[identity profile] lslaw.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] writing_shadows
Ezekiel has realised that the Bible describes the creation of Prometheans. It talks of Ezekiel in the desert and the Valley of the Dry Bones, where God breathes life into skeletons, clothes them in flesh and sends them out upon the world to be his chosen people.

Ezekiel takes this as a comfort. In the Dry Bones he sees the heat his own element and thus he knows that he and his are the inheritors of the legacy of the bones. Joseph's promise was only a reminder of a more ancient pledge; that the children of fire would be protected.

Apparently, he was a Loyalist, and no-one noticed. This strikes the Turk as damned sloppy work. He rather regrets now that he never did make good on his promise. He had been entirely prepared to, but Penny Dreadful had asked him not to. He doubts anyone would have begrudged him the destruction of Rhys if in the course of it he had uncovered his loyalist sympathies.

The Turk makes a mental note: In the event that any other needs to be destroyed to protect the Motley, it would be for the best to uncover some loyalist sympathies along the way.

James sat on the bed, waiting silently and patiently for the pain to pass. A part of him felt bad that there had been so much death and yet he only cared about one lost life. Was this, he wondered, a universal thing? Was it natural for a human being to be so selfish? Was it his unique failing to be able to overlook the murder of friends simply because one of those who died was dearer to him than the others?

Or was it simply that the one he loved the most was the one that he had killed?

Once, in his dreams, he was a broken thing; one man in three and nothing but a cat to draw them together. Now he stands tall, his uniform clean despite the mud around him. His flesh bears the same scars it does in waking life, but the chains no longer bind him and his head is not bowed in shame. Through the cloth of his tunic a light beats out, strong and bright.

Once, he feared to dream. Now, Gehenna faces the gate of horn, the gate of true dreams, and steps out into the skein.

He is not afraid.

Scent of fear, eyes fierce. Afraid, but strong. Feel her tremble; skin prickles.

Scent of her strong. Want is strong.

Kiss her, hold her. Lean to her and she leans back. Hand in her hair, twisting hard; teeth meet in flesh, draw blood, her blood. Tastes rich, sharp; iron bite on tongue. So close; more than flesh. Soft gasps and squirming flesh; pulls away, then back; accepting, then willing, then eager. So good; to touch, to taste, to feel one with her.

After, don't want to let go, but do. Let her shower, cook. Wonder if she'll leave.

She stays.

Despair is not the absence of hope. That would imply a negative quality, that despair is a thing that only exists as a lack of another thing. It's not that; it's a thing with a life of its own.

Despair is knowing that you will never be free of the black-robed harpies who control you. It does not wait for hope's absence to be felt, it stifles hope in its cradle and holds up the corpse to show you the futility.

I'm twenty-eight years old, and I still think Sister Maria will come for me one day. I always will.

The gnawing rage inside me feels unreal. Were it not for the bonds biting at my wrists, I'd think I was dreaming. As it is, the rage makes me fear I may be going insane.

It's not just a rage, it's a hunger; something deep, visceral and unnatural. It rides me like a rodeo bronco, twisting me to its dark, atavistic will despite my best efforts. It's all I can do to control it for her sake, but then again, sometimes I wonder if she's really here, chained to the wall opposite, or if I am going mad after all.

I can not truthfully say that this is something I saw coming.

The same could be said of many things. Werewolves, for example; I totally failed to predict that there would be werewolves in my life at any point. Likewise, I really didn't see Helen coming, or I would have got out of the way, and Isabelle...

At least not all surprises are bad.

But the real shock is not even that I have to spend one day a week in a cave, doing penance for a cthonic goddess.

It's just how beautiful it is down here in the dark.


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