I Have Shattered Under Midnight [Closed]

[Lord General Maahes Asad-Aziem]

I have toured the endless starlight
take me home
I have shattered under midnight
take me home
There are no vultures
in this clearing
Except the ones who brought me here
And I'll no longer feed them
take me home

Kingdom come, their will was done
And now the earth is far away
from any kind of heaven

Hallowed be these frozen fields
And every single one of us
still left in want of mercy
Take us home
Now the bells stand still and hollow
take me home.
~Starlight, Wailin' Jenny's

[/i]

The Warrior Monk, Jian:

The snow came early, it blanketed the hills in a silence that so few could truly appreciate, and gave the already peaceful valley a beauty that brought the memory of the mountain temple with it. The night sky was so very clear when the world beneath it was still, and though the winds that blew were bitter and cold, they warmed the little monk. His time here in the lands of the White Hound, and in the Valley of Stars had been short, but he felt as though he was truly part of it all. He felt home here, and loved here. He felt as though he could never go back to the Temple that had been his tomb, and not once feel the guilt of leaving behind his vows. However, that couldn’t have been any further than the truth. His ship was sailing tomorrow.


They couldn’t wait any more, the winter was proving to be a rough one, and soon the pass would be frozen. They would be stuck here until Spring, and the men that escorted him here had families to return to unlike Jian who had nothing more than a cold mountain side--and silence. He was so far from where he had belonged that he was certain upon his return he would parish. How could he go back to his chaste simple lifestyle with such knowledge of the outside world. He had been granted once to keep his hair due to the nature of his differences, but could he keep this feeling? This warm wonderful feeling that came with every breath that was of Skye--that was Jiordano.


The Italian Artisan had been missing from the feast, the farewell dinner of the various cultures, and no matter how many times Jian watched for him he never came. His seat was empty, his good-byes left unspoken, and his laughter missing. Over the past few months English came easier, but of course it was not perfect. However, somehow they made it work. Jian learned to paint while, Jiordano was swept into the elements around him. Of course, he would never become a master like Jiordano, but his little stick figures and bright yellow suns complimented the halls like a child’s painting did their parent’s icebox. Jian painted stories with his words, wrote poetry on the paper with the beautiful elegant script of black characters, and told a story of how a Tuscan Sun could be friends with the Asian Moon.


“Jiordano?” Spoke to an empty room, his heart breaking with the realization the painter wasn’t there either. Surely he hadn’t left already to be in town? He would miss him entirely. The moon colored monk felt his eyes start to prickle with pressure behind them, and the room suddenly too small. He couldn’t get back on that boat tomorrow, he just couldn’t, and especially without saying good bye to Jiordano.


“Master Jian?” Came a voice from the hall, sweet and kind. Little Isis in her party dress always looked like a little princess, but glittering as she did now it was hard to imagine her any other way. It would be too early for the family to see them off in the morning, and kneeling as he did not he knew this hug to be the last. Her sweet little hands on his face washed away the tears he had thought he couldn’t cry, and around his neck she left a necklace of wood beads like the Lion wore in his hair.


“Thank you.” He said in the halls watching the family leave for the night, the party was over, and the reality of it all finally sinking in. The Lord General’s home couldn’t be seen in the dark when it wasn’t lit, but there was a light outside on the hillside; one that was warm and inviting as it cast a golden glow over the fallen snow. He knew that light, and with it his heart soared.


The Artisan’s School. It wasn’t far, and with the footprints in the snow guiding him he started his trek to it. He didn’t care about his slippers being ruined, or that the only thing that was keeping him warm was the wool wrap he had been given. He just wanted to see Jiordano one last time. Half way there the snow started again, falling in heavy large flakes that made him laugh as it tickled his lashes, and touched his lips. However, upon the door of the school Jian felt his shoulders shake, and the cold of the snow suddenly sank in.

“Jior-dano?” He had gotten better with his name, “Italy, Sciarra? You are here?"

[Jiordano Sciarra]

"Our memories are paintings made by the mind. The most vivid colors chosen to display those moments we cherish most, bambino. Go now, it will be time for Master Jian's festa di addio soon."

