I don't want to be here. Dear god, I don't want to be here.
He crests the hill and I take a last drag on the cigarette before it disappears from my hand. I exhale the last of the smoke- Why no cigarettes yet? - they have fire, herbs - even paper, after a fashion...
Well, anyway, it's gone and I'm here.
He approaches slowly, but he's not afraid. Of what I represent or of me. I stand and wait; let him approach. If I start to move I might run.
As he gets closer I notice his hands extend. They don't shake hands here - another not yet - they embrace. I run my hand over my face. Dear god, I don't need this. He may look like his mother, but even from here I can tell he's his father's child.
I hold him away with a hand to his chest. He raises an eyebrow, but drops his arms. Thank you. Oh, thank you for being like him that way. The wind picks up a bit and my fingers twitch as I drop them from his firm body. He's warm; a warmth I haven't felt in a while.
Dammit but I want another cigarette. My throat itches slightly, craving smoke and tar as I stand in this pristine night air and look at him.
"I don't want to do this." I say aloud the mantra I've been repeating to myself all evening. He looks into my eyes and smiles *that* smile. Damn him. Damn them both...
"Do you think that I want to be here?" he says with a small laugh.
If you're anything like him, yes. "Do you know who I am?"
He nods, hair falling into his dark eyes. "Sometimes I remember things." And he casts a quick glance over my shoulder. To where my namesake will appear in just a few hours.
Remember? He didn't... he isn't... No. I'd have known if *HE* was here. Known absolutely that He was around. Close. Touchable. No, it's just as I've been told. Maybe a bit more so, but still... Not truly Him.
I relax the muscles I hadn't clenched and turn to look out at the city. I hear him as he steps closer.
"We have no choice..." he hands me words I've heard before, words I myself uttered so long ago... For me they are words of fear and hatred and rebellion, slashing and tearing, words of death and despair. Yet I can hear in his voice that he's smiling, happy. Almost eager. He doesn't know how heavy those words will become. I stare silently at the small cluster of lights and shadows in the distance and try not to let the tears fall. I can't do this. I just can't do it.
"... It's my Father's plan"
"Your father is a carpenter from Bethlehem." My response is automatic, programmed into me from the moment I was created. I have a part to play and no choice about it. He was right about that. So I show him everything I know he will refuse and promise him nothing that is in my power to actually give him.
When the farce ends, he walks away triumphant and I am left sitting alone among the rocks.
I swirl the dust once more and see the scenes I didn't show him. The ones I should have, if I'd wanted to win. The ones that would have made him stop. That had the power to make him stay and refuse to be a toy in his father's hands. The ones that would have saved so much pain and hate and anger. The ones that would have spared them both from death.
My fingers twitch again and I stand, kicking the discarded future back into dust. I need a cigarette.
He crests the hill and I take a last drag on the cigarette before it disappears from my hand. I exhale the last of the smoke- Why no cigarettes yet? - they have fire, herbs - even paper, after a fashion...
Well, anyway, it's gone and I'm here.
He approaches slowly, but he's not afraid. Of what I represent or of me. I stand and wait; let him approach. If I start to move I might run.
As he gets closer I notice his hands extend. They don't shake hands here - another not yet - they embrace. I run my hand over my face. Dear god, I don't need this. He may look like his mother, but even from here I can tell he's his father's child.
I hold him away with a hand to his chest. He raises an eyebrow, but drops his arms. Thank you. Oh, thank you for being like him that way. The wind picks up a bit and my fingers twitch as I drop them from his firm body. He's warm; a warmth I haven't felt in a while.
Dammit but I want another cigarette. My throat itches slightly, craving smoke and tar as I stand in this pristine night air and look at him.
"I don't want to do this." I say aloud the mantra I've been repeating to myself all evening. He looks into my eyes and smiles *that* smile. Damn him. Damn them both...
"Do you think that I want to be here?" he says with a small laugh.
If you're anything like him, yes. "Do you know who I am?"
He nods, hair falling into his dark eyes. "Sometimes I remember things." And he casts a quick glance over my shoulder. To where my namesake will appear in just a few hours.
Remember? He didn't... he isn't... No. I'd have known if *HE* was here. Known absolutely that He was around. Close. Touchable. No, it's just as I've been told. Maybe a bit more so, but still... Not truly Him.
I relax the muscles I hadn't clenched and turn to look out at the city. I hear him as he steps closer.
"We have no choice..." he hands me words I've heard before, words I myself uttered so long ago... For me they are words of fear and hatred and rebellion, slashing and tearing, words of death and despair. Yet I can hear in his voice that he's smiling, happy. Almost eager. He doesn't know how heavy those words will become. I stare silently at the small cluster of lights and shadows in the distance and try not to let the tears fall. I can't do this. I just can't do it.
"... It's my Father's plan"
"Your father is a carpenter from Bethlehem." My response is automatic, programmed into me from the moment I was created. I have a part to play and no choice about it. He was right about that. So I show him everything I know he will refuse and promise him nothing that is in my power to actually give him.
When the farce ends, he walks away triumphant and I am left sitting alone among the rocks.
I swirl the dust once more and see the scenes I didn't show him. The ones I should have, if I'd wanted to win. The ones that would have made him stop. That had the power to make him stay and refuse to be a toy in his father's hands. The ones that would have saved so much pain and hate and anger. The ones that would have spared them both from death.
My fingers twitch again and I stand, kicking the discarded future back into dust. I need a cigarette.