Archivists: Please do, just email me and tell me where it is going
Disclaimer: Joss, David and family own everything. I own nothing and am just showing my gratitude for the creation.
The sun sets across the ocean's waters, fading, falling, sinking. With a hand on her face, she watches, closes her eyes, remembers.
The colors of night darken the sky like a nocturnal blossom, budding, opening, rising. She closes her hands over her shoulders, cupping herself in embrace, recalls. That first moment. Of moon fall drifting over her skin when he came to her. Encumbered and pained. His shoulders heavy with guilt, pulled down with gravity. Words jumbled, broke, failed him. Yet she saw every definition, every passion, every sin he confessed.
The western wind cleanses the air, whispering, professing, revealing. She turns to peer at the slumberer, his eyes fluttering, his lips parting, his soul lifting. Unblemished, unburdened, he lies within the cradle of her care. For just the moment, the dusk of twilight, he is at peace. But the memories call, to hunt him, to haunt him, to terrify him. She knows, she's witnessed it before and the thoughts cause her to gasp in sympathy and in horror. For he came to her, his seer, his last wish to confide. Only she could absolve him of his transgressions, only she could bathe his soul and clean him.
In hushed tones to mimic the very breath of the wind, he opens to her, disclosing, declaring, divulging. His hands shape the air as he speaks as if he might paint the pictures of his past plight before her. He is no instrument of the divine, but something less, something godless. Something to be despised and hated. Not cared for and loved. He explained these things as if to explain the concept of death to a child. There is no right or wrong to it, it just exists.
The purples of night dissolve to black, darkening, obscuring, diminishing. And she curls her legs as she sits next to him, observing the first flicker of consciousness flutter over his face. In those memories, she had not let him falter. But caught him and saved him from his fall from grace. He struggled from her, not deserving in his self-flagellation of compassion, understanding, empathy. His abandonment of her would be complete if he left her, if he refused her. Relenting, he stood there in the archway of the balcony before the sun rose. His form inked out the crystal of the city, the sparkle, the life. Yet she saw only him, felt only his presence. Knew for the first time her place.
Beaten, broken, shattered, he presented himself to her and she accepted. She closed the distance between them. Forgave him of his leaving. Forgave him of his thoughtlessness. Instead she touched him, hand to cheek. Soothed the trembling, the loathing. In the last glimmer of moonlight, she looked upon his face and told him. Her words were whispered so no other could hear. The veil of deception had clothed her as well. She'd hidden under its folds and cover for too long. The pain she experienced from his departure came from the realization. Of love.
He wakes, hand to his eyes, tumbling from sleep. She slides into the safety of his arms. And it feels sacred, secure, right.
Feedback is much appreciated on this little piece....just a surrealistic vision.
| Fiction Index | Home Page | Back |