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-----Backdated to December 13th/14th, following And put in eyes of clay ( Quenton )
The Journey. I would like to walk it by your side, for as long as we find our roads near to do so hand in hand.
Hand in hand, Thraen pulled a body-furrow along towards silent, stolid bone shadows and glass reflections thrown by the Grand Conservatory. All was still, quiet, empty. "Maybe this place would have pleased you to see, with all empty and petrified black-brown."
Necessity was as flexible as Alois’ corpse, now hours into rigor and laid out on a black sheet. He was already bare of clothes to the blacker sky over the asteroid, and well in company with the stiff, desecrated and stone-hearted tangles of gardens and plant life. There is no more an obvious ritual to mourn the whole of this world than a man with neither religion nor faith in fellows, morals, ideals or life itself. You chased and invited death so much more than anything else, and have found those arms at last. Forsaking mine. In the final end, not even that was left me, given me, afforded me, as the first furrows, wishes, promises between us, Bischofite Alois Scholz. Had I known but yesterday what I know today.
They’d both already been anointed with viscous gore, with ash and then water. The final steps were mostly quiet, steady labor of shearing another sheet and all the black clothes to ribbon wraps of cloth, spreading each of the oils over him in turn and then wrapping each limb until not was left but an appropriately tattered-black mummy. Death gathered you long before; And still set your sallow corpse to dance and seek for another's light and laughter. Alone you froze and wilted, breath to forget, so went as pollinator from bright face to face. Never possessed and ever possessor, jealous and capricious of all the conviction you could find to muster your lack of own. Doomed to think yourself void amphitheater, unseen the waiting body there beyond your own black and blue. There on the table where we kissed if you would but inhabit it. If you would set aside your fear. Not dead but doomed to die.
In echo of thoughts, a kiss was pressed over the wrapped mouth. Stepped away to take up the Axe and brought it down with swift, sure aim once, twice for complete and clean sheer through radius and ulna of the white right hand. The stump, bloodless and dead, was offered more wrapping. Then Thraen turned to the other brought implements and the wide, flagged portico that processed up to the Conservatory. So much for gentle use and study before despoiling. But there is no marking or use, other than pattern of laying stone, to be gained in dogged preservation of this small plot of a greater site.
The choice of stones was made with pick at the mortar, then another, until enough dark earth was revealed to befit the internment of Alois’ height. Then hours to dig. The asteroid’s strength and speed coursing quick and sure in his veins to make it even possible to break the petrified layer of ground. And through it. And down.
Boot feet had to step down into the very surface of the asteroid. Then his knees vanished, waist, shoulders, until finally the depth hid even the crown of branches and flowers. Thraen leapt out at last, refreshed with a bottle of water again, the fourth of the venture. Lover gathered, the Eternal of Gardens took him down into his final bed.
Then rose alone and filled it over.
Gathered hand and pack, leaving implements for other days.
I did not let go, Alois. Life did.
