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libraryofbabelIt’s the middle of the night, and ███████ won’t be home for hours more—he doesn’t take you to Court, he says, “Ah, my little dove, it is no place for you. They’re all sinful vipers1 who would lead you astray, and furthermore, you are my secret weapon.”2
And, besides, you’re not sure what you’d say to him right now, because you’ve gotten on one of your crying jags again. Embarrassing, really. He’d tell you to dry your eyes, that all would be well and all manner of things would be well, that Longinus has a plan for her,3 and it’d be so nice and so gentle that you’d want to slit your own throat4—
Anyway, you couldn’t bear staying in his rooms, so you just… went out. Wandered into an alleyway and sat yourself down on the back steps of some closed patisserie and scream into your hands. Suicide is a sin,5 and he loves you, you think. You love him. You can’t possibly leave him like that, he needs you, but you miss home and your family,6 and you hate yourself for the blood on your hands, you hate him for making you like this, and you hate God for not answering a single one of your prayers for the last nine years.7
There’s the gentle shuffle of footsteps stopping near you, and you look up from shoving your face into your knees to see a woman stopped there, looking down at you—a little unusually dressed, like she might be a foreigner, but you’re not sure from where, with long black hair that hangs down her back in a braid.
“I don’t know if you want company right now,” she says, a soft expression on her face, as she drops to one knee. “But—here.”
She extends her hand; in it is a handkerchief. After a moment, you take it; her face is neutral enough that you can pretend there’s nothing much wrong, and you’re grateful for it. “Really,” you say, sniffling into it miserably, “you’re too kind.”
“What would the world be if everyone was willing to reach out a hand in kindness?” She shrugs, lightly, and smiles. “More like it ought, perhaps. Do you have a safe place to sleep?”
“Oh—yes, of course. I just needed some air. No one else is at home, so… I don’t mind your being here.” You shake your head. “I’m—just having a moment. It’s my own faithlessness to blame.”8
You half-expect the same words from her—that it’ll be all right, all will be well, that you just need to hope and trust. But instead, she very gently holds out her hand, empty this time, and—it feels right to take it.9
“I’m sorry your pain has gone unacknowledged,” she says. “And that so many people have failed you by telling you that you have to endure gracefully. It’s not wrong to be angry. Anger is a gift.10 And there will be a time when you’ll need that anger, I think.”
It’s so wildly off-track of what you expected her to say that you stop crying altogether. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t ask your name…?”
“It’s Sophia,” she says, with a smile. “And—keep the handkerchief. I live nearby, so if I’m lucky, we’ll cross paths again sometime soon.”
It’s only after you’re gone that you realize you forgot to tell her your name, and that she didn’t ask it.11
[1] Admittedly, on this count he was correct.
[2] It did not escape her notice that a weapon was an object.
[3] The central venerated figure of the Lancea Sanctum is Longinus, the centurion who supposedly pierced the side of Christ with his spear. For this, and for his myriad other sins, he was cursed by God to wander the earth immortal to serve as God's holy monster—supposedly.
[4] She had considered, often, why that kindness made her so viscerally hateful than anything else. Surely, it would be his rare bad moods that would cause her to feel such a way; however, after giving it some thought, she came to the tentative conclusion that it was because that kindness more than anything else placed her inside a box in which she could not fit, and the strain began to suffocate her.
[5] Theoretically, the sin of pride: that one knows better than God on high when one should leave this earth.
[6] She had long ago accepted that she would never see them again. But the heart wants what it wants.
[7] This was one of the things that hurt most of all. She thought: had I not been faithful? Was it because my devotion out of pride and self-importance? But even if it was, would a God who so loved the world abandon one of his children in her time of need?
[8] Perhaps it was her prideful nature that made it a dagger easy to turn upon herself; simple enough to say it was a personal failing.
[9] She did not like to be touched most of the time, even then. But in that moment, to have that tacit question of would you like this made her feel safer in a a way, for a brief, fluttering moment, than she had in the past decade.
[10] Hope would wonder, later, when it was she stopped being angry—when the flame of God's wrath left her, when she started making compromises, when she started thinking that vampires might be salvageable. It was clear that she had never quite convinced Iris of the same, so it had to be fairly recent. Was it an experience that gave her pause, or had she simply been bent by the concerns of the fallen world?
[11] This woman was a vampire; this woman would also, later save her life, and her salvation was already in motion. A good woman, if a monster. But, if she thought about it: why did she wait? Perhaps it was because she wanted to give a choice; perhaps it was because she hoped to give her the strength to save herself. Perhaps it is a metaphor for how even Christ still had to suffer at his execution on the cross, but even so—years later, she wondered what was going through Sophia's head at the time. She never got the chance to ask.
