Prophet 7

Feb. 24th, 2004 08:16 am
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[personal profile] needfire
Sorry to those who have been waiting for this, the next chapter is begun.
My love and thanks to Edi, my beta and compass in this world of writing. Thanks to those who have given me such support over the span of this fic, your words help me over the sticky parts.

Waking was ever confusing. The slide from journey into the real he found difficult, unsure if he was right or still dreaming. Waking from weeping worse; emotive tangles catching as web, clinging to the distortions of imagine and accepted. He could drift for skeins of lost time, trying to discern the difference between reality and dementia distortion, then slip even further, wondering who judged such things; why one path was more tendered than the others, what was right and wrong a pendulum swung on man's temperament and time. He had come to see that the only differences between heaven and hell were the accepted rules of play.

The comforting weight of Father's hand on his chest was his anchor; the breath of Their Boy in slumber, a compass. As he moved to rub the last of the mist from his eyes, he was careful not to lose the contact that kept him bound to the world he preferred. He had been shown many others, The Jewel lighting countless corridors; but from this place he knew life, even if much of it was derived from pain, and he would not be taken from it lightly.

Heavy with the lassitude of too much emotion wasted, reminded of the weighted weightlessness that comes in the after of orgasm, he was startled into flinching as Sire cupped his face to watch his eyes, as if the secrets there could be shared. The pain in Father’s gaze had him burrowing closer in shambled apology for the reaction.

He held tight and quiet, allowing Father the empty comfort of skin and bone, knowing that Sire still silently grieved the lost communication of blood. They still hummed when in the same orbit, but the sound was now more static than whisper.

He wondered if it be best he played Mrs Rochester, his adventures ever trailed tribulation. Sire growled in yellow glare that he carried no fault and punishment had been meted. Their Boy grumbled that dawn was the time for sleep, not introspection. In yawned mumble, he turned and reminded that it was hard enough getting trousers worn; he would not struggle with pantyhose, so Mrs Rochester would have to be set aside.

Confusion in movement, Father studied the sleeping warmth for long moments before returning to earlier position. Caressing his hair he smiled and, nuzzling close, in tones of great comfort told him not to listen to Their Boy. He had very nice legs. The sound of Their Boy giggling followed him into sleep of kinder dreams.


The awareness of empty space brought second waking; the sound of heartbeat and running water gave placement to Their Boy. His concern that Father had left for the mission without saying goodbye, as was routine, was smoothed into smiles as Sire appeared with breakfast and without shoes. Sire without shoes in the afternoon light meant that, for today, there would be no office.

They sat on the bed and ate from Their Boy's menu, Father mock scowling at the junk food and rolling his eyes at the cartoons, hiding his humour in well practiced deception.

He watched them from the shelter of Da’s arms, wash damp hair changing the shades of Sire's shirt. He knew they were safe. The walls were silent, if resentful, but the scent of broken skin was strong whenever Their Boy grinned and it made his heart hurt, and in truth he still mourned the loss of his crystals of sound and light.

Wind-chimes; another word that states what it is without hiding behind the complication of letters. He had been so happy when he found another to sit with the pop-corn and sea-shells in the shelf that was secure in his mind.

Da glanced at him and then, over protests Their Boy tried to articulate past mouthfuls of confection, called halt to the cartoons and pulled them from the bed.
He held tight to the hand leading him; there was an odd feel of unsurely in Father’s movements, so he followed using the strength of Sire's back as filter for what was to come.

When they reached the room of the rug and the many windows, he rested his head on the shoulder he spent such time crying upon, then pulled away and walked forward past the silence of Their Boy, and raised his eyes and arms in reverent appreciation of how well Father understood, in his own way.

The ceiling hung heavy with crystal stars, chiming and chattering, bouncing slivered rainbows around the room, caressing skin with stolen colours. Father stood in pretence of relaxed, hiding badly the need to have brought comfort, achieved recourse for the wrong, his kiss on teared cheeks. The little boy hiding in aged eyes, waiting to see if the answer was correct, shone for a moment in the grace of a man's smile.

He spun in the shimmers, laughing at the expression on Their Boy's face as he saw the giving in the heart of Father. He thought that if love were woven, the fabric would be as swaddling cloths binding them, warm and safe, in Father's arms.

He wished that Sire had set a less impossible task, for the quest to keep all harm and hurt from those you love is doomed to fail, and Father felt failure enough. The scent of Sire's regret was strong every time he looked upon the anger stains making obscenity of Their Boy's face.

Now the blood bruises were hidden by purer fall of colour, the light cleansing as it chased the dark reminders away and lending glow to the pallor of too much inside.


They played with the lights all day, using fans and sunlight to spin the glass into cloud shapes of their imaginings, and when the sun left, Sire brought out candles to delay the grief of endings and they watched the glimmers dance with borrowed shadow.

When new day rose, they sat engulfed in the apex of pink gold that left no burn, and he watched as Father and Their Boy remembered peace.

Outside, the leaves of autumn began their fall.
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February 2011

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