Prophet

Mar. 19th, 2004 10:13 am
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[personal profile] needfire
Sorry for the long wait, here is part eight of Prophet, earlier parts in my memories. I'm as ever beholden to the kind intelligence of Edibbea and her beta work. Thanks go out to Sangpassionne who reced me recently. All those who are waiting for Spike Connor , it is coming along sorry for the wait.
In regards to my last post Jodyorjen is safe with her family. This fandom should be proud of how well it gathers to look after it's own.




Father insisted that they have another adventure when the bruises had died down. Jovial tones that spoke of horses and falls hid the scent tang of apprehension. He wondered if the horses were placid; he was sure he had ridden once, but couldn’t pull solid memory from the abstract.

Their Boy stated firmly that the only horses he was approaching would be in the engine of a nice, sturdy car. The thought of horses so small had him frowning as he watched Father sigh and stalk to The Office.

He was less inclined to the outside this time. It seemed that his wants brought disaster to those tending to him and he found the cocoon of Father's rooms perfectly suited to his needs.

Their Boy watched him for a time, then declared that hiding shoes would only delay the inevitable unless, of course, they wanted to hide Father's shoes. Their Boy thought that would be an interesting way to spend the morning. He agreed, though for different reasons; if Sire had no shoes he would have to stay home until they were found.
Hide and seek was a game he loved, if only for the joy in the being found.

He liked the car. Watching the world from the safety of moving witch glass reminded him of the time in the jewel. He passed through, unknown and un-noticed, an observer who only had to reach out past the burning to touch and engage.

He realised that each person was their own jewel, hiding in the shifting crystal of skin and eye, choosing the level at which to reach and meld with others. He remembered Da telling him of the universes that sat in the heart of every being, the possibilities of action and redemption that every child born created with each exiguos decision.
For a second he could see them, futures and pasts spiralling around those he watched in nebulous strings of hope and despair. The revelation frightened him, for he wondered how his decisions moulded the dreams of innocents. Looking away, he caught sight of his hands and, dropping inside, he saw them as huge, holding in every pore a world dead from his previous touch. Twisting from these flashes of imagine-soaked memory, glimmers found him floundering and rebounding in the streams of thoughts and possibilities that opportunity and the gone before had birthed in the caverns of his mind. Claustrophobic, he worried that he would be taken piece by piece by these differing strings. He wondered, if he scratched and tore the confines of skin and bone until he was free, would he understand like he did after the burning, when the jewel's voice was clearest.

Their Boy kept asking him to look at him. He thought Their Boy may have been speaking for a while, the passage of time riding in on the realization that the car had stopped and Their Boy was holding his hands tight.

He thought that Their Boy sounded so far away because his breathing was echoing in an otherwise empty chest. He wondered if perhaps he and Father only heard things better because they didn’t have the noise of life to distract them. Their Boy wanted to know what was wrong, but in the telling he could see that Their Boy only understood a little of each thought. In the end, when the words panted out in jabberwocky clumps fell into meaningless knots of incomprehensible construction, Their Boy smiled and, pulling him to rest, bade him hush. Listening to the regularity of Their Boy's heart, he closed his eyes and let false breath mimic the thudding that grounded him to this world and its natural passing of time like no other.

Their Boy, in strange soft tone, told him that he had discovered that constantly looking over your shoulder at what was done would only leave you tripping on the next step. Shaking him a little, Their Boy smiled that that was why Father was always falling over his own two feet, shoes hidden or worn.

In the silence of the car, he knew that what had disturbed him the most was not what he had done, but what could come whether he took the cup or let it pass.

When he was composed to the satisfaction of his companion, Their Boy decided to forfeit the shopping, instead driving to the water. They sat, listening to the shushing of waves filtered through the cradle of car and radio, eating ice cream from a nearby store.

The arrival of the ice cream cheered him. Another honest word to add to his shelf; the fact that it was food more the better. He wondered what the ice cream and popcorn would be like if paired. Their Boy grinned that, with the appropriate sauce, it was a marriage made in heaven.

He ruminated on his shelf words. Each of the items so far were clear descriptions of natural elements that had been changed by heat or water to create their current form. He wondered if he should have had new names after each burning. He wondered if the other words that had him so confused were perhaps meant to; then he worried that, if other things had more honest titles, and these items he so favoured were granted names that were not so clear, he would like them less. He found himself growing concerned that there were things he might be disregarding which were more deserving of his favour, and that by trickery of title were being lost to his sight. This lead him to the worry of words and he found himself beginning to fall into the trap of circular thought; of who made words, words and why they had only some words that were clear in the describing and others of no perceivable connection to the items they were paired with. Most frustrating of all was the niggling knowing that, at one time, he would have known the answers to all his own questions.

Their Boy studied him, wondering what had set him into such an odd temper today. Then he grinned and asked why he wasn’t worried about more important things, like what colour Father's face would be when he found he had shoes in the freezer, and what kind of demon it was that had created infomercials.

Listening to Their Boy he found himself smiling, and the odd bands in his head loosened the hold that made his skull feel too small for thought. Their Boy had clever fingers that were deft in their loosening of the knots in his stomach, and hands that, like Sire's, were much larger than his own. He returned to watching the water and felt safe that he would not be dropped.

On the way home, when dark and summons from concerned Sire pulled them from their contemplation, he could see Their Boy, in side ways frowning glance and aborted breath, struggling with moments of thought. Finally, just as the tower of home came into sight, Their Boy frowned and, in whispered sigh of uncomfortable promises made, told him that the title of tomorrow’s day was Halloween.
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