( he pays more attention to the forum than he'll admit to, a recent, semi-formed habit of searching out events, the sorts of things people at home used to seek out mr. knight for assistance with. delicate things that might need a less delicate touch. weird things for the FREAKY GUY to deal with.
the temple doesn't get mentioned, not in the same way the missing girl had been mentioned, but word had spread in its own way, and once he catches sight of it, marc finds himself stopping. he's not sure he even really means to do it, not even when his bike's parked off to one side and he's stood in front of the structure. he knows he's not alone, there are other vehicles parked up, none of them carrying enough signs of disuse or neglect to imply that they've been here for an inordinate amount of time.
it's the sort of detail he notes absentmindedly, that sits at the edges of his thoughts as he finds himself thinking of selima.
he hadn't been looking for a daughter then, but a father and daughter had ended up changing his life (death—?) entirely. it'd been hot and sticky, and he'd been hot and sticky, but it'd been something he'd done enough times for the unpleasantness of it all to be bone-deep familiar.
here and now, he's hot and sticky and clammy, heat having given way to a chill, but it's different. there's no desert, no sand finding its way into every crevice, and no unrelenting sun bearing down on him. no dehydration. no shivers, no headache. now, it's just the discomfort of sweat; then, it'd been blood and sweat combined, and for a long time, he'd never quite been sure if the voice he'd heard had been real, whether it'd been madness, or whether he'd just been delirious.
(marlene had certainly thought it delirium. jean-paul, too. marc, meanwhile, had placed all sense of and belief in self in a statue.)
"come to me and be reborn in my light." "you will be mine. you will be my hands. my eyes. my vengeance. you will be my knight."
he remembers the words, but it's not what he hears now. home. is he? (isn't he?)
the sound of movement just behind him doesn't go unnoticed, but he does little more than turn his head an almost imperceptible amount. it's not because he assumes there's no danger, it's not even arrogance or ego, it's simply because it holds more of his attention.
it doesn't occur to him, not yet, that it could be someone he knows, and he certainly doesn't wonder why they'd stopped — the same reason he had, oddly drawn in? or because they'd noticed his (still blindingly bright) orange bike? )
—She could be in here, ( he murmurs, seemingly apropos nothing, tone caught somewhere between soft and gruff, as if he's caught between knowing why he's here and having quite entirely forgotten.
and that's it, that's all he says as he walks towards the gate, barely hesitating as the stone gate lifts. )
⏾ temple, open
the temple doesn't get mentioned, not in the same way the missing girl had been mentioned, but word had spread in its own way, and once he catches sight of it, marc finds himself stopping. he's not sure he even really means to do it, not even when his bike's parked off to one side and he's stood in front of the structure. he knows he's not alone, there are other vehicles parked up, none of them carrying enough signs of disuse or neglect to imply that they've been here for an inordinate amount of time.
it's the sort of detail he notes absentmindedly, that sits at the edges of his thoughts as he finds himself thinking of selima.
he hadn't been looking for a daughter then, but a father and daughter had ended up changing his life (death—?) entirely. it'd been hot and sticky, and he'd been hot and sticky, but it'd been something he'd done enough times for the unpleasantness of it all to be bone-deep familiar.
here and now, he's hot and sticky and clammy, heat having given way to a chill, but it's different. there's no desert, no sand finding its way into every crevice, and no unrelenting sun bearing down on him. no dehydration. no shivers, no headache. now, it's just the discomfort of sweat; then, it'd been blood and sweat combined, and for a long time, he'd never quite been sure if the voice he'd heard had been real, whether it'd been madness, or whether he'd just been delirious.
(marlene had certainly thought it delirium. jean-paul, too. marc, meanwhile, had placed all sense of and belief in self in a statue.)
"come to me and be reborn in my light."
"you will be mine. you will be my hands. my eyes. my vengeance. you will be my knight."
he remembers the words, but it's not what he hears now. home. is he? (isn't he?)
the sound of movement just behind him doesn't go unnoticed, but he does little more than turn his head an almost imperceptible amount. it's not because he assumes there's no danger, it's not even arrogance or ego, it's simply because it holds more of his attention.
it doesn't occur to him, not yet, that it could be someone he knows, and he certainly doesn't wonder why they'd stopped — the same reason he had, oddly drawn in? or because they'd noticed his (still blindingly bright) orange bike? )
—She could be in here, ( he murmurs, seemingly apropos nothing, tone caught somewhere between soft and gruff, as if he's caught between knowing why he's here and having quite entirely forgotten.
and that's it, that's all he says as he walks towards the gate, barely hesitating as the stone gate lifts. )