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when you gonna make up your mind
It's raining today, a grey rain, a rain that turns yesterday's snow to slush and treachery. We passed some ten car accidents on the road in yesterday. Fenderbenders, breakdowns, fishtails, an SUV flipped over on its side in the ditch beside the road. Nothing too serious, fortunately.
This entry may be edited later, if I write another snippet tonight, or if I decide to extend the scene. Not certain if I will, though.
“Nghia, please stop that. What is it?”
The god stopped his pacing and crossed his arms over his chest. “Sven is dead.”
Emrys looked up from the illustration he was inking to regard Nghia for a moment. “I know,” he said, finally.
“You know everything, don’t you?” There was a snap to Nghia’s voice that cut into the air.
The Dragon Lord returned his pen to its stand and reached for the damp towel on the small desk rack. He wiped the ink from his fingers with clean, precise movements. “Do you wish to fight with me, Nghia?”
“I . . . no.” Nghia let out a short, sharp breath. “You know. Is that all you have to say about it?”
“What do you want me to say?” Emrys hung the towel again. “That he was a good man? It is true, and we both know it. Why, then, do I need to say it?” He stood up and moved to the window, sweeping the curtain aside with an impatient gesture to regard the steady rain that streamed down the pane. “Do you want me to say that I am sorry? Perhaps I am. But sorry for what? That he is dead? All things that live must die, Nghia, you know this. You have continued on after your own death, you have existed through nearly as many human lives as I have. How many deaths have you seen? And yet this one is different.”
“Yes. Different.” Nghia’s eyes went distant, and the tightness faded from his face. “I thought . . . somehow I thought I was prepared, that I could deal with this, that I could accept it. And I guess I can . . . but I didn’t realize it would be this hard. I miss him. I knew I would miss him, but I didn’t realize . . .”
“But you did not realize how much it would hurt.”
“No.” Nghia slumped into one of the chairs set up against the wall of the study. “I went to the funeral.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it rained.”
“So? It’s raining now.”
“That’s not particularly remarkable here.” Emrys let the drape fall back across the window. “But it has never before rained in Prothen Zar.”
“It hasn’t—oh.”
“If they canonized people in Corith Nghia, Sven’s place in the hierarchy would be assured. Even without that, he will not be forgotten for a long time. Not when his god weeps at his passing.”
“I didn’t—” Nghia touched his face, and his fingers came away wet. “It’s not--”
The first sob brought him forward in the chair, one large hand over his face, his broad shoulders hunched, then shaking, his hair falling forward like a dark curtain.
Emrys had turned from the window, but now he stood frozen, staring at the god crying in the study’s armchair. A moment became more, and the oppressive silence of the study strained under the burden.
Finally the Dragon Lord moved, reached back over the desk to retrieve the small towel once again. “Nghia.” There was no response and no acknowledgement, only hoarse, desperate sobs. Emrys shifted reluctantly closer, as if compelled, then into the god’s field of view, and leaned down to offer the towel. “Nghia. You could not have--”
Nghia raised his head, and the terrible pain in his dark eyes cut off the words with absolute finality. He moved forward, not particularly far and all at once, threw his arms around the Dragon Lord’s waist, and muffled his sobs by pressing his face into Emrys’ chest.
Emrys went still, statue-still, every muscle tense, his breath suddenly coming short. His slight gasp was lost in Nghia’s racking sobs; the god’s arms were tight, his entire body given over to his grief. The towel dropped unnoticed from nerveless fingers, and the Dragon Lord's arms came up with agonizing slowness, an awkwardness painful to see in one usually so graceful. His hands were shaking when he laid them carefully on Nghia’s thick black hair.
"I was with him at the end," Nghia managed finally, his voice broken, when the worst had passed and he could speak again. "I told him that I loved him, and he smiled at me, and then he died . . . and that was all, he was just gone, and I didn't even know where."
Emrys was staring at his own fingers, white against perfect black, as if they were not his at all. They were moving on their own, smoothing disorderly black strands back into place. "Death is a barrier even the gods cannot cross."
"But I crossed it, didn't I? Once . . ." Nghia shuddered. "Why is love not enough to break down a barrier that gives way to pain? I've lost so much, so much . . ." The rain spattered against the window in the silence. Nghia was still, drained “I should . . . There are people who should know, who would not have been told. Tor. I should tell Tor.”
“You don't need to. I already sent him a letter.” Strain was beginning to show in the Dragon Lord’s face; it burred the smooth edge of his voice.
