What the Thunder Said

       The sheer volume, the shuddering impact of the thunder at last grows to such strength that it sends the very house and all of us within it quivering, physically shaken. No-one breathes in the silence as the lightening reveals - what is this, fear! On our faces? It must have been a trick of the light, what have we to fear? The house is solid, even if the lightening struck it; and surely sound, no matter its volume, can do us no harm. Why, we have conjured storms as these a thousand times, cowing men and reveling in our own powers. (Though I do not think we could do so any longer - but no! I am certain we could, if only we truly wished.)
       ...It is not fear of the storm itself, but fear of that which the storm reminds us. For what is lightening but flaming spears from Heaven? And how many mortals hear in thunder the voice of God?
       "Datta, dayadhvam, damayata," someone mutters, and a motionless shudder runs through us all as the thunder explodes above us. The wine is neglected, the music stilled, and even the youngest serving boy is frozen in silence. The candles flutter in an inexplicable draft, their warm glow seeming to recede from the room, all cast in the eerie indigo and phosphorescence of the storm. The thunder has spoken and we have not truly forgotten its meaning, though oh, we have tried! We have brought all our sense and all our thought into the pleasures of each moment, and tried so hard to keep from hearing---
       There is a loud sniffle followed by an obviously muffled sob. A few groan or cluck their tongues in annoyance, but one of the more mature servants instantly takes the upset boy from the room, keeping him close and moving gently in his briskness, soothing the sensitive youth. And for all the light bother of an emotional child, we are glad of his interruption, for it has broken the spell of black introspection that had fallen over us.
       "Ah, all the world is a stage, but the play is badly cast, is it not?"
       Laughter, only slightly subdued, answers him, as we begin to bury again our eternal melancholy, speaking in loud voices to block out the storm.
       "Boy, fill the glasses! There is always more wine, my darlings, do indulge to your pleasure."
       "A toast to our gracious host! For arranging a soirée in spite of the elements," though we know it is rather because of the storm, because none of us wished to face it alone, "and for decorating with such perfect taste, and providing such exquisite wine with which to toast him!" There is laughter again and the tinkling of a hundred crystal glasses, and calls for the serving boys to bring still more wine, and more fruit, and the musicians fill what little space is left in the air, accompanying the thousand jests and compliments and gossips and innuendos.
       Truly, the room is a lovely one - Meres well deserves the praise for his exquisite and sui generis décor. It is somewhat larger than the usual drawing room, but one wall is almost entirely filled with a large bay window. It stretches from the floor nearly to the ceiling, doming at the top, allowing such a fantastic view of the lavish gardens outside, that in daylight it seems the room extends seamlessly into them. The illusion is furthered by the marble pillars which stand to either side of the glass expanse, their sculpted surfaces embroidered with delicate tendrils of some fragrant blossoming vine. A few arrangements of plants and ornamental trees are scattered throughout the room, their immense pots completely obscured by lush growth and cascading flowers. As the light outdoors disappears with the fall of night and continued storm, more candles are lit in the delicate sconces and candelabra, to enrich the light of the fanciful chandelier overhead. The furnishings are cleverly wrought to imitate the graceful twining of vines, the curve of silken petals, the interlacing of branches. The elaborate and dazzling costume of the guests only adds to the effect, as they become the myriad bright blossoms in this earthly garden.
       None shall speak of the thunder's interruption, when we later recount the pleasures of the evening. To compliment someone's earlier quote, "Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative." The artificial glow of candles and bright lamps banishes even the memory of the storm's blinding intrusions. The spice of incense replaces the scent of fresh rain, as windows about the house are closed, and our voices reach higher to blot out the storm.
       The party gradually resumes its drift from room to room, moving slowly away from the large window, which now leaves us feeling exposed, vulnerable. But we say nothing of it, though our speech expands in volume and profusion. The varied liqueurs lubricate our ease of manner, our bodies soon forgetful and seeking again their own ends. Several small rooms are closed and occupied, and some of our number are not to be found, though knowing glances and sly remarks reveal to what purpose they have absconded. Someone is singing now, the pure notes cascading as a thousand drops of rain, falling upon our shimmering clothing and breaking into showers of radiant light.
