Tempering the Steel
Rosa paces quietly back and forth in the garden, her eyes burning an odd, lambent blue, like a gas flame.
I am a creature of weakness, of indulgence. Thus I have been since before my Damnation. I have nurtured this in myself, thinking my sin and weakness to be the tools with which I was to serve God's purpose. But in these nights, such tools prove unwieldy, made of substance too soft to shape the stone-bound minds of both unbelievers and my own covenant-mates. Such tools are meant to mold the souls of mortals. Damned are made of sterner stuff.
She pauses, looking around her at the roses that hedge in the small circle of garden in which she kneels. Other than the thorny rows of greenery, with their heavy-headed buds waiting for summer's blessing, there is no shelter here. Perfect.
The tools with which I have served God for these past two centuries prove unworthy for the new task to which I bend myself. And thus, I must have new tools. Stronger tools, better tempered. Their substance cleansed of impurities. She glances up at the honey-touched sky in the east, and a faint smile curves her lips. Fire makes pure. As the sun crests the horizon and falls across her flawless skin, she drops to her knees and faces the dawn. Her voice comes in a tightly controlled whisper, though she cannot quite choke out every hint of pain:
"Dios Mio
Me paro antes usted, irredimible...."
I am a creature of weakness, of indulgence. Thus I have been since before my Damnation. I have nurtured this in myself, thinking my sin and weakness to be the tools with which I was to serve God's purpose. But in these nights, such tools prove unwieldy, made of substance too soft to shape the stone-bound minds of both unbelievers and my own covenant-mates. Such tools are meant to mold the souls of mortals. Damned are made of sterner stuff.
She pauses, looking around her at the roses that hedge in the small circle of garden in which she kneels. Other than the thorny rows of greenery, with their heavy-headed buds waiting for summer's blessing, there is no shelter here. Perfect.
The tools with which I have served God for these past two centuries prove unworthy for the new task to which I bend myself. And thus, I must have new tools. Stronger tools, better tempered. Their substance cleansed of impurities. She glances up at the honey-touched sky in the east, and a faint smile curves her lips. Fire makes pure. As the sun crests the horizon and falls across her flawless skin, she drops to her knees and faces the dawn. Her voice comes in a tightly controlled whisper, though she cannot quite choke out every hint of pain:
"Dios Mio
Me paro antes usted, irredimible...."