[ The shepherd and guardian of the Church who was made lifeless and desecrate by his own eschatological ideals could be nothing less than a solitary vision of savagery and brutality in the face of those who would challenge him, or Iscariot's Creed; For the Face of the Sword was two, both Man and Beast; Split; A Divider of hellacious ferocity between Silencer of Atrocities be they mortal or immortal and Christ's Apostle, the Living Word of God. But how surprised was he, who brandished the Fiery Burden of the Holy and the Sacrosanct! How surprised to witness Kindness in his lamb, whose compassionate hands laid Grace and were so very gentle upon him.
The normally frigid icicle of an Italian shied away from physical contact, let alone a kind of contact that involved dirtying his perfectly manicured nails. What had changed him? Did this place have the power to transform a man so completely?
He heard his Bishop speak in dulcet tones and gave himself permission to let limbs go lax at once, like a trickle of flowing water streaming into a placid pool. For once the turmoil boiling below the surface did not swallow him, but rather the void of exhaustion fed the nothingness and swallowed it.
He could barely move. Every flex of joint and muscle agitated fresh wounds, making him flinch even when he registered that swiping cloth being cooled against his aching flesh.
The dried browns and bruising crimson soaked the fabric through and turned the water to a reddish-pink, revealing the pale sheen beneath bronze, how utterly ghostly he truly appeared, as though he neared an End.]
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timeasmymeasure
[Action!]
Date: 2010-04-04 09:01 pm (UTC)The normally frigid icicle of an Italian shied away from physical contact, let alone a kind of contact that involved dirtying his perfectly manicured nails. What had changed him? Did this place have the power to transform a man so completely?
He heard his Bishop speak in dulcet tones and gave himself permission to let limbs go lax at once, like a trickle of flowing water streaming into a placid pool. For once the turmoil boiling below the surface did not swallow him, but rather the void of exhaustion fed the nothingness and swallowed it.
He could barely move. Every flex of joint and muscle agitated fresh wounds, making him flinch even when he registered that swiping cloth being cooled against his aching flesh.
The dried browns and bruising crimson soaked the fabric through and turned the water to a reddish-pink, revealing the pale sheen beneath bronze, how utterly ghostly he truly appeared, as though he neared an End.]
. . . Maxwell.