       Yet I find myself oddly unable to focus, my mind unconscious of the multitude of diversions which surround me. I move from room to room, all the appearance of dilettante pleasure upon my face but feeling none of it in my veins, for all the wine that now flows there - it is a fine vintage (as it always is), but its effects are lost on me. Some lovely young thing stumbles against me, apologizing with a titillating kiss filled with promise, but I simply guide her toward another, with a magnanimous gesture to cover my own disinterest. I throw myself into each conversation with almost desperate energy, yet it is all a waste, I can find no diversion to hold me. The sharpest wits draw only empty laughter, the most brilliant repartee leaves my mind dulled, the most scandalous confidences do not engage me with their predictable mystique. What, then! With all of my will I try to soak in the gilded atmosphere but none of it survives through the tenebrous fog which shrouds me. I can hear nothing but the echo of thunder exploding in my ears I breathe nothing but the scalded ozone in the vacuum left by lightening I--- I---

       I burst out the garden door at the back of the house, unable to restrain my motions into graceful elegance any longer, I leave the door swinging open behind me as I fly into the dark gardens I--- fly! Oh Heaven that I left behind me if only I yet had my wings! I should fly from this place and perhaps the rush of air and dizziness of altitude should relieve this crushing of my chest, I cannot breathe here so far from home, so---
       No no no this is my home of choice I - no! Are we not greater now, under our own strength? We are free of all chaste constraint and moralistic restraint, we have wonders here of our own creation what need have we for anything else?
       I cannot breathe oh that my wings had not fallen from me! The heat of tears burns my face amid the chill of the rain, I shiver from the horror of my own memories, the floor covered in feathers, in dark feathers, in feathers rotting from their pinions, the decay spreading from my veins into every part of me, with every beat of my mortal heart, the terror of seeing the pure down becoming blighted with my own iniquity... to know that we could never return, the realization like a sudden loud thunder deafening all senses.....
       There is someone here.
       "Leave me!"
       I had not expected my voice to sound like that, so desperate that it breaks with the violence of the plea.
       There is a silent hesitation in response.
       I lift my face, snarling in open anger which is only intensified by my shame at being seen in such weakness as this. But the words leave my throat as my eyes meet his, for the lightening flashes and his eyes are the same blue as the sky-bound electricity, the same radiance the same terror from Heaven, and I cannot move. His eyes retain the lightening's glow for a moment, and then soften just a little and the blue, when it has lost the fierceness of illumination, is the blue of the flax flower, the flower which means fate, and I am frozen still, made immobile by the convergence of the evening's omens and portents, and I can still feel the heat of my own tears.
       Fate. What use has one such as I for Fate! Such a ridiculous human notion, that our futures should be immutable! And how many times has the thunder's proclamation been misinterpreted, "da" indeed. I laugh harshly at the very idea.
       A note of confusion enters the man's expression. I had, for a moment, forgotten his presence. "And who are you, to be in these gardens without permission?" I demand, fighting to make my voice commanding.
       "Oh, I have permission." His voice is so easy and unconcerned! And he gives me no explanation. I will certainly not ask, and play into whatever little game he thinks to have with me. His flippancy brings a fresh flare to my rage, and I strike him, and he stumbles and slips on the soaked ground, falling hard. He cries out in surprise more than injury, but it is still a weakness, such pathetic things mortals are! I should almost wish we had never come among them, such utterly useless and vulnerable things. But it is here that we have all the power and obeisance we are worthy of, here we are masters of ourselves and whatever we should choose to rule.
       "You shall treat me with respect, worm," I growl, teeth and fists clenched. I revel in the heat of the anger which burns through my blood, its power and exhilaration, and oh to keep the chill of this rain - no! I am beyond such petty physical discomfort as that, I may be bound now by flesh but it will not rule me.
       He is silent, his crumpled posture submissive, but as he begins to move up from the soaked ground, his eyes - his eyes! They dare to meet mine, and they hold no repentance whatsoever. That a mere man should think he is the equal of one such as I, worthy to look at me in such a way! I snarl and grab his wrist, tugging him upward in one forceful motion, holding his face near mine. (He is, of course, attractive - we should associate with no other sort - but there is nothing particularly distinctive about him, aside from his eyes. Fine features, a delicate bone structure, a slim form, sable hair fashionably styled.) "Do not toy with me. Do not dare to assume we stand upon equal ground. I will not permit such insult."
       His gaze shifts slightly, and I can see a sly answer begin to form - but I will not hear it, I throw him against a tree, and he cries out as his skin is bruised in the collision. My lips begin to curl in a smug smile - but he! He bites his lip and looks to me again, and there is yet defiance in his steady gaze! I cry out in rage and slam him against a nearby brick wall. My dark eyes burn into his, and his still spark the reflection of lightening back into mine. "Fool," I spit contemptuously.
