Dance of Death

P flits around the land, here now, there tomorrow, back here again the next week.

As mortals grow older, celebrate life and its steadily approaching debilitation and end, P celebrates with them, but answers a higher calling, drifting through space but steady in time, like a cork waiting in a river.

It is Him

M (also known as Dt. T, praise be unto him), has a vision. It is a beautiful Sunday evening, as M seeks a shelter and food. As his stomach leads him to wondrous places, his eyes catch sight of an unassuming figure leaning against a lonely tree. A couple of young ones play around him with the golden light of a fading day diffusing in their locks. They play in the shade of his presence, never looking towards him, but always knowing they are safe.

M does not recognize the figure, but is drawn to the sight with an instinctive tingle. The cloth might be poor, but the wearer is not. M looks into his eyes.

M knows.

The world is quiet for a moment.

M knows.

M nods.

It is him. It is him.

It is the Lord of the Fruit.

To Brea or not to Brea

M (also know as Dr. T, praise be unto him and his immortal seed) moves uneasy this evening. He cannot see Brea (also know as B, whose name, it is said, was spoken by the Mother herself in the early ages) but he senses her presence. She whispers not a breath, but M knows she rests in the damp depths that light rarely sees.

Mr. Hyde?

Its is a long day, a day whose memory shall be immortal.

M (also known as Dr. T, praise unto him be) ascends from the blue smoke, a proud countenance.

M: " Henceforth, I shall have two faces."

His Insignificant Aide (Ia, curses unto her immoral soul) gasps. The sight is breathtaking.

Ia: "gasp!"

Clear as the afternoon sky, M has two faces.