He takes the weight, without complaint — not as if it's a gift, but more as if it's as senselessly natural as the (missing) weight of sunshine.
(Has he renamed the sun, yet, as it hangs on the other side of that poisoned-yellow sky? Has he told them, yet, that he is the sun? Maybe his is the weight of sunshine.)
Augustine turns, unguarded still, to regard the God who Became Man, leaning against him; his expression is the same sort of calmly-quizzical it so often had been, in the first days after the Resurrection, tripping around a rearranged planet off-balance from the missing weight of his own memories, like an unanticipated massive haircut, and gives God a tiny, half-shy smile, uncertain in the face of such a profound — and confusing — half confession.
(His eyes are very clear, from so close up, as he clumsily offers adoration to the divine by meeting John's blackened gaze.)
«Is it really so much better, John, to have your greedy secrecy enshrined in your scriptures instead?»
"Enough of us remember what it is to die, my Lord," he murmurs, in the tiniest demurral. "History is always alien to those who learn it, but empathy finds its routes for understanding even so."
no subject
(Has he renamed the sun, yet, as it hangs on the other side of that poisoned-yellow sky? Has he told them, yet, that he is the sun? Maybe his is the weight of sunshine.)
Augustine turns, unguarded still, to regard the God who Became Man, leaning against him; his expression is the same sort of calmly-quizzical it so often had been, in the first days after the Resurrection, tripping around a rearranged planet off-balance from the missing weight of his own memories, like an unanticipated massive haircut, and gives God a tiny, half-shy smile, uncertain in the face of such a profound — and confusing —
halfconfession.(His eyes are very clear, from so close up, as he clumsily offers adoration to the divine by meeting John's blackened gaze.)
«Is it really so much better, John, to have your greedy secrecy enshrined in your scriptures instead?»
"Enough of us remember what it is to die, my Lord," he murmurs, in the tiniest demurral. "History is always alien to those who learn it, but empathy finds its routes for understanding even so."