       He smiles crookedly. "And yet, who is the first to grant the every whim of his emotions? Who here is the weaker?"
       My eyes widen as his words stab my heart - how could he see so clearly within me! Certainly he cannot, he is bluffing, only making blind guesses. He is merely some half-crazed idiot who stumbled into the garden, lost in the storm, he cannot know my weakness! "Who are you, that you should speak to me like this!"
       "No one, really. A visitor to your little hedonistic world, whose guide seemed strangely upset by some slight thing that I---"
       "You are lucky to have your tongue still in your head," I snap, pulling his collar too tightly around his neck for him to speak. "But I only wished to know if you were here as a guest - it appears you are no longer, so I shall do with you as I will."
       "Shouldn't you have had the power to do so anyway, oh great and worthy sir?"
       Such mockery, such flippancy! I cry out again in sheer outrage. "You will be silent! You will not speak to me in such a way."
       He chuckles low - until I shove him again into the wall, forcing the breath from his lungs. I will not tolerate his acting as though he is master of this scene. The rain grows harder, pelting us with its chill, but the heat generated in the slight space between our bodies keeps the cold from seeping in.
       "So," he chokes out - why is he still speaking! "Wha- what are you going to do to me?" His stutter is only from breathlessness, there is no fear in it. I will show him fear.
       "I-" I yank hard at his shirt, and though it is soaked, it is only two hard pulls before I have torn it from him, and the pain of it rips another cry from his throat. "- will-" I roughly unfasten his pants. "- show-" I grab at them and pull them away as well; he falls to his knees as the movement pulls his legs from under him. "- you- your place!" I kick him like the dog that he is, then grab his arm and force him to stand, naked and gasping, bruised and shivering before me. I grin. "You have improved already."
       And then he lifts his eyes, and I cannot meet them for I know the strength they still hold. I snarl and turn him around, shoving his front side into the rough bricks. I laugh in answer to his simpers of pain, as the gritty clay scrapes his tender flesh. I grip him tightly against the slickness of the rain, twisting his arm to press his wrist into his back, then vice both his wrists in one strong hand. He struggles, but not much, seeing that it will gain him nothing. His muscles are tensed and hard, his breathing loud and ragged. He is bleeding in several places, the blood thinned by the rain, so that the paleness of his skin is broken only by the darkness of the wounds themselves. There is a blinding flash and I see his flesh quivering with cold and apprehension. There is a long rumble from the sky, and I laugh derisively, turning my face upward to stare into the spit He covers me in. "You have no control here, Your petty show of strength will not deliver him from my hands!"
       I unfasten my own trousers, and my delight in the situation is clearly evident. I am engorged by the thought of taking my pleasure forcibly from this arrogant creature. Ah, the pleasures of Earth! What sheer dullness was the life we once led, this is where we are truly alive, where power can be held and wielded with such exhilarating breadth of possibility.
       Still holding his wrists tightly in one hand, with the other I grab his naked hip, and pull him back as I thrust forward into him. I can feel the skin tearing and I laugh in delight, feeling the warm slickness of blood passing over my flesh among the cool rain. He groans only slightly with the pain, and I feel his muscles tense, steeling himself to bear it.
       "Ah, but darling! That will only increase the intensity for you - do you enjoy it so much, then?"
       Instantly he tries to relax - but the very consciousness of the act keeps him tense, and I laugh again. Such weak-willed things humans are! We may live now among them but we are certainly still by far the superior race. See how easily I have brought this one into submission! He feels almost willing, now, to give his body over to me for---
       Suddenly he tenses again and spins away, fighting to break free. "You fucking demon get away from me!" But my grip on his wrists holds firm, and despite his most desperate struggle, though he twists and turns and yanks with all his strength, though he stomps on my foot and spits in my face, my grip holds.
