of blood and tissue. A dance that marks him alive, alive, alive. The living should not fear the dead.
But they do.
Tenebrae waits and listens as the forest cries out her haunting agony.
Tenebrae waits
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