A/N It's not very good, but I was a little bit desperate. Anyways, maybe this piece needs a bit of explaining. The Morning Star was the name given to Lucifer when he was an angel. Make what you will of that. The language the creature is speaking is Latin, although mine is so hopless I'm not really sure that I haven't just created a new language. If you'd like a translation, let me know.
The only star was the morning star, preaching its word through a nimbus of light that fell to the earth in a circle of
Spread across the ground was a figure, curled on one side. It was impossible to identify them as man or woman, for they were neither and they were both. A beautiful androgenous face glimmered and flickered, as though they faded. There was ash in the long black hair and blood on their linen robes. A cross hung of a length of leather thong. Once tied to their neck, it had fallen to the ground. There are knots in the leather. They will remain there forever.
The head raised, eyes opened, slits of amber were revealed, shadowed by heavy lids. They blinked twice and then closed again, head falling back to the hard ground. A little bit of blood dribbled from the corner of their mouth, although it could have been wine.
How long they had lain here was impossible to tell. It could have been seconds. It could have been days. No one had bothered them, despite the feet that trampled this area when the sun lit the trees and bathed the clearing with honeyed warmth. It was not like that during night.
The left hand, fingers long and thin, the skin white alabaster, crept across the ground; a blind spider seeking the cross. The nails were long, polished and sharp. A finger feels out the edge of the leather thong and clasps the cross. The corners bite and draw blood, but the eyes do not open.
The hand begins to shake. These are hands that never shake. This is the hand of a stealer of souls. It will never have to pay for what it takes. It is desperate to give it all back, but no one asks death for repatriation. These are hands that never shake.
“Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.
Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum.”
The clearing is filled with sound, as though a hundred voices have spoken. The morning star burns brighter, as bright as the sun, pleading with the figure, now curled as if in pain, free hand pressed tight to their ear. They do not want to hear the angelic voices that sing. They do not want to hear their own voice although it whispers faster, desperately, words running together.
“Inter spem curamque, timores inter et iras
omnen crede diem tibi diluxisse supremem.
grata superveniet quae non sperabitur hora”
The Morning Star died, leaving the clearing in darkness. The darkness if painful, blinding. They feel as though they have lost a friend, a brother. They are used to this feeling.
When God wants revenge, he sends an angel. White wings, one forever drenched in blood. The bringer of death bears the symbol of the cross. The hand still holds the cross. The hand still shakes. These hands never shake. The last shadows will never leave this place.
“athairarneamhdialinn...athairarneamhdialiom… athairarneamhdialiom”
They are falling. They are falling too far, to fast. The ground beneath them does not exist. They are falling. They are falling. They have fallen. They have fallen too far to be saved. They are the saviour.
Rain rips itself free from the sky, wind screaming fury across the torn clouds. The ground beneath the figure turns to slush and mud. The creature does not seem to feel the cold, though ice forms in its hair.
Rain is not the tears of God. God isn’t mortal enough to cry.
The figure turned it’s beautiful, ethereal, inhuman face to the heaven. It felt nothing but a slight shiver of revulsion. No one can forgive their lover’s betrayal. No one can forget their parent’s disloyalty. No one can leave either behind.
The figure rises slowly from the bed of clover, it’s tall, lithe figure revealed. Cheekbones stand out in stark relief against the white porcelain of skin. The eyes where open, hollow and gold, like melted honey. They were still eyes, silent like death that crouched in the wings. Waiting, always waiting, burning from the inside out, fire along the skin although it was ice to the touch.
These hands never shake. These hands are shaking.
They cannot stay here forever. There are wolves in these woods and snakes in this grass. Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow will be another fight, another fight that will be won and lost. The Morning Star, the only friend in this lonely salvation, will die tomorrow night too.
“Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum."
They knew they would be back tomorrow, dragging one bloodied wing behind.
