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[stds-r-4-lovers.livejournal.com]

Date: February 28, 2000
Setting: Outside Uriel's door
Status: Semi-private: Pestilence and Uriel
Summary: The first meeting between Pestilence and Uriel after the Fall 

It had taken Pestilence a few days to get the rats settled in before he had a chance to dwell on Uriel's rejection again. Mr. Sniffles knew somethng was wrong, and tried to encourage the horseman to talk about it.
***
"I don't know, Mr. S. I just thought it... I don't know, I thought it meant something."
Squeak.
"Oh, those. Oh, they're nothing."
Squeak.
"What can I say, I was depressed."
Squeak.
"Don't worry, I won't do it again, especially not when the baby rats come."
Squeak.
"No need to take that tone with me, I stick to my word."
Squeak
"Oh, they're not that good. I couldn't give them to him. I don't think it would help anything. It would probably make things worse, actually."
***
But Mr. S. wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, and before he knew it, Pestilence was wandering down the halls of the manor, searching for Uriel's door.

When he found it, the residual of the angel's presence was thin, as though he hadn't been there for days. For a minute, Pestilence's heart stopped. Surely his actions hadn't pushed the angel to do anything rash? He prayed that Uriel was alright.

Turning over the piece of paper that the poem* was written, he wrote a note on the back. Please, Uriel, just let me know that you're OK. I'll be in the library this afternoon. I hope to see you. Pestilence

Feeling even more dejected and alone that he had before, Pestilence walked towards the library, hoping against hope that Uriel would show.

* Pesti's poem:
Green,
______like the leaves on a jasmine bush,
Your memory haunts me, and I have always been afraid
__________________________________________of ghosts.
How lonely must a horseman be,
before he ceases to be?
My room still echoes your voice,
the air clings to the jasmine of your hair,
how is it that all of my belongings now seem like yours?
_____________________How my body remembers your touch, like a phantom limb after the amputation of a particularily nasty infection.
My mind is black,
the color of your hair,
And I am lost.

Comments

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

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.

With this in mind, he headed for the library.