It's no grand thing that she sets up for him, after conversing with the priest-in-training to be sure that she's not crossing some divine lines. It can't be grand, since it's meant only for her. The apartment's still mostly devoid of what makes it full of life for anyone else, as she still pieces out what she might like, what will make it hers. But an old cabinet that someone has no use for, a few odds and ends, and the mirror, that all comes together. Fever can't express why the mirror, instead of trying to sketch a depiction - it's all about intuition for this. What's felt, rather than what's said aloud and put to reason. Only that the mirror should go where a sculpture might, that a tiny vase carrying early spring flowers goes to the left, that she sets a cup of tea to the right. That there is a space set aside for him, to remind her of her promise.
That suits for today, she thinks. When the flowers dry up and wither, she'll crush them to dust and throw the remains off the balcony.
In her mind, she can almost hear him laughing at the idea that there'd be a correct way to offer anything out, to conduct a ritual, to hold a space aside for him. No one thing would be sufficient - no one thing wouldn't be too much. The uncertainty is not a demand, but rather the point of it all. What does she feel suits? What does she want to share, in this new place? What, if he was here as another entity to touch, would be important? Her answer is not the same answer as anyone else's. The shape of madness resists definition.
Prayer can be so formal. Pulling out something like she had invented for his summoning day won't always be accessible, though she will try now and again. When she soon comes back from Paradesium on her gathering quests, she'll offer out a small orange, and an interesting article from the Gazette, and how it felt when she tripped and twisted her ankle hard. Today, she leaves the balcony doors open, and has cake before dinner, and talks to the fragment of him that she knows is still lurking, dissolved into her flesh and blood. Angel had said he wasn't sure if her god could hear her, but she knows otherwise.
Spring's meant to offer new beginnings, right? So many possibilities. So much potential. So much to experience, with arms open for it. No less than diving in headfirst would suit.
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march.
Date: 2024-03-27 03:52 am (UTC)From:That suits for today, she thinks. When the flowers dry up and wither, she'll crush them to dust and throw the remains off the balcony.
In her mind, she can almost hear him laughing at the idea that there'd be a correct way to offer anything out, to conduct a ritual, to hold a space aside for him. No one thing would be sufficient - no one thing wouldn't be too much. The uncertainty is not a demand, but rather the point of it all. What does she feel suits? What does she want to share, in this new place? What, if he was here as another entity to touch, would be important? Her answer is not the same answer as anyone else's. The shape of madness resists definition.
Prayer can be so formal. Pulling out something like she had invented for his summoning day won't always be accessible, though she will try now and again. When she soon comes back from Paradesium on her gathering quests, she'll offer out a small orange, and an interesting article from the Gazette, and how it felt when she tripped and twisted her ankle hard. Today, she leaves the balcony doors open, and has cake before dinner, and talks to the fragment of him that she knows is still lurking, dissolved into her flesh and blood. Angel had said he wasn't sure if her god could hear her, but she knows otherwise.
Spring's meant to offer new beginnings, right? So many possibilities. So much potential. So much to experience, with arms open for it. No less than diving in headfirst would suit.