Anatole | Anna Areleous (firstlight) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-09-27 13:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | anatole |
Who: Anatole (firstlight)
What: Then and now.
When: See "what".
Where: Here and there.
Warnings: None.
Then:
There were twelve of them. Twelve pretty young women, twelve hours with lovely, radiant smiles crafted by their father. They bent to gods higher than them, creatures of light and power which the Horae were designed to serve. And serve they did; between Eos, Helios, the Anemoi and Harmonia, there were many masters' bidding to obey. Almost as many masters as hours, and though the work was tiring, they were ever glad for it.
Now:
The last time she saw their father is a hazy shade in her memory. Anatole can hardly remember Chronus's seamed face, his sharp, rheumy eyes. Her sisters are another thing altogether -- they're carved into the dawn-hour's heart, a tattoo, a seeping stigmata which refuses to heal. She's shed enough tears for her sisters to turn desert into quicksand, so Anatole does all that's left to her: she latches on for dear life to whatever she can find.
Then:
Laughter like willow trees, like rain and rainbows, Iris combing through their hair (Auge and Anatole shades of brunette, Hesperis and Dysis like copper and wine, Arctus dark as the starry sky, and all the others flaxen, so fair, spun gold through and through). They counted the seconds for dawn and dusk, beamed at Hemera and Nyx alike, chattered and whispered and loved and fought like the family they were. Occasionally there were tears. They ticked right through them as with everything else.
Now:
Anatole thinks it's funny that she finds her Lady in November, lets herself fall madly for the summer storm during winter's reign. Not funny ha-ha, but funny sad -- she's become a connoisseur of that humor, the crying clown and similar ilk. She watches Eos fight a curse older than Christ and swallows shameful tears by way of sunny smiles. She lies awake at night and counts the hours (AugeAnatoleMusicaGymnasticaNymphaMesemb
Then:
Their joy was palpable. That was the thing, really. When you had twelve brilliant women-children, twelve inseparable points of the day, even tragedy stuttered to a halt. The Horae were a subtle force, but a force nonetheless. They were no Apollo, no Artemis. They didn't need to be -- they were the Hours, the Sisters. That was quite enough.
Now:
Fingers comb through her curls or fold tiny scraps of paper into constellations. Anything for the pretense of busyness. She hears the clock ticking constantly these days, and Eos needs her both more and less often. It frightens Anatole, scares her down to her very bones so that there are times she forces herself to leave the apartment, to meet the sun and thank the Day, but when she sets foot outside her Lady's building Anatole's throat closes up and her wide eyes go wider and she chokes on palpable fear. Because she can see him now. Him, always him, that horrible thief of Night, the monster from the dark who steals away everything Anatole loves.
So she does the only thing she possibly can. She flees.
Then:
"I'm sorry," Henrik said. Anatole extracted her hand from his, gentle but firm; they'd been good to one another, but at no point did the mortal man ever forget what it was which occupied his home.
"I know." Anna -- his Anatolia (except not his, never his) -- spoke quietly. Her words were finality itself. She'd leave the next day, press a passionless kiss to his bristly cheek, and Henrik would feel a knot big as the moon in his throat. There would be no summoning her sisters. Her sadness made the dawn itself dim.
Now:
She turns on him one day when she's had enough of it all. This cat and mouse game she never asked for eats away at her. Anatole has her arms full of groceries when she whirls on the sidewalk and screams bloody murder at Death. Surrounding New Yorkers pause for approximately a second before going on their way; they're used to outbursts, can ignore them with staunch professionalism.
Anatole dredges up every curse she knows in their mother tongue, all of which dry up and turn to dust. Not because he answers -- that would almost be too easy. No, it's that ghost of a smile which ebbs onto his face that shuts her up. She takes two slow steps back, shudders, then runs fast as a frightened deer. Death doesn't give chase. No need to; he'll catch up in his own time.