TM Challenge 194
--The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon.'>My brother is dead. Jesus, God, my brother is dead, and, I swear, I see no one mourning for him. They mourn--all around us, we in disgrace, for our crime of shared blood with him--for the man who killed him, the man who's fled his trial, to a damn castle called Joyous Garde.
Even little Gareth doesn't know who he weeps for, whether it's his golden hero or his dark, slain brother, lying in his blood. Agravain would call it a betrayal, but God knows we make allowances, allowances for our brothers.
Mordred is wounded, his arm bound against the sword's bite, and Gawain grieving, and I know there's no reparation to be made when a man calls his death down on himself so willingly, stands in the door and shouts for an unarmed man to fall to him and his companions, one against many. I know, but, God, the power of his anger is gone from us, and we have no one to contain. We're empty.
I know he'll be forgotten. Everything is forgotten. Hour by hour and I swear we don't remember what's true the day before, and I know my brother will be dead and lost as all the men before him. Some day they'll think there were only four brothers, when we're older and it's been done years past, when we're not empty of him any more, or we conceal it well.
Forgotten soon enough, it's the way of the world, I know, I swear, but my brother is dead, and my heart is sick, and perhaps if he could know he'd forgive me my sins.
God knows we make allowances--even when a man stands in the church and dares the Spirit to strike him.
Words: 292
Even little Gareth doesn't know who he weeps for, whether it's his golden hero or his dark, slain brother, lying in his blood. Agravain would call it a betrayal, but God knows we make allowances, allowances for our brothers.
Mordred is wounded, his arm bound against the sword's bite, and Gawain grieving, and I know there's no reparation to be made when a man calls his death down on himself so willingly, stands in the door and shouts for an unarmed man to fall to him and his companions, one against many. I know, but, God, the power of his anger is gone from us, and we have no one to contain. We're empty.
I know he'll be forgotten. Everything is forgotten. Hour by hour and I swear we don't remember what's true the day before, and I know my brother will be dead and lost as all the men before him. Some day they'll think there were only four brothers, when we're older and it's been done years past, when we're not empty of him any more, or we conceal it well.
Forgotten soon enough, it's the way of the world, I know, I swear, but my brother is dead, and my heart is sick, and perhaps if he could know he'd forgive me my sins.
God knows we make allowances--even when a man stands in the church and dares the Spirit to strike him.
Words: 292