       I snarl and throw him hard to the ground, onto a grouping of large, sharp stones. He cries out and tries to scuttle beyond my reach, but there are deep gashes now in one leg and both hands, and the mixture of blood and rain makes him slip on the broken rock. I step toward him and put one foot on his back, pressing him slowly down onto the rocks. His voice grows louder, as the sharp points and jagged edges tear his naked skin, as the unyielding mass of the stone crushes his body, forcing out his breath and voice. One hand scrabbles vainly, weakly now, trying to gain some purchase, but I lean down and grab it, yanking him half-upright, taking his chin in my other hand and forcing him to meet my fiery gaze as he pants raggedly. I suppose there are tears in his eyes (though the rain makes it difficult to tell), but there is no fear, only anger and frustration. "Be grateful I don't fuck you there on the stones, dog." I drag him a short distance across them, and his cries are weak now from lack of breath, his motions faint with exhaustion and pain. "But, I should really prefer not to muddy my clothing, I am rather fond of this suit." I throw him at the wall, which now bears several dark stains that the rain will do little to clear. "Perhaps," I murmur sweetly as I drag him to his unsteady feet, again facing the rough brick, "I shall have you scrub clean the wall tomorrow. I am certain dear Meres will not appreciate his garden wall being so sullied by your body's frailty."
       He makes no answer, only gasping, trembling from pain and rage. But he knows now he cannot escape me, and does not resist his body's natural tension as I slam my still-more aroused self deep inside him. I take him eagerly now, my skin flushed with desire, every nerve thrilling in the rush of power and sensation. I care nothing for how his fragile flesh is ripped on the brick, or how his body is sickened by exposure in the chill wind, he is only a man! He shall die soon in any event, what does it matter if his life, which makes so little difference to the world, is made a bit shorter? He is meaningless and pathetic, his fleeting life no more worth heeding than that of a fly, or that of a---
       A sparrow. Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father's will...
       I scream as I grab his hips in both hands and ravage him completely, thrusting with all my strength, tearing him deeper, my nails drawing blood from his hips, driving harder and faster until my body explodes, my senses going dark into sweet oblivion, my body trembling as my voice flies from my throat in the ecstasy of release.
       Shuddering, gasping, shaking from the violence of my climax, I collapse for a moment against him, crushing him to the brick wall. There is a long moment of blessèd numbness, my body spent, anger (and sorrow) for the moment driven from me. I feel my body becoming sensitive to touch, and draw myself back. But I keep my face beside his a moment more, flicking my tongue against his ear and purring low. "You might put up more of a fight in future, my dear, though that was quite satisfying."
       He growls in sheer hatred, and his body shakes as he struggles to contain it. There is doubtless a torrent of hateful words building in him, a flash-flood of anger about to be released. But I will give him no satisfaction of outlet, I want him to linger in the shame and rage I have passed on to him.
       He is human, after all, his life already a pathetic joke. Why should I not empty all my unneeded emotion into him, to fester in a thing already dying?

       I slip silently and instantly away, leaving him naked and battered by the garden wall. I move deeper into the garden, losing myself in the dense foliage of a far corner, losing myself in the darkness of the night and the chill of the still-falling rain, hearing nothing but the loud patter of water on leaves, seeing nothing but nigritude suffused, feeling nothing but empty cold, I will lose myself in the void and drown memory in the soothing rain...

       There is music. I hear faint notes in a low, sensuous key, and light glimmers from the pooled water on the dark ground, the ground which seems to fall away so far beneath me, I wonder that I am not pulled in. That light is so weak, the last flickers of a dying breath, the gasps---
       I hear them again, ragged weakened gasps of pain beyond words no! Why should I think of him, I have nothing to regret, he is nothing. Nothing. As we have--- no! I am so much more than he, by the very nature of my being. I have sung with the stars in the highest of choirs, I have watched the birth of nations and the fall of many kings, I...
       I have no wings to prove my claim, only the scars of my own sin, scars which still ache after so long, so long, I can still feel the blood, burning over the frigid flesh, leaving stains which will never come clean, stains left in all places I pass, on every thing that I touch. As the stains on the wall. All that I touch I destroy, not least myself... Thunder again growls in the distance and I laugh in pain, what words have I not subverted, what purpose have I not twisted to serve myself and so darken all the world?
       I cannot think of this, I shall die if I - oh if only I could! Oh that oblivion into which I shall never sink, until that day when we shall pay the fullness of our sin, when we shall be shoved from one curse to still deeper curses, from the smoke into the fires which cause it.
