tenebrae
let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final
And the woman you fell for? What happened to her?
Tenebrae looks out, over the jagged silver faces of the mirrored rocks, out to where the sea cuts herself upon the beach and falls away in rivulets of salt-water blood.
What happened to her?
“She belongs to the sea,” Tenebrae says and knows the weight of such a truth. He knows nothing of whether there is a chance of love for them, if forgiveness can ever work its way into their relationship again. Yet he knows the sea is nothing he can fight, she is it and it is she.
The monk does not know how close the silver woman came to death. He does not know how she lay, broken, upon the steppe and healed with a scar across her cheek, rich in gold. Slowly he lifts up his chin and watches her. She has spoken economically, never a word more than needed. Now she pauses, disjointed, quiet and careful. The Disciple listens and wonders how memories can be stolen.
Ah, it is a naive thought from a man still young and foolish. In this world of strange and cruel magic, it should be no surprise to him that memories can be stolen as readily as pearls from a pocket. He tilts his head and studies her as she watches him, “If your memories were stolen, how do you know they were ever there to begin with?”
Tenebrae lowers his face to the mirrors, the different worlds and the stories they tell, “If you know that memories were stolen, a memory of the person must remain.”Why do you think you will never see them again?”
