warriorscribe | Snowblind Inbox

[There is no answer. He hears it, even if Enoch doesn’t outright say it. And it’s like a physical blow, a pressure forcing out the air he fights for. An evil that even God – Enoch’s God – cannot account for. Was that the true meaning of what Caine had said to him, or not said? No hell but what they have made for themselves on Earth?

But it wasn’t free will that made the curse of his kind, and it was not free will that made Gehenna. There is a darkness. The darkness is real.]

You… [he hesitates. It isn’t for Enoch’s sake, though he hears the other man’s distress. Maybe it’s for both of them, what they both seem to circle around, now. Once the thought is voiced, there’ll be no taking back the roots it strikes.] You make it sound as though the Darkness is stronger than Him.

[Not quite where Enoch is going. He had long since been broken of the idea that God could see, know, and react to everything. Many things, perhaps, countless more than any mortal or even any angel can respond to. But not everything.]

I think if it were stronger, He would have been overthrown by now. It is...a formidable foe. That is all I know. And its denizens hunger for human souls.

[And there is the thought, voiced, and Beckett takes a long time before he finds the next one. The concept of God as, essentially, just one more supernatural player on the stage is one he's familiar with. Others in Norfinbury seem to have similar mythologies and metaphysics. But this is not what he'd been speaking of, with Enoch. And it is not what the other man seemed to be speaking of. To have the idea placed in front of him again suddenly - that God is limited, fallible, may Himself lack answers - is wrenching.

They've all said it. House has taunted him with it. Shiro has said it. Haurchefant seemed ready to believe it. Caine himself had left the idea there to eat away at him. Even Anatole had wondered, in their darkest hours. And he had kept searching, because he had always been the doubter, even when what it really meant was belief...]

This is not what I want, [he rasps, and hears his own words with perfect clarity for the child's helpless tantrum that they are. Raging at cosmic unfairness. What you want has never existed.] I wanted answers, damnit, I wanted truth, I wanted grace -

Some questions don't have them...

[This is both freeing and frightening. He knows. He went from thinking God had a hand in everything to learning He sees much but acts little. The angels say He knows all, but they all phrased it in hypotheticals. "It is said that...", "God is supposed to..."

Like humans. Like them. The two obviously learned it from one another, but which among them had the idea first, who can say.]

I would like to help you, if I can. We are made as companions to one another and the caretakers of our Earth. It is our only directive from Him. So I will help, if you'll have it.

[It's almost unfair - a part of him wishes he had the breath to shout at Enoch. You say you want to help, and this is what you give me! If that is the only directive, then it's a pointless one. His companions are gone, and there will not be others. Not of his Kindred. Enoch can speak of God and Heaven of all the personal experience he has, but he is not Anatole. No one will be.

He shifts in the blankets, restless and helpless. Human things are suddenly overwhelming. He's too hot, his throat is tight, his head feels stuffy and aching. If he speaks up too loudly or coughs or sobs someone will wake up and come see to him, and there is nothing he wants less. He wants to be alone with his - it's not existential emptiness - it isn't some kind of cosmic anger. It's just grief.]

There's nothing you can do, [he rasps finally. The pain is in his voice, though it's a very human one now.] Thank you, but there is nothing.

[That is the last reply Enoch gets that night. Grief too needs its time.]

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