[ He doesn't take his swords, or his blanket, or his cigarettes in their case, or anything else of value, like Cas's feathers — those, at least, he has Alfred hide away somewhere inaccessible, inside a wall somewhere, as only feels right — when he leaves the house to join those hoping to appease Mariana and end the Season of Boiling Monsoons and other plague-based forms of precipitation. He doesn't take his swords, or any other weapon — not even a nail file — as he leaves to join the peacemaking party, in the thunderous silence in the wake of John's death.
(He'd made a mistake, in hoping, just a few days previous, that he'd found something of an answer — a way of forcing John to tell the fucking truth, for once, not hedging his bets or squirreling around the point in so many circles his questioner gave up, so that then, maybe, he could rub his nose in the fact that he, Augustine, was still there, no matter how dreadful that distant truth really was — and instead, he'd barely gotten God to stand on His own two humanoid feet again, before He'd gone and gotten Himself blown to smithereens even more thoroughly than Mercymorn had managed. Somehow.)
If all goes according to plan, he won't be leaving a body behind to mourn — but that's fine; out of the original seven Lyctors, only two had managed that, anyway, and he hadn't been one of them. It's neater, this way, besides; no one needs to worry about cleanup or preservation. Still, as he takes one last glance around the room, his gaze lingers on his bed, and how he's arranged what he's leaving behind. Sooner or later, someone will come back to the house, find his door open, and see his message — someone will find the right way to care for Alfred's blades, tenderly crossed over where his heart rests when he sleeps. His May Day gift, the blanket from Bausphomette, rests carefully folded on his pillow, the death's-head-moth motif neatly (affectionately) displayed.
In the brief space between the blanket and the point where his blades cross, there's a plain bone-white vellum envelope, sealed and warded and very simply addressed, with only one word: John. ]
If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain I would trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday — But just one yesterday won't bring you back to me, will it? You were lost to me millennia ago, my friend, my king, my beloved — you lost yourself Seeking the destruction of all who opposed you — Is seven times seven generations not enough to satisfy your wrath?
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. So how did I fail you, O Beloved, that you could not turn away from this endless destruction?
How did you fail me, that this is the path you blazed for me to tread? When everyone who fucked with you is dead — Will all those you have lost lift up their heads? Will morning bring you peace, or just more dread?
Where God fell, saints and angels also bled. For good or ill, no beach-bound omen heralds your return — You were my favourite living human by far When you chose to make this frightening world less bizarre. Will you come home and stop this pain tonight? Don't waste your time mourning me; You're already the voice inside my head.
While You Were Out (~July 11th)
(He'd made a mistake, in hoping, just a few days previous, that he'd found something of an answer — a way of forcing John to tell the fucking truth, for once, not hedging his bets or squirreling around the point in so many circles his questioner gave up, so that then, maybe, he could rub his nose in the fact that he, Augustine, was still there, no matter how dreadful that distant truth really was — and instead, he'd barely gotten God to stand on His own two humanoid feet again, before He'd gone and gotten Himself blown to smithereens even more thoroughly than Mercymorn had managed. Somehow.)
If all goes according to plan, he won't be leaving a body behind to mourn — but that's fine; out of the original seven Lyctors, only two had managed that, anyway, and he hadn't been one of them. It's neater, this way, besides; no one needs to worry about cleanup or preservation. Still, as he takes one last glance around the room, his gaze lingers on his bed, and how he's arranged what he's leaving behind. Sooner or later, someone will come back to the house, find his door open, and see his message — someone will find the right way to care for Alfred's blades, tenderly crossed over where his heart rests when he sleeps. His May Day gift, the blanket from Bausphomette, rests carefully folded on his pillow, the death's-head-moth motif neatly (affectionately) displayed.
In the brief space between the blanket and the point where his blades cross, there's a plain bone-white vellum envelope, sealed and warded and very simply addressed, with only one word: John. ]
If Heaven's grief brings Hell's rain
I would trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday —
But just one yesterday won't bring you back to me, will it?
You were lost to me millennia ago, my friend, my king, my beloved — you lost yourself
Seeking the destruction of all who opposed you —
Is seven times seven generations not enough to satisfy your wrath?
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
So how did I fail you, O Beloved, that you could not turn away from this endless destruction?
How did you fail me, that this is the path you blazed for me to tread?
When everyone who fucked with you is dead —
Will all those you have lost lift up their heads?
Will morning bring you peace, or just more dread?
Where God fell, saints and angels also bled.
For good or ill, no beach-bound omen heralds your return —
You were my favourite living human by far
When you chose to make this frightening world less bizarre.
Will you come home and stop this pain tonight?
Don't waste your time mourning me;
You're already the voice inside my head.
I miss you.
And I'm sorry.
A—