04-01-2023, 05:41 PM
KENSLEY
Here is what coaxed him out of the darkness: storms call to storms, thunderheads beget thunderheads. There is lightning skipping across the surface of her and thunder shuddering through his bones and he has lived long enough as the storm to know what it means and yet it remains a mystery to him.
He still does not know how to live as nothing at all.
(He had been whole once. And then he had lived as a dead thing. And then, for a blessed year, he had been restored. Until.
Until?
The son had been born made of shadow, but that had been so many years before.
There had been absolutely no explanation for why he had woken up one morning to find that he himself had been reduced to vapor, fog.)
Finally, he smiles.
Smiles and turns those black, black eyes (they had been blue once, blue and kind and steady) out over the ever-changing world and kind of nods, contemplative.
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” he asks, shifting his focus back to her face. “All the ways things can change?” He asks it as if they are old friends and perhaps they are, kindred spirits at least, relics as they are.
The Chamber has risen, he’s heard. He wonders if he might find Ana there, but he is too afraid to go looking. Perhaps the two of them are more alike than they realize.
“My name is Kensley,” he says. “It’s strange to be so impossibly old.”
He still does not know how to live as nothing at all.
(He had been whole once. And then he had lived as a dead thing. And then, for a blessed year, he had been restored. Until.
Until?
The son had been born made of shadow, but that had been so many years before.
There had been absolutely no explanation for why he had woken up one morning to find that he himself had been reduced to vapor, fog.)
Finally, he smiles.
Smiles and turns those black, black eyes (they had been blue once, blue and kind and steady) out over the ever-changing world and kind of nods, contemplative.
“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” he asks, shifting his focus back to her face. “All the ways things can change?” He asks it as if they are old friends and perhaps they are, kindred spirits at least, relics as they are.
The Chamber has risen, he’s heard. He wonders if he might find Ana there, but he is too afraid to go looking. Perhaps the two of them are more alike than they realize.
“My name is Kensley,” he says. “It’s strange to be so impossibly old.”
I WORSHIPPED AT THE ALTAR OF LOSING EVERYTHING )