       I turn away I turn away, I walk back into the darkness but it screams with my fate, I move toward the light but I cannot return, I should have to speak and I dare not, I cannot speak in such state as this. I need to forget I need release it wasn't enough the action of a moment only covers the emotion it does not rid me of it I need I need---
       My eyes are blinded by rain from the skies and my own pains, I am in darkness made muddy by the blood of my heart and all that it has stained. I feel my flesh torn by briars as I stumble without care for my steps, the cries in my head drowning out all directions to my muscles, I do not care if only I could die! Yet the tearing of brambles lets out some of the putrid blood which burns my heart, and the rain pushes it away from my thin flesh, and it is a release if only faint, so I cling to that, if only I can cast some of this searing iniquity from this weak body it will not torment me so, my chest aches from all the sin it carries within.
       There is blood on the roses, stygian scarlet staining the innocent pearl. Is the blood mine or his - oh but it is all mine, for was I not the one to force its flow? It stains the white roses, those in flower and those yet in bud, they are marred by my sin and will never come clean, there would be no blood if I had not turned from grace, there would be no stain on my lustered wings---
       The scars on my back erupt in flame, I scream out, I fall to the ground, gasping for breath, tearing my shirt from me to let the cold cold rain put out the burning agony - ah! If only it could reach my heart! The water pours down upon me, it thins my blood and pulls all heat from me, diluting my blood as it falls to the ground, barely a trace of me left to soak into the earth. I grow cold. All is water, water and cold, my skin replaced by chilled water, water which darkens as it touches me, carrying away iniquity which is replaced with each beat of this heart. If I could only stop it beating there should be no more blood, there should be no more stains from this putrid body...
       I tear at my skin but my nails dig only shallow lines, I scrabble about me to find sharp stones, using what despairing strength is left in me. I tear at my skin but it is not enough, so little blood flows from me and it's burning my veins it's burning, the flames of Hell have reached me already oh if only they would consume me and have done with this torment! I stagger to my feet and take only a few steps before I fall again, my fingers torn by a rough wall, I cry aloud and grab at it in sickening relief as the blood flows outward, I throw myself against the wall, letting the asperous surface scrape my chest and grate my back, grinding this foul flesh hard into it. I feel the scars again flow with blood, I see dark stains on the wall they are all mine they are all mine, however fast it falls the rain cannot keep up with the endless flood of my sin oh--- no! That Name shall never again pass these lips through they gasp their final breaths, the blood stains all that I touch but the shadow will not leave me get out get out! I can hold it no more, no more no more, it blots out all around me I am consumed by the sins which I held within me ah leave me! Such darkness, there is no sight in darkness like this there is no more to see touch taste feel breathe no more breathe no more no more no more please no more leave me please no more.....

       I breathe. The air has changed; it is lighter now. The thunder has gone from it. Memory approaches, but I force it back, I have not the strength yet to withstand it.
       I can breathe, and that is all.

       In time, I recognize sound. There are birds. There is the soft sound of a fountain. There is a faint snipping in the distance - the gardener making morning rounds, I suppose. I am laying on my stomach, on some soft surface. My eyes flutter weakly, but it is several minutes before they will open.
       "Be still," a voice quietly admonishes. "It is I, Meres. I have brought you into the gazebo, for I doubted you wanted to be seen in such a state, yet I did not wish to move you far."
       I make to speak, but my throat releases only a dry sob.
       Something cool is delicately smoothed over my exposed back. "Hush. Delilah shall tend your wounds with the utmost of care, and none shall see you until you wish it. The gardens are always empty at this time of day."
       I hear a motion, and feel his presence near me. He is seated now beside me, and his fingers brush tenderly against my cheek. "Dear Veri," he murmurs, so low I would not hear him at all, were it not for the painful delicacy of my exhausted senses. "This is not the first blood to stain my garden wall, but oh, how I wish it were not yours! So far have we fallen..."
       There are no tears left in me, but when his hand takes mine, I grip it with all the little strength I have remaining. I am moved so deeply by his care... I did not think such kindness lingered within us, after so long.
       "Sleep now," he says softly, as he moves to stand. "Delilah will remain here to tend to your any need. I must return to the house, that I may give some explanation for your absence to any who might awaken early - or, who have not yet slept, I suppose." He chuckles quietly, but there is such a depth of weariness behind it that the sound is dull as tarnished silver.
       Even before he finishes speaking, before he has descended the short stair into the garden, I feel myself slipping back into the welcome void of sleep. The girl's hands are soft and cool - and their careful deftness tells me that she has treated wounds as these before. Ah, Meres, I am glad that the thunder spoke differently to you than to me...
       Damayata, my darling...