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In other news: 'Hidden Warrior' ends on ANOTHER FRIGGIN CLIFFHANGER. Grrrrrr. It's an excellent book, and I recommend it, if only so that I can have company in my misery. So nyah.
Another snip-ficlet for In Nomine.
I don't know how I should be feeling. It's a lie, a grave that is worse than empty, a mourning for someone who doesn’t need to be mourned. On the other hand, it's a true loss. My Angel is not dead, but the man I knew him as /is/. And he won't be coming back. I am only human; I cannot help but mourn the flesh, even as I know the soul is safe and already returned. I want to cry, but at the same time, crying feels like a betrayal of all those other mourners who have stood by graves and wept for someone they'd never see again.
I go to one knee in the muddy grass. Two fingers kissed by rain and my lips, carrying the message to the cold stone. "I'll miss you."
"I'm right here." I have to fight the instinctive urge to go for the pistol concealed in my jacket. His.../her/ voice is not yet familiar, but the catlike way she has of sneaking up on a person is. I can hear the confusion, the puzzlement and concern as she watches me pay tribute to a meaningless memorial. "I'm not dead, Jane."
"I know," I say, rising quickly, and brushing myself off. I give him a smile. "Just keeping up appearances."
"Ah," she says, and offers me her arm. I'll have to let her know, sometime later, that women don't generally do that. For now, I just take it and lean a little closer.
She's not dead, no. But /he/ is, and I miss him already.
Another snip-ficlet for In Nomine.
I don't know how I should be feeling. It's a lie, a grave that is worse than empty, a mourning for someone who doesn’t need to be mourned. On the other hand, it's a true loss. My Angel is not dead, but the man I knew him as /is/. And he won't be coming back. I am only human; I cannot help but mourn the flesh, even as I know the soul is safe and already returned. I want to cry, but at the same time, crying feels like a betrayal of all those other mourners who have stood by graves and wept for someone they'd never see again.
I go to one knee in the muddy grass. Two fingers kissed by rain and my lips, carrying the message to the cold stone. "I'll miss you."
"I'm right here." I have to fight the instinctive urge to go for the pistol concealed in my jacket. His.../her/ voice is not yet familiar, but the catlike way she has of sneaking up on a person is. I can hear the confusion, the puzzlement and concern as she watches me pay tribute to a meaningless memorial. "I'm not dead, Jane."
"I know," I say, rising quickly, and brushing myself off. I give him a smile. "Just keeping up appearances."
"Ah," she says, and offers me her arm. I'll have to let her know, sometime later, that women don't generally do that. For now, I just take it and lean a little closer.
She's not dead, no. But /he/ is, and I miss him already.
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