Follow My Voice (Be My Eyes)

The explosion had not come in the middle of the night–that would have made it a cliche, this disaster–but during the middle of the day.  There had been an explosion and the sound of a shriek, followed by a rush to clean up the immediate fire and glass before the entire basement was burning.

It was when one of them fell to his knees with his hands covering his face, that the true extent of what happened became apparent.

During the times his Beloved could not speak, the violin became his guide.

He had asked for a song, one autumn evening–the paperwork had come back, a potential experimental procedure that he was qualified for, and he needed to take his mind off all the fear and hope that was rolling around in his stomach.  He felt hands grasp his own, and his Beloved began to sign.

Do you want to try playing, he paused, or should I?

“You do it, I simply want to listen.”

I’ll be back.  There was the sound of footsteps on the porch, then the screen door closing softly.  There was a pause, the door opening, and the footsteps returning again.  There was a clunk and the sounds of a violin case being opened, and the instrument being unwrapped.

“You need to tune first,” he said.

Whatever dry comment may have been made in the pause was lost as a single screeching note filled the air.  There were three more off-key notes, each in rapid succession, each one making him wince.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it,” he asked, “since you’ve played?”  He leaned back against the porch swing, holding out his hands as his Beloved began signing again.

Yes.  The pause that followed lasted too long to be comfortable.  I…was composing a piece, when your experiment exploded.

“Darling, I didn’t know….”

Let me!  The words were signed too quickly, his Beloved’s hands shaking slightly even as the words were formed.  Let me play for you.  Please.

“Of course.”

A single slow, mournful note filled the air.  It shifted into a second, a higher cry of longing.  The piece was discordant, a display of all the empty spaces between them, of all that had happened before and since those tragedies.

He remembered his Beloved in a hospital room, utterly broken beyond repair, slipping away into what he had thought was his true death.  But the Land and the Far Ones had brought him back, and his rage upon waking was only stunted by the Land’s energy rolling through him, refusing to let him go.

Darkness must like its King.  The first words he signed were bitter, sarcastic.  His scars–what would be his scars–were glowing, spilling golden light.  His golden eyes were filled with rage.

The room had been completely dark, the curtains and blinds pulled for privacy.  He had slipped away into death late in the evening after the doctors had left, but now he was breathing and his Heart was beating.

It was dawn, and the King’s life had begun yet again.

They were no longer by the sea, no longer in that cramped white room, but the song that his Beloved played on his violin held those memories.

“Was that what you were working on,” he asked.  “They day I…lost my eyes?”

No, that…was something happier.  The violin case was closed, and he felt a hand resting on his shoulder.  He leaned into the touch, and warm arms enveloped him.

The click of his cane on the tiled floor echoed.  He hoped he would no longer need it, but giving it up right away would be like suddenly losing his watch, awkward and constantly feeling like he was forgetting something.

He could, at least, detect the light from behind his closed eyes.  His new eyes.  It felt strange, these wires and bandages, but there was a promise of hope as well.

There was a loud clunk when his cane hit the door, and he paused.

“Do you want me to get that,” his Beloved asked.

“Could you?”

“Of course.”

He could hear the door opening, could feel the rush of wind on his face.  He reached up and slowly, gently, removed the bandages that were covering his eyes.  Slowly, he opened his eyes.

He was standing in the dim corridor of the Singing Halls, not out in the full sunlight.  His Beloved was leaning against an apple tree, watching him quietly.  His Beloved stepped forward and held out a hand, the mosaic design on his shirt shimmering in the sunlight.  He took his Beloved’s hand, and was drawn out into the sunlight.

To Be One

As I sit at the shrine, I tell them that a character of mine has been on my mind again.  Once, he was just a character in a story I’d written, then he appeared to me as a god, then he was gone.

I ask them if [this character] was their syncretic form, and my pendulum moves to a response of “in a sense.”

At one point, they say to me, we were one person.  But then [God] separated our souls; perhaps He knew that we would find one another, fall in love, and become one, in a sense, once again.

Fated (A Month for the Madman)

You stand against giving everything–maybe it’s because you’ve seen those who have been broken by their gods unto the point of death, maybe it’s that the Villain needs something to stand against.

So why not be the man rumored to have a Heart of stone, who in fact Loves so deeply and fiercely that he would walk the road of Fate, so that his Beloved could be free.

Musings on Hearts

How close does this make you, that you’ve bound your Hearts together?

A thought keeps going through my mind: that you are not the same person, not a syncretic god, not two facets of the same being, and yet…you’re so close, so deeply entwined with one another, that you may as well be.

I’ve written before that I’m the balance between the two of you, and I suppose that is true.  What if I don’t just provide balance, I provide space?  Someone you can love, that you can focus on, that doesn’t have a part in whatever magic you have done together.

I wrote many stories, all of them with the theme of Hearts being exchanged.  Each one, however, carried a warning, a clear message of “no.”  Each word I wrote said “this is not for you.”  Each story that could have involved the ritual ended before it happened, each ending said “you are mortal.”

Mortals cannot carry the true Hearts of gods, not without burning up–you don’t want me to burn, that’s a theme with you.  You both love me, desperately and dearly, but to be “on fire” is not something you want from me.

Is this part of the reason why you’ve stepped back?

How deep does you being each other’s Reflections go?

What does this mean for me–for us–now?


I dream of them exchanging Hearts.

When I wake, I feel as though I understand their bond, why it’s a million levels and layers deep.  To exchange breath is one thing, a blood oath is another, but to exchange Hearts…that is something else entirely.

They are bound together to the point that not even death can keep them apart.

Godphone Notes: Reflections

“I know you can be worse than that.”

“Yes,” the Dreamer replies, “and I know you can be better.”

The Madman slowly begins to smile.  

This is how it works, them being each other’s Reflections.

The Madman may be a villain, a mirror for the Dreamer, holding up his worst traits and saying  “This how terrible you could possibly be.” 

But the Dreamer holds up his own mirror, one that says “This is who I know you to be, darling, this is who you can become.”

Reflections (for my own notes)

The Dreamer and the Madman are reflections of one another.  This has been a constant theme, this complex relationship of friends, enemies, and lovers.  They mirror one another, in both their Godly Power Sides, and in their “personal” sides.

I had a lot of Dreams last night involving the Madman, and the dreams involved his terrifying pop culture Face; thanks to those Dreams, I came up with yet another way him and the Dreamer reflect one another.

In Welcome to Night Vale, the Distant Prince (the Dreamer’s scary pop culture Face) is far away, in the Distance, and is never sought out.  In Fallen London, Mr. Candles/Mr. Eaten (the Madman’s scary pop culture Face) is very close; in the game the player invokes Mr. Eaten in rituals and seeks him out by themselves.

Distance, closeness…yet another dichotomy between the two of them.