Young Hope and Luke were ushered off, covered in paint as they were, with a kiss to each of their little cheeks. The lesson done for the day. No, now it was time for them to prepare for the feast that would usher Jian out of this world and back into his own. One that many would attend. One that he should attend. The more he stared out the classroom's window though toward the house in the distance... the harder it became to even attempt getting ready.

How could he say farewell to someone that he didn't even want to go? Yet, asking him to stay would be just as unfair. For Jian's world was somewhere else. A palm smeared in paint the color of sunset gently touch the cold glass window, pressing against it to keep steady, as he bowed his head and quietly withdrew back into the quiet of the school. The print left behind now smudged.

___________________________

Evening passed swiftly, quietly. A tomb of solitude that shut away all the sounds to be heard outside. Carried by the wind toward the school as though taunting Jiordano. Come, come. Come say farewell. Come celebrate... they whispered and the artist tossed a ceramic jar of paint toward a blank wall. It shattered harshly in the dark room that was lit only by two drooping candles.

"Festeggiare? What is there to celebrate? Niente! Nothing!" The man shouted at the silence in a mixture of Italian and English that rambled. He took another heavy drink from the wine bottle at his side. Acquired from a case that was being taken upto the house earlier. There was another laying empty on the floor. It sparkled in the candle flame that glinted off it, splashing abstracted shadows around the room, and was a harsh reminder to just how much he'd had to drink.

Not that he cared. He was an Italian! Drinking was in their blood. It would take much more than a bottle and a half of wine to make him drunk. Though he stumbled a bit as he approached the wall covered in a myriad of mixed paints with shattered pieces of jar laying about areas of the floor. He was shirtless, his pants unlaced in the front, and his black hair was mussed from having his hands ran through it a thousand times. Barefeet stepped on broken jar pieces that cut into tender skin and let the bright red shade of his blood mix with the paint that had sprayed on the floor.

Placing the bottle of wine down on the floor, uncaring of the cuts, placed both hands against the wall. Feeling the squish of the wet paint between his fingers and against his palms. Soaking into every crevice of his skin. Cool, gentle... calming. The anger faded to sorrow as the feel of the paint reached his soul and he remembered those times here, in the school, when he would teach Jian to paint while also trying to teach him bits of English and Italian. Even with the language barrier they always found ways to understand each other it seemed. With him gone, he realized, he'd be lonely. Ever so lonely.

Oh, he'd have Eirian and Hope and Luke, and a myriad of other faces that he'd come to call friend or family. Yet none that touched his soul and heart as did Jian. His Jian. Jiordano had known for quite some time that what he felt for Jian went far beyond the realm of friendship or family. He'd never felt anything like this since... Demetrio, but it was more than seduction and lust. It was what the poets wrote about.

"Nonsenso! That is not what the Lord has in store for me. No, that is... is bl-blasphemy." There was a weight of self-loathing carried in it. Guilt that he should even feel these emotions for another that was a man. No, it was a sin of the worst kind. Was not that what they all said? That he could even consider dragging Jian into it. That could not happen. It would endanger his vows. It would make him scorned by those who now cared for him. It would give his soul to the Devil.

"NO!" The shout echoed off the walls off the room, one hand moving in a reaction of anger and hurt.. and guilt to grab the bottle of wine and slam it against the wall. The glass shattering in his hand, cutting it, as he stared at the floor with both eyes squeezed shut. "I will... I will let him leave. It is be-best."

The tears leaked out slowly, sliding down cheeks rough with a scruffy beard, as he stood there. Not hearing the voice that called his name.

[Master Jian of the Shaolin]

His voice had been stolen from him as he let this man’s suffering wash over him like the sea, and all Jian could do was take it all in. In the door where the air from the outside struggled with the warmth of the fire within, he found time to admire the balance of the candles before he closed his eyes. The warm calm steady flames of the drooping flicker was controlled, patient, and nothing like the fire that roared in the hearth--the fire that burned inside Jiordano. The blood on the floor, the blood at his feet...it was too much, but when Jian opened his eyes once more he seemed as calm as the snow as it fell slowly to the ground.


Poised and perfected steps closed the distance slowly between them, Jiordano had his back to the door, but sheltered himself even further than that. He was at his end, his emotions were so conflicted that Jian couldn’t simply grasp just one. No. He felt them all. They weighed on him one by one, and all at once; like the four points of a compass he knew his friend to truly be suffering in what direction to go.


