but you O daystar
[Out of Milliways: a war of wizardry begins, the battle joined, and lines must be drawn]
They have taken the Spear. They have taken the Spear (effing bastards get your tupping claws off of me you fucking rat bastards it’s not yours not the fucking hell yours, shite excuses for--) and he lands an elbow in a thorax, rages out with fists and feet and words because the Light, the Light is dying-
Eight, and Mickey-from-the-lane is pushing his head into the loo, water rising brackish and so very cold, his mouth’s open and he’s screaming, screaming-
Eleven, and the sound of his mum sobbing into the telephone, “It’s not right,” she cries, “It’s not-right, she’d never have-” and later she comes into his room, pulls the headphones down and away from his ears, hands sliding down the side of his face, “Auntie Nora-she’s-”
Fourteen, and he’s spiked his hair into a hedgehog maze, pack of fags banging about inside his jacket as he cycles down into Bray, the October wind pulling tears from his eyes and it’s not right, it isn’t, it isn’t-
Yes, he said unto the mountains, when the questions began unfurling in his mind, Yes, until Universe’s End and the Universe is ending now, isn’t it?
Ending, and the whole of Creation is silent, nothing in the Knowledge, none of the glad strength of the Champion, just a boy in a leather jacket with bleeding knuckles and the slow flower of aching bruises.
“All right,” he says then, “I don’t know about everybody else here, but I for one think it’s time somebody put some manners in you.”
And the Universe roars amused contempt back at him, the little boy, little useless boy with his head pushed down into the loo, pissed his trousers, he was so scared, not strong enough, too scared to use the Spear again-
“You’re right, I don’t,” and he straightens, a hand wrapped loosely around the shaft of the Spear. “But someone else does.”
Again, the laughter in the heart of the worlds for the little useless boy who wears the black and the leather as some sorry, pathetic camouflage against bombs in the Underground and tears cried to the darkness, against children with xylophone ribs and vacant eyes, against the slow, insidious creep of knowing that you are too weak, too powerless, unable to change it all, to become the Champion, Hod the Splendid, Messenger of Messengers, Winged Defender-
“If he tried to leave you, it’d kill you,” the Lone One sneers, the twist of his lips nothing less than an event horizon, point of no return. “And, being a Power of Light-” the words fall against Ronan like blows now “-he’d never take that chance.”
“No,” he says softly, shoulders squared and proud under the weight of a black leather jacket. “He wouldn’t.”
“So you see that for all your big words-”
Yes, Ronan says now, “I would!”
Yes, he says again, and the Spear flashes from his hand, star-steel forged in Power and wizardry.
Yes, as the Spear pivots in this fateful hour.
Yes, and he flings his arms defiantly wide, accepting the Spear, accepting this (those who serve the Powers themselves become the Powers fear for courage and death for life here at the Universe’s end)-
Blood and fire burns within him, aeons of wings and laughter that explode outwards and sear away everything else until Her, the Hesper-
“This- he says, the words each pains flaring in his heart as he speaks, eternity pressing up insistently against him. “This is your-made for you. Now you can-”
“Yes,” She says, and it is so very good. “My answer is your answer.”
Yes.
They have taken the Spear. They have taken the Spear (effing bastards get your tupping claws off of me you fucking rat bastards it’s not yours not the fucking hell yours, shite excuses for--) and he lands an elbow in a thorax, rages out with fists and feet and words because the Light, the Light is dying-
Eight, and Mickey-from-the-lane is pushing his head into the loo, water rising brackish and so very cold, his mouth’s open and he’s screaming, screaming-
Eleven, and the sound of his mum sobbing into the telephone, “It’s not right,” she cries, “It’s not-right, she’d never have-” and later she comes into his room, pulls the headphones down and away from his ears, hands sliding down the side of his face, “Auntie Nora-she’s-”
Fourteen, and he’s spiked his hair into a hedgehog maze, pack of fags banging about inside his jacket as he cycles down into Bray, the October wind pulling tears from his eyes and it’s not right, it isn’t, it isn’t-
Yes, he said unto the mountains, when the questions began unfurling in his mind, Yes, until Universe’s End and the Universe is ending now, isn’t it?
Ending, and the whole of Creation is silent, nothing in the Knowledge, none of the glad strength of the Champion, just a boy in a leather jacket with bleeding knuckles and the slow flower of aching bruises.
“All right,” he says then, “I don’t know about everybody else here, but I for one think it’s time somebody put some manners in you.”
And the Universe roars amused contempt back at him, the little boy, little useless boy with his head pushed down into the loo, pissed his trousers, he was so scared, not strong enough, too scared to use the Spear again-
“You’re right, I don’t,” and he straightens, a hand wrapped loosely around the shaft of the Spear. “But someone else does.”
Again, the laughter in the heart of the worlds for the little useless boy who wears the black and the leather as some sorry, pathetic camouflage against bombs in the Underground and tears cried to the darkness, against children with xylophone ribs and vacant eyes, against the slow, insidious creep of knowing that you are too weak, too powerless, unable to change it all, to become the Champion, Hod the Splendid, Messenger of Messengers, Winged Defender-
“If he tried to leave you, it’d kill you,” the Lone One sneers, the twist of his lips nothing less than an event horizon, point of no return. “And, being a Power of Light-” the words fall against Ronan like blows now “-he’d never take that chance.”
“No,” he says softly, shoulders squared and proud under the weight of a black leather jacket. “He wouldn’t.”
“So you see that for all your big words-”
Yes, Ronan says now, “I would!”
Yes, he says again, and the Spear flashes from his hand, star-steel forged in Power and wizardry.
Yes, as the Spear pivots in this fateful hour.
Yes, and he flings his arms defiantly wide, accepting the Spear, accepting this (those who serve the Powers themselves become the Powers fear for courage and death for life here at the Universe’s end)-
Blood and fire burns within him, aeons of wings and laughter that explode outwards and sear away everything else until Her, the Hesper-
“This- he says, the words each pains flaring in his heart as he speaks, eternity pressing up insistently against him. “This is your-made for you. Now you can-”
“Yes,” She says, and it is so very good. “My answer is your answer.”
Yes.