One night—nearly indistinguishable from every other night over the past three thousand years—a sudden shift in the atmospheres startled the Heavens. Thunder cracked, strained as a gryphon’s cries, followed by dark clouds clamping over the skies above Jerusalem. Pale rain descended in tight succession, long, winding, tear streaks over ancient streets.
The night reeled in memories of other rains:
Heavy rain when the war first erupted; me, as a child, crouching by the city gates, waiting for father, and the Vice Regent who came instead, ahead of a silent army. The betrayal of a friend in my youth, the calamity after, rain the scent of white roses. And rain the night I stood over the balcony in Pandemonium, peering down to see the Prince of Darkness drenched beneath.
The memories meld themselves together, keys each inextricably bound to the next, struggling yet never breaking free of a singular lock, a lock engraved with that era’s most beautiful, radiant, angelic name.
That night, Babylor was little more than a sodden ruin, a small bird soaked by the storm. When I saw her panic—caught in the collapse of her own lie—I suddenly understood: I had known all along, I simply kept on turning away.
As she clutched my leg, crying, pleading for me to stay, I felt no anger, only the quiet urge to look at her, warm and tender.
I wanted to say—Babylor, it’s not your fault. Because it’s just as you said: the moment someone speaks his name, I cease to be myself. No matter what others insist, my thoughts are of him. Not for lack of wanting to change, or to forget, but because after so many gatherings, crossings, partings, I am so, so tired.
Yet I held back for a very long time. In the end, all I left her was my quiet, unremarkable silhouette.
Outside, the rain poured, cluttered with noise. Inside, here, all was still — a long corridor, silver-lit through the windows. I walked its length in silence, toward the end of this life.
Lucifer.
Even if you’re there when the day breaks, tonight I will not sleep. Each morning we’re written anew. And it’s tonight’s me who misses you the most.
Even knowing, I’ll wake tomorrow to a world that still holds you.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
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