Nghia straightened and pulled back to look up at him, dropping his arms. “You wrote . . .” he paused, and Emrys stepped away from him too hastily to lean against the desk. “You wrote him a letter? Shouldn’t you . . .” Nghia retrieved the towel from the floor and used it to wipe his face. He paused halfway to his feet, then straightened slowly as some sort of realization struck him. “You haven’t been to see Tor in two years.”
“Have I not?” The Dragon Lord’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.
“You haven’t. You . . .” his eyes widened. “How old is Tor now?”
Emrys paused before he answered, his voice level, guarded. “Probably about sixty-five.”
“Sixty-five . . . he’s . . . already . . .” Nghia’s eyes had gone distant, but now they snapped back to focus on the Dragon Lord. “You haven't been to see him in two years. You’re trying to cut yourself off from him, aren’t you?”
Emrys took the towel from Nghia and turned, leaned across the desk to return it to its rack. “It is not your concern.”
“You’re distancing yourself from him, you're trying to get away. You don’t want to see--”
Emrys’ hand jerked and upset the inkwell, sending an arc of black spattering across the papers on his desk. “It is not your concern!”
“Not my concern? I love the boy, how is it not my concern?”
“But he’s not a boy any more, is he?” Emrys turned, and his normally crystal-clear eyes were blazing, his voice low and vicious. “Now he’s a man, and not just a man, an old man. An old man! How long do you think he has left, hm, Nghia? Twenty years? Fifteen? Perhaps not even that; who can tell with humans? And then he will die. Perhaps it will be long, and lingering, and painful. Perhaps it will be fast and unexpected. But he will die.”
“I wouldn’t let him feel pain. Maybe I can’t stop death, but that much I can do.” Nghia’s jaw set. “You love him, don’t you?”
“He is my son.”
“Do you love him?”
“He is my son!”
“Why can’t you say it, then?” Nghia was roaring now, incensed. “Maybe he does only have twenty years, or fifteen. Why aren’t you with him now? Why aren’t you spending every moment you can with him?”
“Like you did with your high priest?” Emrys’ voice shook with rage. “And now you’re here in my study, dragging your broken heart and your regrets, and you have the audacity to tell me I should do as you have done?”
“Sven knew that I loved him.”
“Sven is dead. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Nghia took a deep, shuddering breath.
This entry may be edited later, if I write another snippet tonight, or if I decide to extend the scene. Not certain if I will, though.
“Nghia, please stop that. What is it?”
The god stopped his pacing and crossed his arms over his chest. “Sven is dead.”
Emrys looked up from the illustration he was inking to regard Nghia for a moment. “I know,” he said, finally.
“You know everything, don’t you?” There was a snap to Nghia’s voice that cut into the air.
The Dragon Lord returned his pen to its stand and reached for the damp towel on the small desk rack. He wiped the ink from his fingers with clean, precise movements. “Do you wish to fight with me, Nghia?”
“I . . . no.” Nghia let out a short, sharp breath. “You know. Is that all you have to say about it?”
“What do you want me to say?” Emrys hung the towel again. “That he was a good man? It is true, and we both know it. Why, then, do I need to say it?” He stood up and moved to the window, sweeping the curtain aside with an impatient gesture to regard the steady rain that streamed down the pane. “Do you want me to say that I am sorry? Perhaps I am. But sorry for what? That he is dead? All things that live must die, Nghia, you know this. You have continued on after your own death, you have existed through nearly as many human lives as I have. How many deaths have you seen? And yet this one is different.”
“Yes. Different.” Nghia’s eyes went distant, and the tightness faded from his face. “I thought . . . somehow I thought I was prepared, that I could deal with this, that I could accept it. And I guess I can . . . but I didn’t realize it would be this hard. I miss him. I knew I would miss him, but I didn’t realize . . .”
“But you did not realize how much it would hurt.”
“No.” Nghia slumped into one of the chairs set up against the wall of the study. “I went to the funeral.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it rained.”
“So? It’s raining now.”
“That’s not particularly remarkable here.” Emrys let the drape fall back across the window. “But it has never before rained in Prothen Zar.”
“It hasn’t—oh.”
“If they canonized people in Corith Nghia, Sven’s place in the hierarchy would be assured. Even without that, he will not be forgotten for a long time. Not when his god weeps at his passing.”
