Days and nights are one inside a bottle...
Posted: Tue Dec 10, 2002 6:28 pm
He hadn't stopped drumming his fingers for hours.
That was the only sound he heard, besides the crackle of the fire, besides the cold laughter of wintery wind, besides the pucker of his lips upon the bottle. It was, however, the only noise that kept his mind upon the work at hand.
Dark eyes were drawn away from the dancing fires back to the dog-eared parchment of his journal. With every sip of the whiskey, his script became less coherent. What were once written proclomations of hatred and fury had dissolveed into scribbled lines, and where periods should have been?.. Holes were punched into paper with every stab of the quill.
Over the months, all of the entries had been the same. Curses penned in distaste, phrases of imagery whose scenes of torture only he could recreate in his mind. But then again, after the second bottle, even he didn't have the care to do so. The evening's journal entry started just as those before it.
"I wait. Every night, I wait, stare at the fire, sneer at how the cold air disagrees with me. It shouldn't, but it does. It does, only because when she isn't here to defile or insult, I need something to despise just as much. The cold, as much as it blows, as high as the snowdunes seem to get, can't even fill a half of that hole, though. I like to think it would, but I refrain from disillusioning myself. Donias B. Trecht. Hail be to the Serpent."
The acolyte had no real purpose to his words, but it was something to do with one hand whilst the other hugged the decanter of whiskey, or now and then, would fidget with his choker. An odd thing, that piece of jewelry. It encircled his neck as close as a dog's collar as a solid piece of pewter. At its ends, where they rested at the meeting of his collarbones, the tongues of two serpent's heads were interlocked. He'd not opted to find a way to remove it ever since he'd been branded with that glorious faith. There had been plenty who had asked him about it. "How can you live with that thing always around your neck?" One had asked him. She was foul, from what he recalled. She stank of mildew. Her knees, like those boring holes she called eyes, were fidgety. Donias had sneered at her, sucked in a breath, and kindly retorded. "Who said I'd ever wanted it off?"
She left soon after.
The tips of calloused fingers touched a tender bruise where it throbbed on the back of his skull. The waxy-haired acolyte couldn't remember whether it was from the mug that she had broken on him, or whether it was from something else. Didn't matter. It was still there, and who better upon which to place the blame of his misfortune than Raegan?
"No one better," the drunkard slurred, scribbling down more words. The night was still young, and the knee-high snow one of those idiotic seers predicted had yet to fall. If Donias Trecht, only a scale upon the form of the Serpent, had one value, it was patience.
He'd write until the snow was as deep as his knee, or until he saw that blonde-haired cancer descend the stairs. Sworn even upon his worthless corpse, Donias would wait for her until the snow was even as high as his throat. He didn't doubt she'd emerge long after the spring had thawed, as long as it would belt his body away with the storms. But since he was there? .. She was hermited, a shivering child under a blanket, waiting for the monsters to retreat.
At least the alcohol was always predictable, Donias mused. It was comforting to have something that never changed.
That was the only sound he heard, besides the crackle of the fire, besides the cold laughter of wintery wind, besides the pucker of his lips upon the bottle. It was, however, the only noise that kept his mind upon the work at hand.
Dark eyes were drawn away from the dancing fires back to the dog-eared parchment of his journal. With every sip of the whiskey, his script became less coherent. What were once written proclomations of hatred and fury had dissolveed into scribbled lines, and where periods should have been?.. Holes were punched into paper with every stab of the quill.
Over the months, all of the entries had been the same. Curses penned in distaste, phrases of imagery whose scenes of torture only he could recreate in his mind. But then again, after the second bottle, even he didn't have the care to do so. The evening's journal entry started just as those before it.
"I wait. Every night, I wait, stare at the fire, sneer at how the cold air disagrees with me. It shouldn't, but it does. It does, only because when she isn't here to defile or insult, I need something to despise just as much. The cold, as much as it blows, as high as the snowdunes seem to get, can't even fill a half of that hole, though. I like to think it would, but I refrain from disillusioning myself. Donias B. Trecht. Hail be to the Serpent."
The acolyte had no real purpose to his words, but it was something to do with one hand whilst the other hugged the decanter of whiskey, or now and then, would fidget with his choker. An odd thing, that piece of jewelry. It encircled his neck as close as a dog's collar as a solid piece of pewter. At its ends, where they rested at the meeting of his collarbones, the tongues of two serpent's heads were interlocked. He'd not opted to find a way to remove it ever since he'd been branded with that glorious faith. There had been plenty who had asked him about it. "How can you live with that thing always around your neck?" One had asked him. She was foul, from what he recalled. She stank of mildew. Her knees, like those boring holes she called eyes, were fidgety. Donias had sneered at her, sucked in a breath, and kindly retorded. "Who said I'd ever wanted it off?"
She left soon after.
The tips of calloused fingers touched a tender bruise where it throbbed on the back of his skull. The waxy-haired acolyte couldn't remember whether it was from the mug that she had broken on him, or whether it was from something else. Didn't matter. It was still there, and who better upon which to place the blame of his misfortune than Raegan?
"No one better," the drunkard slurred, scribbling down more words. The night was still young, and the knee-high snow one of those idiotic seers predicted had yet to fall. If Donias Trecht, only a scale upon the form of the Serpent, had one value, it was patience.
He'd write until the snow was as deep as his knee, or until he saw that blonde-haired cancer descend the stairs. Sworn even upon his worthless corpse, Donias would wait for her until the snow was even as high as his throat. He didn't doubt she'd emerge long after the spring had thawed, as long as it would belt his body away with the storms. But since he was there? .. She was hermited, a shivering child under a blanket, waiting for the monsters to retreat.
At least the alcohol was always predictable, Donias mused. It was comforting to have something that never changed.