His
A Promise
"As I placed my hand upon your brow, I could feel the coldness of your skin seep into my own. How is it that your appearance so soft and warm can harbor such deception? How could a carefree expression relaxed in calm sleep turn into one of anger and hatred? They're masks, I know, coverings hiding something deeper, darker than you wish for another to see but I can see your struggle, though I know you doubt this.
I've seen the sorrow dull the sparkle from your eye. I've witnessed the weight of your secrets chip through the front you so desperately try to maintain. Yes, every battle you've waged my eyes have captured a glimpse. Nothing has escaped from my searching gaze. Yet, even still, even aware of this as you are, you run from me as though you can hide the damage that this war is producing. And so I ask myself, how can an angel be torn away from the light? How can she be thrown upon the path to darkness and how is it, little one, that an angel can turn into a demon? I wish I didn't know…
No, I will not stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I will not stand idle while you waste away into your emotions. I refuse. Of this I am persuaded. Since the day that I found you, I've watched over you even as you laid unconscious before me. From the day that I carried your light, frail body into my home, I've nurtured you though your weak protests tore at my heart. And from the first time that my eyes drank from the vast emptiness of your own, I've loved you, even as I knew the feeling might never be returned. That was the day that you captured my heart and I refuse to watch the creature I have cherished these long endless years deteriorate before me. This is my vow, little one. This is my promise. I will save you. I will protect you. Just give me a glimpse into your heart so I can do so. Allow me to share in your torment, in your world of pain and secrets. Please, let me in."
Thus saith the LORD.
It would be years before the other was given a name, a title ripped from the pages of a book. Ti'ana. It meant storyteller. White, the forgotten beaten mistress of that world had named her thus because of the other's love for stories, her love for creating legends manipulating time, love and history. Thus her name was fitting in this way, but it was also fitting in another.
There are implications tied to the profession of storyteller, implications that have fallen to the wayside as of late, now that a hundred page manuscript has the potential to reach billions instead of a meager dozen, to be sold and told and retold through more than just pen and ink. We have forgotten that in the beginning a storyteller was nothing short of a beggar wandering penniless from town to town searching out food in exchange for words and a rhyme. That was what she was, not a beggar per say, but a wanderer, lost and alone.
In actuality, she wasn't even that.
She was a runner. She ran from everything. Mentally, emotionally, metaphorically, she ran from her home, from her responsibilities, her expectations but mostly from Him. And He? He let her go though at times He would follow.
There is a memory from this time, a time from this era that she could recall clearly. It was one of two still living in her meandering recollection. Everything else was a blur, but that's neither here or there.
The first vision took place on the Fence. It was called the Fence because of the wall, a hedge of dirt, grass and rock that bordered His kingdom like a picket fence a house ambling mile after mile in a wide crumpled circle. She used to run on top of it in those days, those days when she fell to the other side, left the light for the darkness and refused to return. At that time, it was the furthest point she had courage enough to flee.
That day the other gate was visible, the black gate leading to the country, the world she both feared and admired. Just like it, on that day, the light and His kingdom to her right was just as clear. Upon the Fence, she traced the line of light and shadow that separated the two worlds. Her eyes never left its clear edge. Her feet followed its lead. She'd been intent, so focused upon it that even today she couldn't necessarily recall what pushed her to look back, to view her path along that wandering hillside.
What she should have seen shouldn't have been a big deal but it was. It should have been a near mirrored replica of the world that forever stretched out before her, that replayed over and over as she circled His kingdom once, twice, a dozen times but it wasn't, not quite. It made her pause, nearly trip over her feet.
He was there walking, strolling, following behind her carefully watching her steps as they thudded aimlessly before Him. She stared. He stared. She paused. He paused, then turned to regard the dark world to His left, the black gate standing eerily close it seemed. His light reflected with the movement giving her a glimpse, a glint of something she didn't think she'd ever see. A tear.
He was crying and she didn't know why.
Let's try this again - Calla
