#03 - Ends - Angels Short
#03 - Ends
It was the last dance. It was the last three-step waltz to end all things. The world had come, had spun up out of nothing. The world had lived, fresh and lovely and dark and ugly and horrific and wonderful all at once. The world had died, as for all things there is a time and place where they too must go to ground. It was the last three step dance. Birth, life, and death. It was the only three step dance left. Creation, being, apocalypse; Genesis-to-Revelation. It was the last three step dance, and they had finished the quadrille.
She stood barefoot in the snow-white ash, her hair a loose spill of mahogany to the backs of her knees, pearls still laced through it, half a hundred indigo ribbons a stain against the bone-white corpse of the world, and she was the powdery peace of Mercy in Repose. All things meant to come to pass had come to pass; they lived in the best of all possible worlds.
It was done, this thing they had made with their hands. The time had come. The time had passed, and in passing could not come again.
The trumpet had been hers: the last mercy offered to a dying star, a clarion call across the endless night -- taps played for the hollow carcass of a world, dead as dust and ash.
In sudore vultus tui vesceris pane donec revertaris in terram de qua sumptus es quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris.
She looked over her shoulder, looked at Him, as He stood, cinnamon dark hair half coming out of His braid, His eyes closed, His arms folded, the last winds whipping around them both, picking up the loose trail of His jacket and spreading it like a drab banner. It was like some strange kind of hunting marker, a flag planted for claimed territory.
This land is mine, for I have killed it. The Gospel of Jibreel. Thanks be to God.
They would have made a pretty picture, had anyone been left to paint it. She was dove white, swan cygnet, two sets of elliptical wings folded behind her, one set crowning her head, a wash of white and a rain of indigo, her baton dripping pearls from her hand where it hung, idle and useless. He was oil black, drab, a shining starling rainbow mess in the light from her burn, bent chrome and the very edges of His leading feathers charred from folding her up while Ragnarok rained.
"Is our hour together ended then?" she asked curiously, leaving rounded hollows in the fine powder as she circled Him, basking in the dying glow of the final burn, "I think my vows said 'until the last star falls.' The stars have fallen now, El Elyon. Are we done with one another?"
He turned His head to follow her as she circled, opening His eyes the barest fraction to look at her, spaniel black through His lashes, "They said 'until the last star falls,' Columba," he raised one hand idly to gesture past her. She turned to look and saw her son -- saw the Unnamed -- his ascension already burned out around him, standing with his arms folded behind his back and looking at the only thing that marred the fields of ash -- a little bit of green. Azrael laughed very softly, "There is one star still left. You and I will never be done with one another, Jibreel."
The time had come. The time had passed, and in passing laid the path so that all could be walked again.
He did not turn his head again to follow her, only extended one hand behind Him to beckon. She came as if called -- no bells to ring on an invisible collar, but pearls enough fallen to mark her path. His hands were at her back, tugging all those ribbons loose, and then very unashamedly pulling at the bell of her skirt even as she cursed repeatedly in several languages over the sheer number of His belts.
"I don't suppose people are meant to make love ascended, te Deum," she observed lightly as He took her down into the ash.
"I don't suppose," He said as they burned out the last high, the final spark forever burned into their corneas -- Roche lobe; supernova; flare and collapse. "That I care."
And it was beautiful, the last waltz. Three steps to a fourth. Birth, life, death, reincarnation. Creation, being, apocalypse, covenenant.
"Dum spiro, spero, Azrael. El Elyon. El Shaddai. Dominum Deum amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis."
"Pace," He said.
And she was.
*
Notes: I could think of nothing else that would suit #03 as well. Whew. I think I need to take a short vacation from doing these so they don't all start turning retarded and crappy.
It was the last dance. It was the last three-step waltz to end all things. The world had come, had spun up out of nothing. The world had lived, fresh and lovely and dark and ugly and horrific and wonderful all at once. The world had died, as for all things there is a time and place where they too must go to ground. It was the last three step dance. Birth, life, and death. It was the only three step dance left. Creation, being, apocalypse; Genesis-to-Revelation. It was the last three step dance, and they had finished the quadrille.
She stood barefoot in the snow-white ash, her hair a loose spill of mahogany to the backs of her knees, pearls still laced through it, half a hundred indigo ribbons a stain against the bone-white corpse of the world, and she was the powdery peace of Mercy in Repose. All things meant to come to pass had come to pass; they lived in the best of all possible worlds.
It was done, this thing they had made with their hands. The time had come. The time had passed, and in passing could not come again.
The trumpet had been hers: the last mercy offered to a dying star, a clarion call across the endless night -- taps played for the hollow carcass of a world, dead as dust and ash.
In sudore vultus tui vesceris pane donec revertaris in terram de qua sumptus es quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris.
She looked over her shoulder, looked at Him, as He stood, cinnamon dark hair half coming out of His braid, His eyes closed, His arms folded, the last winds whipping around them both, picking up the loose trail of His jacket and spreading it like a drab banner. It was like some strange kind of hunting marker, a flag planted for claimed territory.
This land is mine, for I have killed it. The Gospel of Jibreel. Thanks be to God.
They would have made a pretty picture, had anyone been left to paint it. She was dove white, swan cygnet, two sets of elliptical wings folded behind her, one set crowning her head, a wash of white and a rain of indigo, her baton dripping pearls from her hand where it hung, idle and useless. He was oil black, drab, a shining starling rainbow mess in the light from her burn, bent chrome and the very edges of His leading feathers charred from folding her up while Ragnarok rained.
"Is our hour together ended then?" she asked curiously, leaving rounded hollows in the fine powder as she circled Him, basking in the dying glow of the final burn, "I think my vows said 'until the last star falls.' The stars have fallen now, El Elyon. Are we done with one another?"
He turned His head to follow her as she circled, opening His eyes the barest fraction to look at her, spaniel black through His lashes, "They said 'until the last star falls,' Columba," he raised one hand idly to gesture past her. She turned to look and saw her son -- saw the Unnamed -- his ascension already burned out around him, standing with his arms folded behind his back and looking at the only thing that marred the fields of ash -- a little bit of green. Azrael laughed very softly, "There is one star still left. You and I will never be done with one another, Jibreel."
The time had come. The time had passed, and in passing laid the path so that all could be walked again.
He did not turn his head again to follow her, only extended one hand behind Him to beckon. She came as if called -- no bells to ring on an invisible collar, but pearls enough fallen to mark her path. His hands were at her back, tugging all those ribbons loose, and then very unashamedly pulling at the bell of her skirt even as she cursed repeatedly in several languages over the sheer number of His belts.
"I don't suppose people are meant to make love ascended, te Deum," she observed lightly as He took her down into the ash.
"I don't suppose," He said as they burned out the last high, the final spark forever burned into their corneas -- Roche lobe; supernova; flare and collapse. "That I care."
And it was beautiful, the last waltz. Three steps to a fourth. Birth, life, death, reincarnation. Creation, being, apocalypse, covenenant.
"Dum spiro, spero, Azrael. El Elyon. El Shaddai. Dominum Deum amo te super omnia ex tota anima mea, ex toto corde meo, ex totis viribus meis."
"Pace," He said.
And she was.
*
Notes: I could think of nothing else that would suit #03 as well. Whew. I think I need to take a short vacation from doing these so they don't all start turning retarded and crappy.