Somewhere in the world his heart was breaking...

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<html> <head> <title>Somewhere in the world his heart was breaking...</title> <style type="text/css">  </style> <style type="text/css"> span.moodmusic, span.musicmood { display: none; } </style> </head> <body> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%"> <tr> <td width="100%" bgcolor="#7B5229"></td> </tr> <tr> <td width="100%"><img src="http://www.echor.com/~orlando/shroudback.jpg" width="783" height"225"></span></font> </td> </tr> <tr> </td></tr></table> </table> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="100%"> <tr> <td valign="top" width="100%" class="body">

Thema:	But I, remote and far, under an alien star...
Cautela:	Propalata

...continued from here

Orlando stands behind glass, behind the door of the building directly across from his own, a narrow line of faded ribbon between his fingers. He watches a young woman pause before entering, disappearing up the low stairs. If he crouches, he can see all but her face. So he bends, roosts and waits. He sees her worry at her jacket, twist strands until midnight curled around her fingers. Her hand hovers above the knob and Orlando leans forward, just beyond the touch of glass. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps he made the wrong choice. That he was meant to tell her, rather than show her... his legs twitch with an invitation to speed and he forces himself to still. There is more on that one wall than idle words can realize.

( Winters of pain, roses with awful thorns... )

de mortuis nil nisi bonum

Thema:	When the gloom of the jealous night is done...
Cautela:	Propalata
EffusioCamena:	aggrieved

[A concurrance to this. Prose is from In the Golden Room: A Harmony by Wilde.]

Orlando had set the envelope on Liv's mat and considered knocking instead. But he thought of what he might say, how he might tell her he understood and that she was not alone... words failed him, gathered in his throat with the taste of grief and choked the light from his eyes. Finally, he settled on balancing himself upon her window ledge, night wind whipping the creases from his trousers. He watched her, until she roused herself from an uneasy sleep and pressed his back against the wall. He took little care to hide his presence, knowing she would sense the trespass. Still, he didn't dare ease back to the window and concentrated on the movements inside. He listened as she readied herself, could smell a slight caress of rouged oil that the wind wasn't able to take from him. Lipstick.

And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine
Burned like the ruby fire set
In the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,
Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,
Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wet
With the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.

Orlando shook his head of the whimsy as the door opened and silence fell. The gentle click as it shut made him curve his fingers around the ledge beneath him, where he crouched. A tear of paper, another quiet pulse of time and then... a soft, strange sound.
Orlando twisted against the wall and hazarded a look through the glass. The smooth, straight back of his Sire's childe and there, in her hands was Catherine. Crumpled and sun-set streaked.

Tears.

Orlando felt an answering grief and let the wind howl her name.

1 paen | de mortuis nil nisi bonum

Thema:	Tell me how you die and I´ll tell you who you are.
Cautela:	Propalata
EffusioCamena:	melancholy
EffusioCamena:	a spring rain against the window glass

</td>

Fingering the feathery petals, Orlando lifts the flower and allows the sweet scent to invade. Memory hangs in the air and he breathes it in.

( hay más tiempo que vida )
Death is about separating the sacred from the profane.
The sacred is a serious matter,
but Muertos is also a festival.
So this is a festival in a sacred space,
and this means everything is allowed without censure.
~José del Val
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de mortuis nil nisi bonum

Thema:	Quand Jupiter ouvrit les cieux...
Cautela:	Propalata
EffusioCamena:	melancholy
EffusioCamena:	night winds whisper to me

It was a long way down.

Orlando slips off his shoes and stockings. Fingers linen paper and ebony ink, folded neatly in a pocket. He hangs his coat from the weathered wing of a guardian at rest and begins the climb. Slipping fingers and toes into unseen crevices, he scales the wall and works his way to Siegrid.

The gargoyle sat, as she always did, looking to the West. Orlando did not know the artist's name and had long enjoyed the idle fancy of her. He liked to think she did not have a creator, but rather came to rest here on her own. Folded against the wind, Siegrid was safely roosted in the most unreachable spot atop Notre Dame de Paris.

( ...pour nous envoyer le deluge. )

de mortuis nil nisi bonum

Thema:	A mimic echo...
Cautela:	Propalata
EffusioCamena:	quixotic

Orlando pulls on a wool pea-coat, the material catching at the silk of his shirt sleeves. A silent rasp against the temporary warmth beneath his skin. He looks over to the mattress in the corner, shoved hastily in its place, the lines of it running unevenly next to the shelter of the walls. Hidden underneath it, positioned so a bent corner is caught beneath the baseboard, is a postcard.

( ...in the shell. )

de mortuis nil nisi bonum

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