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It's less about movement than desire.
Feb. 12th, 2006 01:06 amRaguel has been outside by the lake for a couple of hours. He goes there to concentrate because he can never quite force himself into the right frame of mind in Los Angeles. There’s always somewhere to be (on business), someone to talk to (on business), facts to check (on business). And lately he feels that business, ironically, has less and less to do with being an angel. It pulls him out of touch with the memories that connect him to the City - except, of course, for the worst ones. And as terrible as his last days there had been, he misses it. He misses it every day. Until very recently, he'd have said it was impossible that he'd ever see it again.
But now he’s trying, really trying to find some suggestion that his wings are still there, and frustration has begun to set in. He’s already tried walking, twisting, stretching this way and that through the woods, desperate to feel anything that would suggest that this madness has some potential for success. But there’s no hint that he’s making any progress, not even the half-imagined illusion of a slight tug that Bar had inflicted at Halloween.
Finally exhausted, he throws himself down at the base of a tree, fingering the worn, grayish feather he’d found months ago under unexpected circumstances. He’s certain he's missing something obvious, but anger, he knows, clouds his judgment. His eyes close and he tries to relax. Within a few minutes his mind drifts – wind, lightness, balance, power, flight. The sky, the stars. The City. An hour or more he sits, motionless except for the feather running smoothly through calloused fingers. The problem is. The problem is.
The problem, he grudgingly admits after a while, is that it’s less about movement than desire. Raguel’s never been good with desire. Not admitting to it, certainly not acting on it. But he wants to go home, he does.
Do you?
His eyes fly open and he jerks away from the tree with a sharp gasp. Those voices out of the memory of Darkness haven’t spoken so clearly for weeks now, and he’s been too grateful for the unexpected silence to want analyze it. But with that question had come a sensation just over the spine….
A tingling, nothing more. But something tangible, at least, that he can be sure he didn’t imagine in some pathetic fantasy. And the voice - well, in light of the results, the voice is easy to forget. Raguel grins to himself and stuffs the wilted feather back into one of the deep pockets of his coat. He climbs to his feet – damn the stiffness in his leg, his hip, a different ache every time – and works out the pain as he heads across the wide stretch of grass toward the bar.
Hope sits strangely on his heart, but it feels good there. The halting steps of his injury grow smoother as he approaches the door.
But now he’s trying, really trying to find some suggestion that his wings are still there, and frustration has begun to set in. He’s already tried walking, twisting, stretching this way and that through the woods, desperate to feel anything that would suggest that this madness has some potential for success. But there’s no hint that he’s making any progress, not even the half-imagined illusion of a slight tug that Bar had inflicted at Halloween.
Finally exhausted, he throws himself down at the base of a tree, fingering the worn, grayish feather he’d found months ago under unexpected circumstances. He’s certain he's missing something obvious, but anger, he knows, clouds his judgment. His eyes close and he tries to relax. Within a few minutes his mind drifts – wind, lightness, balance, power, flight. The sky, the stars. The City. An hour or more he sits, motionless except for the feather running smoothly through calloused fingers. The problem is. The problem is.
The problem, he grudgingly admits after a while, is that it’s less about movement than desire. Raguel’s never been good with desire. Not admitting to it, certainly not acting on it. But he wants to go home, he does.
Do you?
His eyes fly open and he jerks away from the tree with a sharp gasp. Those voices out of the memory of Darkness haven’t spoken so clearly for weeks now, and he’s been too grateful for the unexpected silence to want analyze it. But with that question had come a sensation just over the spine….
A tingling, nothing more. But something tangible, at least, that he can be sure he didn’t imagine in some pathetic fantasy. And the voice - well, in light of the results, the voice is easy to forget. Raguel grins to himself and stuffs the wilted feather back into one of the deep pockets of his coat. He climbs to his feet – damn the stiffness in his leg, his hip, a different ache every time – and works out the pain as he heads across the wide stretch of grass toward the bar.
Hope sits strangely on his heart, but it feels good there. The halting steps of his injury grow smoother as he approaches the door.