Were you just another tool to her, too?
And, besides, you’re not sure what you’d say to him right now, because you’ve gotten on one of your crying jags again. Embarrassing, really. He’d tell you to dry your eyes, that all would be well and all manner of things would be well, that Longinus has a plan for her,3 and it’d be so nice and so gentle that you’d want to slit your own throat4—
Anyway, you couldn’t bear staying in his rooms, so you just… went out. Wandered into an alleyway and sat yourself down on the back steps of some closed patisserie and scream into your hands. Suicide is a sin,5 and he loves you, you think. You love him. You can’t possibly leave him like that, he needs you, but you miss home and your family,6 and you hate yourself for the blood on your hands, you hate him for making you like this, and you hate God for not answering a single one of your prayers for the last nine years.7
There’s the gentle shuffle of footsteps stopping near you, and you look up from shoving your face into your knees to see a woman stopped there, looking down at you—a little unusually dressed, like she might be a foreigner, but you’re not sure from where, with long black hair that hangs down her back in a braid.
“I don’t know if you want company right now,” she says, a soft expression on her face, as she drops to one knee. “But—here.”
She extends her hand; in it is a handkerchief. After a moment, you take it; her face is neutral enough that you can pretend there’s nothing much wrong, and you’re grateful for it. “Really,” you say, sniffling into it miserably, “you’re too kind.”
“What would the world be if everyone was willing to reach out a hand in kindness?” She shrugs, lightly, and smiles. “More like it ought, perhaps. Do you have a safe place to sleep?”
“Oh—yes, of course. I just needed some air. No one else is at home, so… I don’t mind your being here.” You shake your head. “I’m—just having a moment. It’s my own faithlessness to blame.”8
You half-expect the same words from her—that it’ll be all right, all will be well, that you just need to hope and trust. But instead, she very gently holds out her hand, empty this time, and—it feels right to take it.9
“I’m sorry your pain has gone unacknowledged,” she says. “And that so many people have failed you by telling you that you have to endure gracefully. It’s not wrong to be angry. Anger is a gift.10 And there will be a time when you’ll need that anger, I think.”
It’s so wildly off-track of what you expected her to say that you stop crying altogether. “Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t ask your name…?”
“It’s Sophia,” she says, with a smile. “And—keep the handkerchief. I live nearby, so if I’m lucky, we’ll cross paths again sometime soon.”
It’s only after you’re gone that you realize you forgot to tell her your name, and that she didn’t ask it.11
[1] Admittedly, on this count he was correct.
[2] It did not escape her notice that a weapon was an object.
[3] The central venerated figure of the Lancea Sanctum is Longinus, the centurion who supposedly pierced the side of Christ with his spear. For this, and for his myriad other sins, he was cursed by God to wander the earth immortal to serve as God's holy monster—supposedly.
[4] She had considered, often, why that kindness made her so viscerally hateful than anything else. Surely, it would be his rare bad moods that would cause her to feel such a way; however, after giving it some thought, she came to the tentative conclusion that it was because that kindness more than anything else placed her inside a box in which she could not fit, and the strain began to suffocate her.
[5] Theoretically, the sin of pride: that one knows better than God on high when one should leave this earth.
[6] She had long ago accepted that she would never see them again. But the heart wants what it wants.
[7] This was one of the things that hurt most of all. She thought: had I not been faithful? Was it because my devotion out of pride and self-importance? But even if it was, would a God who so loved the world abandon one of his children in her time of need?
[8] Perhaps it was her prideful nature that made it a dagger easy to turn upon herself; simple enough to say it was a personal failing.
[9] She did not like to be touched most of the time, even then. But in that moment, to have that tacit question of would you like this made her feel safer in a a way, for a brief, fluttering moment, than she had in the past decade.
[10] Hope would wonder, later, when it was she stopped being angry—when the flame of God's wrath left her, when she started making compromises, when she started thinking that vampires might be salvageable. It was clear that she had never quite convinced Iris of the same, so it had to be fairly recent. Was it an experience that gave her pause, or had she simply been bent by the concerns of the fallen world?
[11] This woman was a vampire; this woman would also, later save her life, and her salvation was already in motion. A good woman, if a monster. But, if she thought about it: why did she wait? Perhaps it was because she wanted to give a choice; perhaps it was because she hoped to give her the strength to save herself. Perhaps it is a metaphor for how even Christ still had to suffer at his execution on the cross, but even so—years later, she wondered what was going through Sophia's head at the time. She never got the chance to ask.
Were you just another tool to her, too?