07.08.02 - 10:41 a.m.

(and the next one, a post of mine that Damon emailed me by my char Genevieve, the foil to his (young) Azra'il, before he turned old and cynical and wicked. i must've saved that scene on my old computer. this is from december 1999.)

[Genevieve]

Sun 06:22 CET For two nights and two days, a tremendous storm has lashed the high bluffs of the Channel Islands, sending scattered peltings of rain, of ice, of snow across the cragged rocks and squat stone towers of the Lord's high keep. The scream of the wind - like a thousand lost souls falling to eternal torment - is almost ever-present, growing now dull and hoarse, now shrill and pelting, but never, never stilling. So, too, the rack of freezing moisture, the chill of the thunderous salt-spray as, jostled on by the bitter wind, the great gray seas try to retake this lonely outpost of land.

For two days and two nights, has she stood vigil, as present as the sentries upon the high walls - a small figure enwrapped in the wind-whipped gold of her hair, a halo, a garment of sunlight spun into the finest threads of silk.

See, she did, the battered little craft that struggled into the protective cove of a harbor - and run, she did, from high upon the battlements, over stone worn over the past two centuries by the daily passage of hundreds of feet - her silken slippers whispering across the ice-slicked surface - without cloak, without boots - from the fortress high to greet the weary, ice-lashed fisherman. Silence falls, a bleak silence unbroken even by the wind - which falls to a certain stillness for the briefest of moments as she finally stumbles into the great hall, blank-faced and shivering. Silence falls.