Snowblind Inbox

[warriorscribe]

[Such a wondrous device. Are there little invisible couriers for these messages?]

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[warriorscribe]

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.

[bookofnope]

[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.]