The milk and moon and fragile rivers
Date: Tuesday, June 27
Time: Starry evening
Location: The Morsus mansion balcony
Character(s) Involved: Montague Morsus
Rating: R
Status: Complete
Atop the white poplars rustled the demons.
Their oscillation must have depended on hidden principles of demon geomancy - the rationality of their irrational existence in the black smokes of Muggle machines like a challenge to the way things were. Montague could hear them at nights - silent, mere shadows of what used to be, they sat there indifferent, emotionless. Their black robes billowed in the high winds, faces veiled with black chiffon.
Sometimes all trees in the alleyway were occupied. Sometimes, he could feel the chills running up and down his spine.
The sudden coldness would paralyze all his limbs, like electrocution - but, of course, he didn't know what electrocution was. Muggles, too, could be psychotic. (There was a Half-Blood Death Eater, once, who killed several families on bet, what was his name? What was it, what was it? He had a Roman nose and wore stylish suits, which couldn't hide the impurity of his blood, and so it stained all his pretty silks and brocades and velvets - until one day he shot himself. Like a fucking Muggle.)
It was the night when vessels of psychopomps went back to the riverhead.
Once he'd bought an old gramophone, Pathe „Modele B“ with the classic black horn - a connoisseur's dream; its elegance a reproach upon the very concept. He'd placed it upon a pedestal in the black room, where the heavy silken drapes clothed the frozen windows and the heady smell of mildewed silence clogged the mind. He put it there and never used it.
Elgar spoke of angst, despair and disillusionment that day - the sky was overcast, the leaden clouds barely rolling over on their ghastly stomachs. Mid-February, when geese were flying back north, and his hands were stained with blood - the cardinal of pomegranate, bursting into diamond seeds, as he stepped into the bath of red. In the third movement, the orchestra was Crucioed into an exultant crescendo - leaving the black cello alone, so utterly alone, so cold in the bathtub of seeds, so sharp and angled, their taste like palpable needles of her sarcasm.
And so there she lay - on the bed with satin sheets, her face - a pallid blue. His breaths, they echoed around the house, coming back all multiplied by thousands. She'd stopped her heart. There was a small smile on her lips - she must have thought, I bested you, I'm coming home, my love, come wait with me - between these worlds, how could I not? Chose yours, chose yours, come take and sleep with me. Again, again. But what about the one lying in the puddle of red?--
In the cold winter night, she was out in her night-gown, semi-transparent - he could make out the fine outlines of her slender body. He'd taken after her, of course. He was just staring at his own body, contemplating his reflection in the mirror - only softer, only gentler. Everything was white and dazzlingly so - was it how they told him afterwards? The dazzlingly white snow and the maiden copses waiting on an ephemeral touch that would destroy their illusory peace. The smokes of her breathing rose upwards in spirals, freezing down half-way through to heavens, where the Apostle (Who?) scowled at the heretical Wizards and sent them back, into their very own limbo - in between the three worlds (or how many spheres were there?) She pointed her fingers long and he heard the wind chimes from her throat and he had to concentrate to understand the unearthly speech - and her skin so very translucent.
There were poplars rocking - a branch (a sanguine silken ribbon hanging) going back and forth, blocking and unblocking that only star - his star (because what kids didn't have their own stars?), glimmering faintly. He said he was cold (Mother, Mother, I'm cold!), and his feet - they were cold, and his arms and his neck and his armpits, as they padded back, barefeet. His tooth was broken that day, when he tried out his broom for the first time, and his mouth was all bloody, and it dripped down on his dazzlingly white coat, and his hair was wet from sweating, the sticky curls sticking out from beneath his fur-cap - dazzlingly white too. He didn't like the taste of blood back then - but who liked? He still felt her tomb-cold hands gripping his own as they walked up the alley toward the mansion.
Of beauty and love and passion and hate, - but of treason, above all.
The dry petals of a black rose lay scattered around the marble staircase, the petals he gave her. They were bleeding too. He walked up toward the oaken door (it never screeched) and it let him in. He walked all quiet, quiet, afraid to wake the thousands-eyed angel. It had four thousand wings and four faces, a dazzlingly white suit, seated at the far end of the endless corridor - a cubic smirk. He padded softly, softly, and he placed his very heart in the hidden vault. It trembled, shocked (you need me, fool!), it's pulse, undone - a syncopated rhyme. "Shhhh," he said, and flowed his tears, blent with bile.
Don't ask - he doesn't know; the key faraway, unavailable, useless.
He thought he heard a faint-- "I love you," --but it was the wind chime fading into the perpetual night.
