(This story is about my house knight Charlemont (Julien), who resides at @house-mercaiges. For the ease of organization for @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast, however, I will be posting this here to my main blog and simply reblogging it to Char’s, where it belongs.)
There is nothing to forgive, she whispered, petal-pale lips brushing ghostly and chill over my warm skin. Oh, if only it were true. Such a thing, such a lie, if there were only a sliver of truth inside it I would lose myself, cling to the shard of hope that somehow, some way, perhaps I was not guilty.
Lightning flashed outside, silent and blinding. For half a heartbeat the room went white and frozen. A sulfur and tin still life snapshot. Flowers wilted, dust gathered, and my voice died on my lips.
You could not have known, she insisted, and the world sank back into saturnine darkness. The lift of the light come crumbling into ash. I did know, you see, long had I overheard the secrets of the woods, hummed along to the warning hymn I knew from childhood.
Thunder bubbled up from malms away, low and hungry, and swelled into a devouring, starving thing. Yes, devour me, I thought, me and all around me. This house, its very foundation, the woods themselves. As if I could invoke such power. As if thunder had such strength. It is in silence, rather, the gentle quietude of the star-dark and glowing beams of the sun, that power lies. In the whisper of her voice.
Oh, that voice. Reader, know that even in death, even in phantasm, her voice was honeyed wine, sweet and quickening to my very soul. It haunted and inflamed me; the ache in my bones, the ache in my blood, the ache in my heart and between my legs drew me all at once in a rush back to her face. Diaphanous and pale. Spectral. Beautiful.
No, I would not be forgiven for not saving her. Not in this life. Only in the bittersweet falling asleep.
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