Post by Quill on Nov 25, 2011 0:54:57 GMT -5
Her farewell was not beautiful. It was not tender, or soft, or delicate, or heartbreaking. It was nothing. It did not exist. She never got to speak to him before his final sermon, delivered with his dying breath.
She was forced to her knees, in shackles of her own, unable to see him in his last moments, but able to hear, able to imagine. What her eyes did not see her mind created for her, his strange, mutant, beautiful blood spilled so carelessly, his cuffs struggling to stay bright while competing with the righteous fury in his eyes and in his voice.
In her mind, she imagines the good-bye she could never tell him. She reached out and brushes his cheek, wipes away the blood that becomes the frightened tears on the face of the boy, her boy. She takes him into her arms and quiets him, whispering assurances to the boy and praises to the man. But there are no tears now, she knows without seeing. He has no need to cry, he is not afraid anymore. And somehow, his frightening rage soothes her. He did not die quietly. He did not die a whimpering, deluded fool. He died believing what he preached, in his followers, in his mother and lover and friend.
And as the woman in blue takes her away from him, as she catches the girl in green escaping with his last memento, she smiles. Through jade tears she smiles, and gives him a wordless final farewell.
Good night, my son.
She was forced to her knees, in shackles of her own, unable to see him in his last moments, but able to hear, able to imagine. What her eyes did not see her mind created for her, his strange, mutant, beautiful blood spilled so carelessly, his cuffs struggling to stay bright while competing with the righteous fury in his eyes and in his voice.
In her mind, she imagines the good-bye she could never tell him. She reached out and brushes his cheek, wipes away the blood that becomes the frightened tears on the face of the boy, her boy. She takes him into her arms and quiets him, whispering assurances to the boy and praises to the man. But there are no tears now, she knows without seeing. He has no need to cry, he is not afraid anymore. And somehow, his frightening rage soothes her. He did not die quietly. He did not die a whimpering, deluded fool. He died believing what he preached, in his followers, in his mother and lover and friend.
And as the woman in blue takes her away from him, as she catches the girl in green escaping with his last memento, she smiles. Through jade tears she smiles, and gives him a wordless final farewell.
Good night, my son.