Time: Starry evening
Location: The Morsus mansion balcony
Character(s) Involved: Montague Morsus
Rating: R
Status: Complete
Atop the white poplars rustled the demons.
Their oscillation must have depended on hidden principles of demon geomancy - the rationality of their irrational existence in the black smokes of Muggle machines like a challenge to the way things were. Montague could hear them at nights - silent, mere shadows of what used to be, they sat there indifferent, emotionless. Their black robes billowed in the high winds, faces veiled with black chiffon.
Sometimes all trees in the alleyway were occupied. Sometimes, he could feel the chills running up and down his spine.
The sudden coldness would paralyze all his limbs, like electrocution - but, of course, he didn't know what electrocution was. Muggles, too, could be psychotic. (There was a Half-Blood Death Eater, once, who killed several families on bet, what was his name? What was it, what was it? He had a Roman nose and wore stylish suits, which couldn't hide the impurity of his blood, and so it stained all his pretty silks and brocades and velvets - until one day he shot himself. Like a fucking Muggle.)
It was the night when vessels of psychopomps went back to the riverhead.
Once he'd bought an old gramophone, Pathe „Modele B“ with the classic black horn - a connoisseur's dream; its elegance a reproach upon the very concept. He'd placed it upon a pedestal in the black room, where the heavy silken drapes clothed the frozen windows and the heady smell of mildewed silence clogged the mind. He put it there and never used it.
Elgar spoke of angst, despair and disillusionment that day - the sky was overcast, the leaden clouds barely rolling over on their ghastly stomachs. Mid-February, when geese were flying back north, and his hands were stained with blood - the cardinal of pomegranate, bursting into diamond seeds, as he stepped into the bath of red. In the third movement, the orchestra was Crucioed into an exultant crescendo - leaving the black cello alone, so utterly alone, so cold in the bathtub of seeds, so sharp and angled, their taste like palpable needles of her sarcasm.
And so there she lay - on the bed with satin sheets, her face - a pallid blue. His breaths, they echoed around the house, coming back all multiplied by thousands. She'd stopped her heart. There was a small smile on her lips - she must have thought, I bested you, I'm coming home, my love, come wait with me - between these worlds, how could I not? Chose yours, chose yours, come take and sleep with me. Again, again. But what about the one lying in the puddle of red?--
In the cold winter night, she was out in her night-gown, semi-transparent - he could make out the fine outlines of her slender body. He'd taken after her, of course. He was just staring at his own body, contemplating his reflection in the mirror - only softer, only gentler. Everything was white and dazzlingly so - was it how they told him afterwards? The dazzlingly white snow and the maiden copses waiting on an ephemeral touch that would destroy their illusory peace. The smokes of her breathing rose upwards in spirals, freezing down half-way through to heavens, where the Apostle (Who?) scowled at the heretical Wizards and sent them back, into their very own limbo - in between the three worlds (or how many spheres were there?) She pointed her fingers long and he heard the wind chimes from her throat and he had to concentrate to understand the unearthly speech - and her skin so very translucent.
There were poplars rocking - a branch (a sanguine silken ribbon hanging) going back and forth, blocking and unblocking that only star - his star (because what kids didn't have their own stars?), glimmering faintly. He said he was cold (Mother, Mother, I'm cold!), and his feet - they were cold, and his arms and his neck and his armpits, as they padded back, barefeet. His tooth was broken that day, when he tried out his broom for the first time, and his mouth was all bloody, and it dripped down on his dazzlingly white coat, and his hair was wet from sweating, the sticky curls sticking out from beneath his fur-cap - dazzlingly white too. He didn't like the taste of blood back then - but who liked? He still felt her tomb-cold hands gripping his own as they walked up the alley toward the mansion.
Of beauty and love and passion and hate, - but of treason, above all.
The dry petals of a black rose lay scattered around the marble staircase, the petals he gave her. They were bleeding too. He walked up toward the oaken door (it never screeched) and it let him in. He walked all quiet, quiet, afraid to wake the thousands-eyed angel. It had four thousand wings and four faces, a dazzlingly white suit, seated at the far end of the endless corridor - a cubic smirk. He padded softly, softly, and he placed his very heart in the hidden vault. It trembled, shocked (you need me, fool!), it's pulse, undone - a syncopated rhyme. "Shhhh," he said, and flowed his tears, blent with bile.
Don't ask - he doesn't know; the key faraway, unavailable, useless.
He thought he heard a faint-- "I love you," --but it was the wind chime fading into the perpetual night.