My Opening Farewell: Angel
Nov. 6th, 2005 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lostakashaA trilogy of NFA drabbles, all G.
It's the end of the line for Angel, and he's making notes.
I
An artist before all else, Angel must see the words on the page. He doesn’t bother to think the message through, or agonize over structure and syntax. He moves the pen, expecting that his meaning will be apparent when the nib ceases to scratch the paper on which it leans.
He is accustomed to finding his voice through other means.
Addicted to personal artistry, he expresses his beliefs in movement, in dress, in sound. Out of habit he limits his written expression to lists. To single-word questions and spare, lean commands.
Why?
Status?
Impossible.
Immediately.
Gone.
Thanks.
Yes.
Tomorrow.
Love.
II
On the last night of his life he writes another list.
Once upon a time he would have put her name first. Yet in the space of mere months she has forsaken him, forgotten her improbable vow to remember his beating heart. Once he passed the amulet to her, the amulet purchased with his son’s blood and the memories of his lovers and friends, she turned her back on him forever.
Once upon a time her name would have been first, before she sent a lackey to do her bidding; before she abandoned him for the pursuit of something new.
III
The brevity of the list doesn’t surprise him. He knows there are volumes that should remain unsaid and debts that can never be repaid. So for the three names that appear before him on the page he will keep to the basics.
Willow,
I trust you with my soul. Thank you for anchoring me, for what it was worth.
Faith,
Prophecies lie. Control is an illusion. Mystics have hidden agendas, not all of them evil. If you can deal with that you’ll be fine. Remember me.
The last page blurs, and Angel cannot bear to write his only child’s name.
It's the end of the line for Angel, and he's making notes.
I
An artist before all else, Angel must see the words on the page. He doesn’t bother to think the message through, or agonize over structure and syntax. He moves the pen, expecting that his meaning will be apparent when the nib ceases to scratch the paper on which it leans.
He is accustomed to finding his voice through other means.
Addicted to personal artistry, he expresses his beliefs in movement, in dress, in sound. Out of habit he limits his written expression to lists. To single-word questions and spare, lean commands.
Why?
Status?
Impossible.
Immediately.
Gone.
Thanks.
Yes.
Tomorrow.
Love.
II
On the last night of his life he writes another list.
Once upon a time he would have put her name first. Yet in the space of mere months she has forsaken him, forgotten her improbable vow to remember his beating heart. Once he passed the amulet to her, the amulet purchased with his son’s blood and the memories of his lovers and friends, she turned her back on him forever.
Once upon a time her name would have been first, before she sent a lackey to do her bidding; before she abandoned him for the pursuit of something new.
III
The brevity of the list doesn’t surprise him. He knows there are volumes that should remain unsaid and debts that can never be repaid. So for the three names that appear before him on the page he will keep to the basics.
Willow,
I trust you with my soul. Thank you for anchoring me, for what it was worth.
Faith,
Prophecies lie. Control is an illusion. Mystics have hidden agendas, not all of them evil. If you can deal with that you’ll be fine. Remember me.
The last page blurs, and Angel cannot bear to write his only child’s name.