[Incomplete]
Who: Gemma (
sorcerously) and Thylas (
thylas).
When: Today, near dusk.
Where: Near the forest.
Rating: PG. Subject to change.
Warnings: Raaaaain.
Summary: Gemma wanders, and just so happens to run into the not-so-new deity. Questions result.
“Stand in the rain with me, Gemma.”
“I hate the rain.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
How long ago had that been? Months, for sure. Back in the days when their love had just blossomed, when she trusted him unconditionally. Before she had found out he was a double agent, before the seed of doubt had been planted firmly in her mind and heart. Those had been happy times, and she longed desperately to return to them.
But this was Hell, and so she could not. There was no changing that, even though both Medea and Asclepius were now dead. How odd that was to think-the gods were dead. She had not known it was possible to kill a god. Greek and Roman legends had implied such things, but there had never been reason to believe any of it had been true. They were just myths-had been, at any rate. With everything she had seen already, she should not have been surprised.
“Please, it will be fun.”
“I’ll get all wet.”
The storm had been raging for at least five days. The river had flooded; she had almost been forced to move. But a quick burst of magic, and a fallen tree prevented the rising waters from coming closer than twenty meters to her home. She had been rather pleased with herself, harboring her magic for something worthwhile in this place. Other things seemed so trivial now; sewing a tear in her gown, lighting candles and dusting. But in a time such as this, she felt needed, important. If she wanted, she could likely stop the river from overflowing at all.
But she knew she would not, because she knew better. The new god - Thylas was his name - she was not sure what to make of him. From the gossip she had heard (because it seemed that London was not the only city whose national pastime was hearsay), he was harsh, and relentless in his ambition to make the inhabitants of Purgatorium actually repent.
Had she not been subjected to it as well, she would have wished him well: ‘There you are, old chap. Give those sinners the old one-two.’ But, as it was, she had been thrown into the same basket as the rest of them, but she knew better than to complain. She did, after all, deserve to be here.
“This isn’t so bad. Why do you hate the rain?”
“It rained the day Mother died.”
The memory alone was more of a slap than the bitter downpour against her face. Her dress had long since been soaked through, the green cotton folds of fabric sticking rather uncomfortably to her body. Curves that had surfaced only in the recent months were blatantly visible with the aid of the thin cloth, but she could not have cared less. The water falling from the heavens seemed cleansing; metaphorically washing away her sins even though she knew that was not possible. Her hands had been stained with blood, and she was aware that they would always be that way.
Usually lively curls clung to her face and neck in limp crimson coils, soaked to a darker burgundy than natural. Her breath, when she could see it through the deluge, came in small white puffs. It was nearly summertime here, she knew, and it reminded her vividly of monsoon season in Bombay. The markets would close and the peasant women would gather their wares until the surges of water would recede. As she walked down the deserted path that ran alongside her beloved forest, she wished more than anything that she could be back in her homeland-not the dreary English moors, but the colorful Indian jungles.
sorcerously) and Thylas (
thylas).
When: Today, near dusk.
Where: Near the forest.
Rating: PG. Subject to change.
Warnings: Raaaaain.
Summary: Gemma wanders, and just so happens to run into the not-so-new deity. Questions result.
“Stand in the rain with me, Gemma.”
“I hate the rain.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
How long ago had that been? Months, for sure. Back in the days when their love had just blossomed, when she trusted him unconditionally. Before she had found out he was a double agent, before the seed of doubt had been planted firmly in her mind and heart. Those had been happy times, and she longed desperately to return to them.
But this was Hell, and so she could not. There was no changing that, even though both Medea and Asclepius were now dead. How odd that was to think-the gods were dead. She had not known it was possible to kill a god. Greek and Roman legends had implied such things, but there had never been reason to believe any of it had been true. They were just myths-had been, at any rate. With everything she had seen already, she should not have been surprised.
“Please, it will be fun.”
“I’ll get all wet.”
The storm had been raging for at least five days. The river had flooded; she had almost been forced to move. But a quick burst of magic, and a fallen tree prevented the rising waters from coming closer than twenty meters to her home. She had been rather pleased with herself, harboring her magic for something worthwhile in this place. Other things seemed so trivial now; sewing a tear in her gown, lighting candles and dusting. But in a time such as this, she felt needed, important. If she wanted, she could likely stop the river from overflowing at all.
But she knew she would not, because she knew better. The new god - Thylas was his name - she was not sure what to make of him. From the gossip she had heard (because it seemed that London was not the only city whose national pastime was hearsay), he was harsh, and relentless in his ambition to make the inhabitants of Purgatorium actually repent.
Had she not been subjected to it as well, she would have wished him well: ‘There you are, old chap. Give those sinners the old one-two.’ But, as it was, she had been thrown into the same basket as the rest of them, but she knew better than to complain. She did, after all, deserve to be here.
“This isn’t so bad. Why do you hate the rain?”
“It rained the day Mother died.”
The memory alone was more of a slap than the bitter downpour against her face. Her dress had long since been soaked through, the green cotton folds of fabric sticking rather uncomfortably to her body. Curves that had surfaced only in the recent months were blatantly visible with the aid of the thin cloth, but she could not have cared less. The water falling from the heavens seemed cleansing; metaphorically washing away her sins even though she knew that was not possible. Her hands had been stained with blood, and she was aware that they would always be that way.
Usually lively curls clung to her face and neck in limp crimson coils, soaked to a darker burgundy than natural. Her breath, when she could see it through the deluge, came in small white puffs. It was nearly summertime here, she knew, and it reminded her vividly of monsoon season in Bombay. The markets would close and the peasant women would gather their wares until the surges of water would recede. As she walked down the deserted path that ran alongside her beloved forest, she wished more than anything that she could be back in her homeland-not the dreary English moors, but the colorful Indian jungles.