Hem
Last part of the Crucible of Blood
Chapter 3: And thus heaven were torn asunder
“The cries from the other world
Echoes with remembrance
With regret or embrace
For his path is now chosen
By blood and the death of angels
He has been shaped
Ark or final justice
Resides in the deepest recesses of the heart
Hear the wails of the final night
Feel the coming of the Red Star
Beware the blood growing
And he will know when judgment has come
Tremble and pray
God father of all protect us”
-Poem told in the European cainite courts
Slutet på journalerna, vilket precis översatts, följer här:
In the year of our Lord 1196
In a sense I returned to the beginning. To see what became of the angel I first meet in Rome. To the shining splendor that was Michael. It was a last hope if anything. I ventured to Constantinople. The journey took me a year. I feared reaching the city and be greeted by the same stench that Enoch had left.
Before I even made it to the gates I saw the end of Michael. I gazed through the blood of his offspring and saw the impending doom on their heels. I left the same night and cried for the death of the last cainite hope. Maybe love will see Michael to heaven. I hope so.
Even as I write this I’m capable of stopping it. I think. But I will not and why I cannot say. Maybe I’m the Inconnu. Maybe I don’t really care or maybe this is a test. Maybe I must understand limitations my power never has granted me. Maybe I must stay here as a witness. Maybe I’m in Hell. Maybe I’ve been in Hell since I can remember. That would be an interesting last bit of my puzzle.
[Acceptance of this possibility goes on for a while]
I went home. This journey took a night. Sweet Calla sought me out. She took farewell in the same way a relative might say goodbye to someone undertaking a long journey. I didn’t know why. I told her of an animal that the world has forgotten. She didn’t seem to care. She told me about her mother, of her repeated scolding and of her father’s persistence in punishing her. She also told me about her brother and his sickness. She ended with how happy that time had been. I began telling her of my first memories. She was distracted by a customer and left me alone.
I have found the truth to my puzzle. If I were an artist I could have painted the picture instead of finding all pieces. After all, this story is mine.
I slept the following day and night.
In the year of our lord 1197
Chorazin might have been the most ambitious, orchestrated and costly path to redemption. But great men ponder great things, though as I have discovered not always right. It is about acceptance not proving anything to anyone beside yourself. How can my nature have hidden this simple truth from me for millennia? Maybe that was my suspire. Maybe I'm free. Maybe I deserve to be free.
Wherever the sun chars my body, condemns me to purgatory or simply blinds my eyes, my eyes will be open once again.
Chapter 3: And thus heaven were torn asunder
“The cries from the other world
Echoes with remembrance
With regret or embrace
For his path is now chosen
By blood and the death of angels
He has been shaped
Ark or final justice
Resides in the deepest recesses of the heart
Hear the wails of the final night
Feel the coming of the Red Star
Beware the blood growing
And he will know when judgment has come
Tremble and pray
God father of all protect us”
-Poem told in the European cainite courts
Slutet på journalerna, vilket precis översatts, följer här:
In the year of our Lord 1196
In a sense I returned to the beginning. To see what became of the angel I first meet in Rome. To the shining splendor that was Michael. It was a last hope if anything. I ventured to Constantinople. The journey took me a year. I feared reaching the city and be greeted by the same stench that Enoch had left.
Before I even made it to the gates I saw the end of Michael. I gazed through the blood of his offspring and saw the impending doom on their heels. I left the same night and cried for the death of the last cainite hope. Maybe love will see Michael to heaven. I hope so.
Even as I write this I’m capable of stopping it. I think. But I will not and why I cannot say. Maybe I’m the Inconnu. Maybe I don’t really care or maybe this is a test. Maybe I must understand limitations my power never has granted me. Maybe I must stay here as a witness. Maybe I’m in Hell. Maybe I’ve been in Hell since I can remember. That would be an interesting last bit of my puzzle.
[Acceptance of this possibility goes on for a while]
I went home. This journey took a night. Sweet Calla sought me out. She took farewell in the same way a relative might say goodbye to someone undertaking a long journey. I didn’t know why. I told her of an animal that the world has forgotten. She didn’t seem to care. She told me about her mother, of her repeated scolding and of her father’s persistence in punishing her. She also told me about her brother and his sickness. She ended with how happy that time had been. I began telling her of my first memories. She was distracted by a customer and left me alone.
I have found the truth to my puzzle. If I were an artist I could have painted the picture instead of finding all pieces. After all, this story is mine.
I slept the following day and night.
In the year of our lord 1197
Chorazin might have been the most ambitious, orchestrated and costly path to redemption. But great men ponder great things, though as I have discovered not always right. It is about acceptance not proving anything to anyone beside yourself. How can my nature have hidden this simple truth from me for millennia? Maybe that was my suspire. Maybe I'm free. Maybe I deserve to be free.
Wherever the sun chars my body, condemns me to purgatory or simply blinds my eyes, my eyes will be open once again.
