[ when des' eyes open, he sees a shining cobalt sky, and the newly dead greeting the older dead, embracing and exclaiming. out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dizzyingly high walls of Heaven, and Heaven's gates - he's outside them, in the Garden. this time he can see the angels, less solid than all the rest, chorus after chorus, moving through the skies, unbound and dipping down at will into the little crowds of mortals crossing the bridge. shifting between visibility and invisibility, the angels move, watch, drift upward to fade into the inexhaustible blue of the sky.
the sounds of Heaven are faint and achingly seductive as they come from beyond the walls. all songs sing the same refrain: "Come in, come here, come inside, be with us. Chaos is no more. This is Heaven."
but he is far from that, in a little valley, amid wildflowers, tiny white and yellow wildflowers, on the grass bank of the stream which all souls cross to get to Heaven, only here it seems no more than any magnificent rushing stream. or rather, it sings a song that says - after smoke and war and soot and blood, after stench and pain - All streams are as magnificent as this stream.
water sings in multiple voices as it slides over rocks and down through tiny gullies and rushes abruptly over rises in the earth so that it may again tumble in a mingling of fugue and canon. while the grass bends its head to watch.
des lies against the trunk of a tree, what the peach tree might be if she bloomed forever, both blossoms and fruit, so that she is never bare of either, and her limbs hang down not in submission but with this richness, this fragrance, this offering. above, amid fluttering petals, the supply of which seems inexhaustible and never alarming, he sees the fleeting movement of tiny birds. and beyond that, angels, and angels, and angels, as if they are made of air, the light luminous glittering spirits so faint as to vanish at times in one brilliant breath of the sky.
the cool sweet air surrounds him, slowly removing, layer by layer, the soot and filth that cling to his coat and shirt. his shoes, however, are broken and tattered and barely held together anymore.
petals fall in his hair, a shower of them, pink and white.
to the left, in a copse of olive trees, lucifer and azrael stand in their human looking forms. lucifer is collected, his face grim and set, and azrael's eyes are sympathetic, a small, sad smile on her face. their images begin to grow and spread, and they sprout huge black wings. ]
The argument is simple. Do you have any trouble understanding it now?
[ their black wings come in close, hugging their bodies, lower tips curve forward, near their feet, so that they do not scrape the ground. they walk towards him. ]
If you'd like, you may ask any Angel you choose to corroborate the truth of things. But as we said, neither side is prone to directly lying.
no subject
the sounds of Heaven are faint and achingly seductive as they come from beyond the walls. all songs sing the same refrain: "Come in, come here, come inside, be with us. Chaos is no more. This is Heaven."
but he is far from that, in a little valley, amid wildflowers, tiny white and yellow wildflowers, on the grass bank of the stream which all souls cross to get to Heaven, only here it seems no more than any magnificent rushing stream. or rather, it sings a song that says - after smoke and war and soot and blood, after stench and pain - All streams are as magnificent as this stream.
water sings in multiple voices as it slides over rocks and down through tiny gullies and rushes abruptly over rises in the earth so that it may again tumble in a mingling of fugue and canon. while the grass bends its head to watch.
des lies against the trunk of a tree, what the peach tree might be if she bloomed forever, both blossoms and fruit, so that she is never bare of either, and her limbs hang down not in submission but with this richness, this fragrance, this offering. above, amid fluttering petals, the supply of which seems inexhaustible and never alarming, he sees the fleeting movement of tiny birds. and beyond that, angels, and angels, and angels, as if they are made of air, the light luminous glittering spirits so faint as to vanish at times in one brilliant breath of the sky.
the cool sweet air surrounds him, slowly removing, layer by layer, the soot and filth that cling to his coat and shirt. his shoes, however, are broken and tattered and barely held together anymore.
petals fall in his hair, a shower of them, pink and white.
to the left, in a copse of olive trees, lucifer and azrael stand in their human looking forms. lucifer is collected, his face grim and set, and azrael's eyes are sympathetic, a small, sad smile on her face. their images begin to grow and spread, and they sprout huge black wings. ]
The argument is simple. Do you have any trouble understanding it now?
[ their black wings come in close, hugging their bodies, lower tips curve forward, near their feet, so that they do not scrape the ground. they walk towards him. ]
If you'd like, you may ask any Angel you choose to corroborate the truth of things. But as we said, neither side is prone to directly lying.