scribblinlenore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scribblinlenore) wrote2004-05-26 04:18 pm
scribblinlenore) wrote2004-05-26 04:18 pm
Another Wednesday when I'm a word hog
Today's ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wednesday100 topic is the past, to put the characters into a historical situation.
That brought to mind for me this amazing drawing done by the wonderfully talented![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
goss: Incarnate
And that, in turn, brought to mind far more than 100 words. *g*
In the Dark Hours
by Lenore
He is the elder son, and if not for the day the sky burned, would have been his father's heir, the ninth Earl of Shrewsbury. But the fiery rocks left their mark, and the villagers whispered darkly whenever they saw him. The Evil One always sets his chosen ones apart, they would say. So his father elevated Julian to take his place and sent him away, lest there be any truth in the peasants' wild speculations.
Alexander has long since accepted his lot. In fact, the quiet and order of a monastic life suits him well--days filled with prayer and study and solitude--and he might even be happy if it were not for the shadowy nights that seem to stretch on forever.
This is when it preys on him, the creature, monster in the guise of a man, angel without wings--he doesn't even know what to call it. Every evening, he kneels on the hard floor beside his bed, gripping his rosary in desperate supplication, begging God to watch over him, to keep the creature away, but God never listens, and the creature always comes, floating through his window at the darkest hour.
"Please, God!" Alexander implores aloud. "Protect me!"
The creature mocks him, voice like treacherous silk, a knowing smile twisting its lips. "You can't fool me, Alexander. I know it's not God you want."
Every night when he's down on his knees, he prays for strength, but his will invariably turns to dust at the creature's first touch. It throws off his garment and uses its hands and mouth and tongue indecently, until the noises streaming out of him are perfectly unholy.
"You belong to me, and you always will," the creatures says, its hot breath on his skin. "And protest though you may, I know you wouldn't have it otherwise."
Alexander feels a knife blade of terror when the creature pulls his legs over its shoulders and sinks into the depths of him. He tries to tell himself that this is not what he wants, that he is powerless, but the creature lights the fires of his body, burning him up from the inside out. He can't help moving in time with its lewd thrusts, touching himself with licentious abandon, even though he's been taught and truly does believe such an ungodly sin puts his immortal soul in peril.
"You think you want to be good, and you labor so hard after righteousness, but this is what you were truly made for," the creature says as it plunders him. "God is not your destiny. I am."
When it is over, Alexander lies spent on the damp sheets, the flagellation of shame more searing than any physical pain, and the creature rises from the bed smiling, as if it is well-satisfied with its night's work.
Before it goes, it strokes a hand over Alexander's bare head, not the way Father Jerome does in blessing, but as a form of possession. "I made you what you are, and I'll make you what you are yet to become, and men will tremble before us."
It is a promise that turns Alexander cold with fear.
"Soon," the creature whispers as it leaps onto the windowsill and flies away.
When it is gone, Alexander closes his eyes and beseeches the Almighty for forgiveness and begs to know: Dear, God! What will become of me?
wednesday100 topic is the past, to put the characters into a historical situation. That brought to mind for me this amazing drawing done by the wonderfully talented
goss: IncarnateAnd that, in turn, brought to mind far more than 100 words. *g*
In the Dark Hours
by Lenore
He is the elder son, and if not for the day the sky burned, would have been his father's heir, the ninth Earl of Shrewsbury. But the fiery rocks left their mark, and the villagers whispered darkly whenever they saw him. The Evil One always sets his chosen ones apart, they would say. So his father elevated Julian to take his place and sent him away, lest there be any truth in the peasants' wild speculations.
Alexander has long since accepted his lot. In fact, the quiet and order of a monastic life suits him well--days filled with prayer and study and solitude--and he might even be happy if it were not for the shadowy nights that seem to stretch on forever.
This is when it preys on him, the creature, monster in the guise of a man, angel without wings--he doesn't even know what to call it. Every evening, he kneels on the hard floor beside his bed, gripping his rosary in desperate supplication, begging God to watch over him, to keep the creature away, but God never listens, and the creature always comes, floating through his window at the darkest hour.
"Please, God!" Alexander implores aloud. "Protect me!"
The creature mocks him, voice like treacherous silk, a knowing smile twisting its lips. "You can't fool me, Alexander. I know it's not God you want."
Every night when he's down on his knees, he prays for strength, but his will invariably turns to dust at the creature's first touch. It throws off his garment and uses its hands and mouth and tongue indecently, until the noises streaming out of him are perfectly unholy.
"You belong to me, and you always will," the creatures says, its hot breath on his skin. "And protest though you may, I know you wouldn't have it otherwise."
Alexander feels a knife blade of terror when the creature pulls his legs over its shoulders and sinks into the depths of him. He tries to tell himself that this is not what he wants, that he is powerless, but the creature lights the fires of his body, burning him up from the inside out. He can't help moving in time with its lewd thrusts, touching himself with licentious abandon, even though he's been taught and truly does believe such an ungodly sin puts his immortal soul in peril.
"You think you want to be good, and you labor so hard after righteousness, but this is what you were truly made for," the creature says as it plunders him. "God is not your destiny. I am."
When it is over, Alexander lies spent on the damp sheets, the flagellation of shame more searing than any physical pain, and the creature rises from the bed smiling, as if it is well-satisfied with its night's work.
Before it goes, it strokes a hand over Alexander's bare head, not the way Father Jerome does in blessing, but as a form of possession. "I made you what you are, and I'll make you what you are yet to become, and men will tremble before us."
It is a promise that turns Alexander cold with fear.
"Soon," the creature whispers as it leaps onto the windowsill and flies away.
When it is gone, Alexander closes his eyes and beseeches the Almighty for forgiveness and begs to know: Dear, God! What will become of me?
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In my mind, this dark Kal has not been raised by human, but brought to maturity somehow by the ship and taught by Jor-El to conquer. And Alexander is his chosen vessel.
Thanks for the lovely feedback!