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[oom] The Library
Sep. 1st, 2010 10:30 pmLondon, 1899
He stands at the window, watching the night's procession as the theatres give up their patrons to the brisk autumn night. The men in long black coats and the women wearing layers of wool and velvet and silk. Gloves and feathers and ribbons of perfume wafting up from the street, stirring his senses, urging him from his reverie. A flash of pale skin catches his eye. An elegant neck framed with hair the colour of copper.
Lucy.
No...
This one is more golden. He can hear her laughter ringing through the street, over the sound of the hansom cabs and the street hawkers. She is as bright as a ray of sunlight. He turns away from the window, assaulted with a sense memory. The smell of fresh milk, cold butter, cinnamon. His eyes press tight closed as he sinks into the waking dream.
He sees an angel of God, draped in flowing crimson, a sword of Light raised in her hand, an emissary of the Holy Spirit moving across the battlefield. She casts about, almost as if she is blind, but her sword cuts a swathe through her enemies, leaving a trail of blood and viscera and broken bodies behind her. He needs not breathe, but the vision still causes him to draw a lungful deep into his chest. She is radiant, a vision of fury and righteousness. Above all, she is beautiful, cloaked in Apollo's glory, untouched and untouchable.
The part of him that fought so desperately, that gave up his soul to save his country and his people, the part of him that loved God with every shred of his humanity -- that part of him swells with pride. He knows that he stands on the far side of that divide now, but in his day, even despising the Sultan with every breath in his body, he never dared not to respect the man who opposed him in battle. To be betrayed by God, one must Love with all the power of one's being. And a Love so strong does not diminish in the blink of an eye. It twists, certainly, burrowing deep, setting down roots to become the darkest of hatreds. But at its core, Love still burns bright.
Like the vision in his mind's eye. The angel turns and he feels the wash of her heat, feels the raw power searing over his skin. She looks so fragile, so lost, and for a moment, he meets that gaze. The dark power of his Will extends to touch her thoughts.
"Ad victoriam. Ad undas."
To victory. Or else, to Hell.
Somewhere in the house, a servant moves, tending to the fire in the grate. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. Such a vision as this portends well, he thinks. She will not go quietly, he knows. He's felt the sting of her wrath. And he confesses, he would miss her if she left. He does so enjoy the sound of her voice, and the hammering of her heart.
If he sees her again, she will be transmuted by the fire, washed in the blood, but whole in body, if not in spirit. As he retreats to his sanctuary for the day, he considers this simple fact: she will return victorious, or not at all.
Such is the way of War.
He stands at the window, watching the night's procession as the theatres give up their patrons to the brisk autumn night. The men in long black coats and the women wearing layers of wool and velvet and silk. Gloves and feathers and ribbons of perfume wafting up from the street, stirring his senses, urging him from his reverie. A flash of pale skin catches his eye. An elegant neck framed with hair the colour of copper.
Lucy.
No...
This one is more golden. He can hear her laughter ringing through the street, over the sound of the hansom cabs and the street hawkers. She is as bright as a ray of sunlight. He turns away from the window, assaulted with a sense memory. The smell of fresh milk, cold butter, cinnamon. His eyes press tight closed as he sinks into the waking dream.
He sees an angel of God, draped in flowing crimson, a sword of Light raised in her hand, an emissary of the Holy Spirit moving across the battlefield. She casts about, almost as if she is blind, but her sword cuts a swathe through her enemies, leaving a trail of blood and viscera and broken bodies behind her. He needs not breathe, but the vision still causes him to draw a lungful deep into his chest. She is radiant, a vision of fury and righteousness. Above all, she is beautiful, cloaked in Apollo's glory, untouched and untouchable.
The part of him that fought so desperately, that gave up his soul to save his country and his people, the part of him that loved God with every shred of his humanity -- that part of him swells with pride. He knows that he stands on the far side of that divide now, but in his day, even despising the Sultan with every breath in his body, he never dared not to respect the man who opposed him in battle. To be betrayed by God, one must Love with all the power of one's being. And a Love so strong does not diminish in the blink of an eye. It twists, certainly, burrowing deep, setting down roots to become the darkest of hatreds. But at its core, Love still burns bright.
Like the vision in his mind's eye. The angel turns and he feels the wash of her heat, feels the raw power searing over his skin. She looks so fragile, so lost, and for a moment, he meets that gaze. The dark power of his Will extends to touch her thoughts.
"Ad victoriam. Ad undas."
To victory. Or else, to Hell.
Somewhere in the house, a servant moves, tending to the fire in the grate. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. Such a vision as this portends well, he thinks. She will not go quietly, he knows. He's felt the sting of her wrath. And he confesses, he would miss her if she left. He does so enjoy the sound of her voice, and the hammering of her heart.
If he sees her again, she will be transmuted by the fire, washed in the blood, but whole in body, if not in spirit. As he retreats to his sanctuary for the day, he considers this simple fact: she will return victorious, or not at all.
Such is the way of War.