With the firelight there against the Italian’s skin he knew of the dawn, he knew of the way the sun must have burned so brightly on his skin for centuries past. His culture was rich, their passions pure, but now...he knew them to be reckless.

The blood...

All Jian could think of was how his feet bleed, and of the symbolism that it represented. An artist would know, that every step was of a collection of long strides over stones and glass. Not all of life could be as adored as the way the warm summer grass felt, or as refreshing as a cool clear pool of water. All man must walk on coals once in their life, but this was not Jian’s time. No...his steps didn’t make a sound, and were light enough they didn’t even unsettle the glass.

“Jiordano...” He breathed touching the man’s bare arm to turn him so that he could see his face, and the tears there broke him. And in a voice that sounded like a sigh he whispered, “..Your temple...” His calm little palm came to touch the man’s chest, and found it’s place there warmly over his heart.

Your body is your temple. You must be kind to it always.

Jiordano had not been kind as he broke the walls down, no his heart was suffering just as much as his feet; more so as he hadn’t seemed to notice, and this killed Jian as he lead him to the chair by the fire. The wood beautiful with all the details finely carved on in the amber surface, and it complimented the Artisan well. With his Artist seated there he could look upon him, heal him, and tend to the water that touched his cheeks.

There were not words for this moment, he hadn’t any to give, not in a language the Italian could understand, but where his lips could not his eyes spoke in volumes. His silver eyes were like mirrors that reflected the candlelight, and were filled with concern. Jian was surprised to see Jiordano like this, and looking down on him now he kept one hand on his neck gently while the other brushed softly the corner of his soft wool wrap under his eyes.

I know... His pale lips remained sealed, but as the raw emotions of seeing Jiordano cry made tears of his own flood his eyes; they spoke for him. I don’t want to leave you either. Finally, he broke, and fell into the man. His arms went around the Artisan’s neck while his face buried into the warm cradle of his neckline, and he found shelter there. Naturally his body found refuge in the Artisan’s lap, against his chest, and he would only leave it when Jiordano bid him to. However he did sit up only long enough to run one hand back through the Italian’s hair to try to soothe away all this pain, but he wasn’t ready to let go. Jian tightened his hold, his fingers brushing through the thick curls as he cradled his head next to his own while he quietly broke against the man’s shoulder.

[Jiordano Sciarra]

If walls could talk...

Well, they'd have quite a story to tell. Even these ones still yet new to the world. The buildings design not even completed, but some rooms held tales that would entertain. Tales of joy, of sorrow, of love, and of hope. They'd speak now of Jiordano's grief, his utter heartbreak, over the departing of Jian. Yet they'd also be able to tell one of the moment the monk walked into that room.

Lost in grief so intense that it made his soul rage, Jiordano did not sense the little monk's presence at first. All he could feel was the way the paint squished between his fingers, the way the glass pressed against the skin of his feet, and the way the tears trekked warmly down his cheeks. All he could feel at the moment was his pain, but it was the monk whispering his name from right next to him that drew Jiordano's attention. Head jerked around to see if... if he was real. If he actually stood there. Staring intensely as though Jian would vanish before his eyes.

It was only when the monk's hand pressed against his heart that Jiordano knew. "Vi sono reali..."

The italian rolled off his tongue in a breathless rush. Accepting the grasp of Jian's hand with a teary smile as he was lead toward the chair. Grief forgotten for a brief, hopeful moment as the monk stood there in front of him. Jiordano wanted to hold him, to keep him close, for as long as time would allow. Every sweet touch brought a softening, but at the same time intensified the pain. Knowing that soon their times together would fade to become past instead of present. The monk's gentle ministrations to his tear-covered face and the touch of his hand on his neck was comforting.

On Jian's wool wrap he could smell the cold of winter's touch. The way it coated his clothing, and perhaps even his skin just a bit, allowed it to pervade his nose until it was overwhelming. The smell of the fire as the wood popped repeatedly mingled with it until Jiordano wanted nothing more than to have him close. Every sense seemed enhanced in this moment. The blue of his eyes turned green as the emotions churning inside him faster and faster, but they refused to drop from Jian's own.

The way they communicated was impossible in the minds of most people. Both spoke different languages where a common ground was hard to even find, but they still managed to understand one another through touch and looks. An intense passion that spoke volumes passed between them, and sometimes it was mere understanding that provided laughs and smiles. Jiordano could recall many times they'd shared a thought through look in this very room.

