Uriel wasn't sure what to do with the note once he found it. He read the poem through several times -- as if that would have given him any answers. Leaning his back against the wall of his room, he closed his eyes, trying to figure out what to do.
Was he OK? Well, definitely not. The Presence was now back to him -- something he was infinitely grateful of -- but it was still very weak and distant. And he was weak, so very weak and tired and ashamed of himself.
He slowly traced a finger across the scars on his wrists. It seemed to have become a habit to him. Biting his lip, he read the poem -- and the short message -- for yet another time.
Finally he folded the paper, putting it into his pocket. Sooner or later he would have to face whatever had happened that night. Better to get it done right away, while he still had some courage left. If he spent another moment thinking about it, he would probably end up blocking it forever.
...And besides, he thought with the mind of somebody called the Angel of Arts and of Poetry especially, the poem wasn't that bad. It was rather sweet, actually; not the work of a master, perhaps, but good in its own way. And to think that somebody would go to the trouble of writing anything just for him...
He figured that, at the very least, Pestilence deserved to know that he was alive if not exactly all right.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-03-07 07:43 am (UTC)Was he OK? Well, definitely not. The Presence was now back to him -- something he was infinitely grateful of -- but it was still very weak and distant. And he was weak, so very weak and tired and ashamed of himself.
He slowly traced a finger across the scars on his wrists. It seemed to have become a habit to him. Biting his lip, he read the poem -- and the short message -- for yet another time.
Finally he folded the paper, putting it into his pocket. Sooner or later he would have to face whatever had happened that night. Better to get it done right away, while he still had some courage left. If he spent another moment thinking about it, he would probably end up blocking it forever.
...And besides, he thought with the mind of somebody called the Angel of Arts and of Poetry especially, the poem wasn't that bad. It was rather sweet, actually; not the work of a master, perhaps, but good in its own way. And to think that somebody would go to the trouble of writing anything just for him...
He figured that, at the very least, Pestilence deserved to know that he was alive if not exactly all right.
With this in mind, he headed for the library.