“I didn’t—” Nghia touched his face, and his fingers came away wet. “It’s not--”
The first sob brought him forward in the chair, one large hand over his face, his broad shoulders hunched, then shaking, his hair falling forward like a dark curtain.
Emrys had turned from the window, but now he stood frozen, staring at the god crying in the study’s armchair. A moment became more, and the oppressive silence of the study strained under the burden.
Finally the Dragon Lord moved, reached back over the desk to retrieve the small towel once again. “Nghia.” There was no response and no acknowledgement, only hoarse, desperate sobs. Emrys shifted reluctantly closer, as if compelled, then into the god’s field of view, and leaned down to offer the towel. “Nghia. You could not have--”
Nghia raised his head, and the terrible pain in his dark eyes cut off the words with absolute finality. He moved forward, not particularly far and all at once, threw his arms around the Dragon Lord’s waist, and muffled his sobs by pressing his face into Emrys’ chest.
Emrys went still, statue-still, every muscle tense, his breath suddenly coming short. His slight gasp was lost in Nghia’s racking sobs; the god’s arms were tight, his entire body given over to his grief. The towel dropped unnoticed from nerveless fingers, and the Dragon Lord's arms came up with agonizing slowness, an awkwardness painful to see in one usually so graceful. His hands were shaking when he laid them carefully on Nghia’s thick black hair.
"I was with him at the end," Nghia managed finally, his voice broken, when the worst had passed and he could speak again. "I told him that I loved him, and he smiled at me, and then he died . . . and that was all, he was just gone, and I didn't even know where."
Emrys was staring at his own fingers, white against perfect black, as if they were not his at all. They were moving on their own, smoothing disorderly black strands back into place. "Death is a barrier even the gods cannot cross."
"But I crossed it, didn't I? Once . . ." Nghia shuddered. "Why is love not enough to break down a barrier that gives way to pain? I've lost so much, so much . . ." The rain spattered against the window in the silence. Nghia was still, drained “I should . . . There are people who should know, who would not have been told. Tor. I should tell Tor.”
“You don't need to. I already sent him a letter.” Strain was beginning to show in the Dragon Lord’s face; it burred the smooth edge of his voice.
Nghia straightened and pulled back to look up at him, dropping his arms. “You wrote . . .” he paused, and Emrys stepped away from him too hastily to lean against the desk. “You wrote him a letter? Shouldn’t you . . .” Nghia retrieved the towel from the floor and used it to wipe his face. He paused halfway to his feet, then straightened slowly as some sort of realization struck him. “You haven’t been to see Tor in two years.”
“Have I not?” The Dragon Lord’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.
“You haven’t. You . . .” his eyes widened. “How old is Tor now?”
Emrys paused before he answered, his voice level, guarded. “Probably about sixty-five.”
“Sixty-five . . . he’s . . . already . . .” Nghia’s eyes had gone distant, but now they snapped back to focus on the Dragon Lord. “You haven't been to see him in two years. You’re trying to cut yourself off from him, aren’t you?”
Emrys took the towel from Nghia and turned, leaned across the desk to return it to its rack. “It is not your concern.”
“You’re distancing yourself from him, you're trying to get away. You don’t want to see--”
Emrys’ hand jerked and upset the inkwell, sending an arc of black spattering across the papers on his desk. “It is not your concern!”
“Not my concern? I love the boy, how is it not my concern?”
“But he’s not a boy any more, is he?” Emrys turned, and his normally crystal-clear eyes were blazing, his voice low and vicious. “Now he’s a man, and not just a man, an old man. An old man! How long do you think he has left, hm, Nghia? Twenty years? Fifteen? Perhaps not even that; who can tell with humans? And then he will die. Perhaps it will be long, and lingering, and painful. Perhaps it will be fast and unexpected. But he will die.”
“I wouldn’t let him feel pain. Maybe I can’t stop death, but that much I can do.” Nghia’s jaw set. “You love him, don’t you?”
“He is my son.”
“Do you love him?”
“He is my son!”
“Why can’t you say it, then?” Nghia was roaring now, incensed. “Maybe he does only have twenty years, or fifteen. Why aren’t you with him now? Why aren’t you spending every moment you can with him?”
“Like you did with your high priest?” Emrys’ voice shook with rage. “And now you’re here in my study, dragging your broken heart and your regrets, and you have the audacity to tell me I should do as you have done?”
“Sven knew that I loved him.”
“Sven is dead. What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Nghia took a deep, shuddering breath.
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please continue it. pleasepleaseplease.
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