Do not weep, caro. Do not...

Jian's tears tore at his heart until it felt like it'd burst inside his chest. Arms wrapped around the monk as he sat in his lap, holding tightly and drawing him close. In the silence of the room the only sound was the result of tears. They wept for what both would soon lose: each other. He pressed his face against his shoulder and inhaled the scent of Jian into his lungs. Feeling the way his body pressed against his chest while his hand gripped his curls. A hold so tight it felt like he'd never let go...

Just as Jiordano held him.

A shiver raced through his body accompanied by an ache. An ache for the man that sat with him. To soothe away his tears and offer comfort, and capture a moment of love before it was ripped from them both. Jiordano's hands moved up the monk's back until he came to his neck and ever so gently placed a hand under his chin then lifted his head a bit. Meeting Jian's gaze in the pulsing silence.

Jiordano's deep voice broke it, the ache intensifying each word,"Just once, il mio amore."

Then he dipped his head to press lips softly against Jian's own. A gentle, teasing slide of warmth before he drew his head back.

[Master Jian of the Shaolin]

The stories told for years to come would be of the quiet whispers, the stolen kiss, and the way that two hearts became one. Jian pressed the tips of his finger’s to Jiordano’s chest, touching of the beating drum beneath it, and memorizing the sound. For the months to come he would recall this moment, looking back instead of looking forward.

“Luna e stelle.” The Italian rolled of his lips like a sigh, and though he didn’t know a lot of it he felt closer to the language than he did English. He lived for each whisper Jiordano gave him, little bits of himself—of the man he once was, the one that wasn’t so tormented by his past. Petite yet deadly hands came to cup this man’s face once more, and his cool to the touch fingers moved back a few locks of the brown curls that so desperately clung to the artists temple. He didn’t look well, he looked tired, and drained. Under his touch he felt Jiordano’s skin hot to the touch, but felt him shiver, and that was when his ache began. Tension built between them, the warm solace there on his lap, and the pounding of his heart—but he had to tend to the blood.

He could not bleed as this, not for long, not in the state that he was in with his blood burning hot and his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, Jian moved from the man’s lap, his kiss still warm on his lips, and the shock of how badly he wanted another was testing his ability to remember his vows. And if it wasn’t selfish enough to leave the man wanting, it certainly wasn’t proper to leave him bleeding.

“Here,” He said in English, come with me and took Jiordano’s hand to help him to his feet. Across the snow he helped him walk, with the blood leaving a trail all the way to where the artisan slept at night. Where he would sleep tonight. He could not deny this one thing, and once inside he helped Jiordano to the bed.

“There.” He wanted him to remain, and slipped out the door only to return with bandages and a warm basin of water.

Jian sank to his knees, poised and polished as ever—every movement had a purpose, every little detail had a place. The fire in the hearth burned warmly at his back as he washed Jiordano’s feet—the protest no doubt the artisan would give, ignored. The silkspun moon silver of his hair fell around his face despite his best effort to keep it tied. In silence he worked for a moment, letting his thoughts slip to what the future would bring, to where they would go with all that would happen, and when the artists feet were clean Jian looked up to meet his eye.

Knelt before you, serving you, cleaning your wounds, healing your heart, and I can only think of how it will break all over again when I am gone.

Little by little he started to bandage the man’s wounds, wrapping his feet while singing softly, the Chinese beautiful like a silver spring winding clearly through the mountains—a prayer. Jiordano may never know how intimate this gesture would be, how where he came from just the touch alone forbidden, and as he tied the knot he let his fingers trail over the artist’s smooth ankle as he looked up once more.

“I will come back.” He spoke all at once as if it were a confession that weighed on him, and the guilt followed he could easily ignore. It wasn’t a crime to want to stay, it wasn’t a crime to promise such a thing was it? He lowered his eyes again, but didn’t close them, just let them fall distantly from the present as he worried through the future, and tried to make the past fit into place. How could he? How could he leave…he made vows—promises—laws. With a heavy breath he realized that tears stung his eyes again, and he bowed his head to break again. And now he didn’t lovingly touch Jiordano’s ankles, he clung to them with one hand while the other came to his knee to rest his forehead while he fell apart.