Paul says, I drown the stars in blood. Paul says, They call me emperor. He is both small and horribly vast, like this: that light could unfurl from him to fill the whole of the beach, or the whole of the world. It is intimately familiar. God watches him draw his line through the ruined sand.
Paul says, If even you could be different, and God wants to bury his face in his hands.
"We're good at that, eh. Here we remain." He folds himself further over his knees, his weight on his elbows. It renders him a loose curve beside the tucked-in curl of Paul, the pair of them against a backdrop of endless storm and endless sea. "But that's the trick of it: wanting to be."
The power he holds here is great and terrible. He could say: There is no such thing as forgiveness. He could say: After ten thousand years, it will still feel just the same. But he looks upon Paul's thin delicate wrists, and the crust of sea-salt in his hair against his forehead, and he chooses mercy.
"Keep them close," he says, and he reaches out. He closes a hand over Paul's shoulder, warm and plain, heedless of whatever this does to them. "The people who matter— the people you want it to be different for. Even if it feels like pretending, like that's the dream—"
(He remembers the taste of Augustine's cigarettes; he remembers the jagged outward bloom of Mercy's ribcage beneath his palm.)
"You have to do it anyway," he says, quietly fierce. "You have to keep something of yourself. Once you're God, there's no going back. But you can't just be the flood. What's the point of anything, then? Be the Father and the Son."
His grip tightens upon that bony shoulder, then loosens again. The warm curve of his arm against Paul's back remains.
"It's why I'd never take offense." He looks back out to the sea, as though he might find something of value on that dark horizon. "I am man and God, and I hope I never forget it."
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Paul says, If even you could be different, and God wants to bury his face in his hands.
"We're good at that, eh. Here we remain." He folds himself further over his knees, his weight on his elbows. It renders him a loose curve beside the tucked-in curl of Paul, the pair of them against a backdrop of endless storm and endless sea. "But that's the trick of it: wanting to be."
The power he holds here is great and terrible. He could say: There is no such thing as forgiveness. He could say: After ten thousand years, it will still feel just the same. But he looks upon Paul's thin delicate wrists, and the crust of sea-salt in his hair against his forehead, and he chooses mercy.
"Keep them close," he says, and he reaches out. He closes a hand over Paul's shoulder, warm and plain, heedless of whatever this does to them. "The people who matter— the people you want it to be different for. Even if it feels like pretending, like that's the dream—"
(He remembers the taste of Augustine's cigarettes; he remembers the jagged outward bloom of Mercy's ribcage beneath his palm.)
"You have to do it anyway," he says, quietly fierce. "You have to keep something of yourself. Once you're God, there's no going back. But you can't just be the flood. What's the point of anything, then? Be the Father and the Son."
His grip tightens upon that bony shoulder, then loosens again. The warm curve of his arm against Paul's back remains.
"It's why I'd never take offense." He looks back out to the sea, as though he might find something of value on that dark horizon. "I am man and God, and I hope I never forget it."
(He wishes it were enough to matter.)