tenebrae
The work of the eyes is done.
Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
~Rilke
His magic ascends the stairs ahead of him, rising up each step slowly, slowly, waiting for its master who climbs slowly. He places each foot upon the next step only after pressing his toe to the edges of the stone, knowing where was safe to stand and where was not.
It is a long time before Tenebrae feels the rush of cool air sweeping down the spiral steps. He has heard the view is magnificent here, but it will be wasted upon his sightless eyes. Yet never once has the monk questioned whether his slow, laborious climb is worth it. He thinks it is, for up there, at the peak of the tower, he will hear words of awe, descriptions of her beauty of the flowers. He will hear Elena’s vision in reality.
Why does he come, when this is her festival? He knows he is not justified to be more furious with her than she with him. And none are more justified than Boudika. Instead the warrior monk longs to know the earth again, to hear of its beauty and imagine the sight that might meet the festival goers. The air is so full the scent of delicate tulips. Children cry out in awe, grown ups laugh, breathy, the sight stealing the air from their very lungs. Tenebrae stands amidst them, near the high wall over which keen onlookers gaze.
Tenebrae does not look out (what point is there?) but he listens and he knows the flowers are winter and spring and summer and autumn. They are a sea of colour painting the meadow more beautiful than ever before. He smiles, a quiet smile, small and happy, even through its deep sadness.
He listens for so long that in his mind the spectators create for him a masterpiece of beauty with their words. Of course it is a beautiful sight, it was made by Elena. He would not doubt it for a moment. It is why he has come, why he climbed with bruised knees and an aching, repentant heart.
He might have been content to leave then, he even turns to go, except that a woman speaks and says, Azrael. Tenebrae’s head moves toward her voice and hears the murmuring answer. “Azrael.” He says aloud, enough to draw the other man’s attention. Tenebrae’s smile becomes a stranger thing, a darker thing. It is no smile at all, but a cut of pain across the black eternity of his mouth. “I might have guessed you would be here.” The monk does not say he is pleased to meet him atop the tower, before Elena’s flowers.
