all ur lite is belong to kavi
Kavi Chernevog, troubled Kavi Chernevog, rash Kavi Chernevog, is regretting his rash decision to frighten Pyetr Kochevikov by near-killing his English woman--when he was setting about it, when he was taking her strength from her slowly, it seemed to him a good plan, at least one that would damage Pyetr Ilitch and show him that he, Kavi Chernevog, had not forgiven him. Now, his temper a little cooling, he is fearing he may have acted too quickly.
He may have done something Pyetr Ilitch will never forgive him for. And Kavi Chernevog does not want that at all.
He walks through the Mansion slowly, pursuing the thought sorrowfully--he looks older to-day than he sometimes does, older in face and stature, sadder, wearier. Owl is nowhere near him; Owl has abandoned him.
As he walks, he thinks of Pyetr Ilitch, and then of Owl, Owl, who he has always loved. Owl used to carry his heart. Owl hates this place. And it seems to him, comes to him, from somewhere deep inside himself, in the same way that things sometimes come from the bottom of the river when the mud and dead leaves shift, that he could at least make Owl happy--he will have to work much harder than this to win back Pyetr Ilitch, but at least he can do something for Owl that Owl cannot do for itself, and as he walks, he slowly puts his hand to every light in the Mansion with a single gesture. He touches the light beside him, and every one goes out. Every one.
The bulbs are broken. The candles are extinguished. Fires die. Circuits unclose; wires snap; some lights just disappear entirely. The Mansion has been plunged into darkness.
And when he has done this, Kavi Chernevog leaves the building and goes to the gardens, and takes into himself the strength of the new, young plants, and slowly he begins to put out the sun, not unnaturally exactly--to bring the night sooner, and replace the sun with the moon.
It's not, God knows, irrevocable. Kavi himself is irrevocable, but none of this. It's only a spur of the moment thought: give Owl the night. Owl loves the night. But it'll wear off, or be taken off by someone with wiser magic than this, it's only a matter of time.
But for now? Everything, o, everything is dark.
He may have done something Pyetr Ilitch will never forgive him for. And Kavi Chernevog does not want that at all.
He walks through the Mansion slowly, pursuing the thought sorrowfully--he looks older to-day than he sometimes does, older in face and stature, sadder, wearier. Owl is nowhere near him; Owl has abandoned him.
As he walks, he thinks of Pyetr Ilitch, and then of Owl, Owl, who he has always loved. Owl used to carry his heart. Owl hates this place. And it seems to him, comes to him, from somewhere deep inside himself, in the same way that things sometimes come from the bottom of the river when the mud and dead leaves shift, that he could at least make Owl happy--he will have to work much harder than this to win back Pyetr Ilitch, but at least he can do something for Owl that Owl cannot do for itself, and as he walks, he slowly puts his hand to every light in the Mansion with a single gesture. He touches the light beside him, and every one goes out. Every one.
The bulbs are broken. The candles are extinguished. Fires die. Circuits unclose; wires snap; some lights just disappear entirely. The Mansion has been plunged into darkness.
And when he has done this, Kavi Chernevog leaves the building and goes to the gardens, and takes into himself the strength of the new, young plants, and slowly he begins to put out the sun, not unnaturally exactly--to bring the night sooner, and replace the sun with the moon.
It's not, God knows, irrevocable. Kavi himself is irrevocable, but none of this. It's only a spur of the moment thought: give Owl the night. Owl loves the night. But it'll wear off, or be taken off by someone with wiser magic than this, it's only a matter of time.
But for now? Everything, o, everything is dark.