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Tales from the Wishing Well: In Extremis (Concluding)
Here concludes the first installment of Tales from the Wishing Well. If you've missed what's happening here, see this post for an explanation. If you've missed Part I of "In Extremis", you can read it here.
Read, enjoy, tip if you're moved, and comments are welcome!
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In Extremis
Part II
by Deborah J. Brannon
I have played the penitent before, mounted the ladder, wended the long way to Heaven on the heels of the Malakhim. Angels make climbing look effortless, but we earthbound demonkin grow fond of bodies with muscles that bunch and strain and skins that run with effort.
Thus limp and winded, I have thrown myself upon the mercies of my celestial counterparts, begging to be made new. Must I serve, only, and receive no surcease? Could not the tool of absolution be herself briefly absolved? The black eyes of my brothers and sisters have gazed at me, bowed and trembling with blood-stained hands and feet. Their gaze has swept over my taught skin, sallow by their own sacred glow. Their hands have twitched toward my ravaged wings, feathers tattered and torn through the passion of my calling and finally, with pitiless compassion, they have made me new.
Yet they would never let me speak: my words crowded behind my teeth, stymied by their holy hands that bid my words not profane such a sacred place. Though their hands were gentle and cleansed my skin, clearing away the sweat and blood; though their breath was refreshing, summoning new feathers from my beleaguered wings; though they clothed me in glorious raiment, they denied me further speech. So I learned that Abaddon's eyes could grow wet as rain-washed rust and still she-- I-- could not cry.
( Continue reading... )
Read, enjoy, tip if you're moved, and comments are welcome!
Part II
by Deborah J. Brannon
I have played the penitent before, mounted the ladder, wended the long way to Heaven on the heels of the Malakhim. Angels make climbing look effortless, but we earthbound demonkin grow fond of bodies with muscles that bunch and strain and skins that run with effort.
Thus limp and winded, I have thrown myself upon the mercies of my celestial counterparts, begging to be made new. Must I serve, only, and receive no surcease? Could not the tool of absolution be herself briefly absolved? The black eyes of my brothers and sisters have gazed at me, bowed and trembling with blood-stained hands and feet. Their gaze has swept over my taught skin, sallow by their own sacred glow. Their hands have twitched toward my ravaged wings, feathers tattered and torn through the passion of my calling and finally, with pitiless compassion, they have made me new.
Yet they would never let me speak: my words crowded behind my teeth, stymied by their holy hands that bid my words not profane such a sacred place. Though their hands were gentle and cleansed my skin, clearing away the sweat and blood; though their breath was refreshing, summoning new feathers from my beleaguered wings; though they clothed me in glorious raiment, they denied me further speech. So I learned that Abaddon's eyes could grow wet as rain-washed rust and still she-- I-- could not cry.
( Continue reading... )