[Ortus wonders how long it might have taken Augustine to cultivate the immensity of distance that he may so readily occupy, a shell much more resilient than the brittle, calcified haughtiness of his Lady or the brassy boldness of Gideon Nav. His own reserve cannot touch it, could not even begin to brush against its sides.
But once the nature of what it is has been seen, he cannot unsee it. It is a bizarre thing, to feel pity for a Saint, and one whose acts have brought such grief to his House. One who remains even now devoted to a God who has forsaken his First House and its peoples to chase a woman-beast on the sand, allowing his last subjects to be stolen away under the brazen glare of daylight, by his own most precious disciple's leave.
He turns. He sets the heavy box on the bed of the truck and turns back, brushing the front of his robes indifferently, though not a speck of dust besmirched them.]
I will extend you an invitation.
[He does not care if God once was fond of poetry. He cannot find that within himself, not with Gideon's body cold as the sea she drowned in. But he can muster compassion for the two souls who still do, entwined as they are with each other, and with Him.
Delicately, Ortus extends his hand, an offer shocking in its disregard for Augustine's elevated station above the likes of one such as Ortus.]
no subject
But once the nature of what it is has been seen, he cannot unsee it. It is a bizarre thing, to feel pity for a Saint, and one whose acts have brought such grief to his House. One who remains even now devoted to a God who has forsaken his First House and its peoples to chase a woman-beast on the sand, allowing his last subjects to be stolen away under the brazen glare of daylight, by his own most precious disciple's leave.
He turns. He sets the heavy box on the bed of the truck and turns back, brushing the front of his robes indifferently, though not a speck of dust besmirched them.]
I will extend you an invitation.
[He does not care if God once was fond of poetry. He cannot find that within himself, not with Gideon's body cold as the sea she drowned in. But he can muster compassion for the two souls who still do, entwined as they are with each other, and with Him.
Delicately, Ortus extends his hand, an offer shocking in its disregard for Augustine's elevated station above the likes of one such as Ortus.]
Let us not call this farewell, then.