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His fingers communed with the scars in the stone, gliding over splotched stains and chipped cracks in search of every tale this wall had to offer. And its dust clung to the circles in his skin, kissing their lifelong wounds as would a mother for its child. He felt so warm against its cold age. Perhaps it was simply the orange glow of purple night, subsiding from the cursed darkness with a calming rise like a blanket lifting over his back.
He'd returned to this spot outside the government house of parliament every morning since he'd been stranded here on Darkknell days ago, viscerally pulled to these spanning glyphs so saturated by a palpable history. It's culture was depicted like a memory, familiar to him even as he ignored the bustle of the present bodies shuffling about behind him. If he could breath in all the sights and sounds this wall had seen, sniff at the spoiling sand, his heart would be fulfilled.
A beggar child, setting up his bass violin along the gutter-bank to express his mourning soul, had come to expect the sight of Lucifer each day. There is the white colored man, he'd say as he unclipped the brass latches over the gray worn leather case. There he goes, letting his torn white woolen sleeves sweep off the dust from the ancient murals dragging his fingers up and down each pictorial from the wars to those who caused them. Each day the same tacky clothes, string unraveled down the stitching of his neck and shoulder; leaving a common empathy in the boy's sad eyes as he glanced over to Lucifer, as if checking the time. When his hand reaches the 'blood mother', I should be almost ready to play - he'd tell himself.
Lucifer had forgotten how long it had been since he'd pressed the personal signal beacon, pinging his location to one person whom had found him when he was lost not too long ago; a mess. Now he was less so. More was he right where he needed to be than anything else. And there was the reason. His fingers stopped just underneath that picture. There wasn't a name. There wasn't a title nor crown. Yet there was something that he could not get past. The woman's face. This mural had to have been centuries old. At least it seemed so. And yet, there was his mother's face imprinted onto the wall. Right there. As clear as day. There was no mistaking it. As hard as he had tried to forget her disinterested longing, that glazed stare that saw straight over him and into the distant beyond, there it was leering out from the stone. Yet now he was tall enough. He could lift his eyes into her view, into the painted dots of her pupils that stopped right at his. It scared him to know absolutely that it was her, somehow, some way.
A woman strolled up beside him.
"Beautiful. Isn't she?"
Lucifer tore his stare away from the tiny depiction of a white haired woman, drawing a curious creep of innocence to his side where he found a formally dressed young lady studying the white haired portrait next to him. His soft, cold blue eyes swept back to the image of his mother then back to the woman who seemed so unafraid to stand so close; to address him without formally addressing him.
"Alright everyone," she addressed three stragglers of varying insignificance with a pivoting rotation away from Lucifer. "Have a look around. I'll be right back. We'll begin the tour in five minutes."
He'd returned to this spot outside the government house of parliament every morning since he'd been stranded here on Darkknell days ago, viscerally pulled to these spanning glyphs so saturated by a palpable history. It's culture was depicted like a memory, familiar to him even as he ignored the bustle of the present bodies shuffling about behind him. If he could breath in all the sights and sounds this wall had seen, sniff at the spoiling sand, his heart would be fulfilled.
A beggar child, setting up his bass violin along the gutter-bank to express his mourning soul, had come to expect the sight of Lucifer each day. There is the white colored man, he'd say as he unclipped the brass latches over the gray worn leather case. There he goes, letting his torn white woolen sleeves sweep off the dust from the ancient murals dragging his fingers up and down each pictorial from the wars to those who caused them. Each day the same tacky clothes, string unraveled down the stitching of his neck and shoulder; leaving a common empathy in the boy's sad eyes as he glanced over to Lucifer, as if checking the time. When his hand reaches the 'blood mother', I should be almost ready to play - he'd tell himself.
Lucifer had forgotten how long it had been since he'd pressed the personal signal beacon, pinging his location to one person whom had found him when he was lost not too long ago; a mess. Now he was less so. More was he right where he needed to be than anything else. And there was the reason. His fingers stopped just underneath that picture. There wasn't a name. There wasn't a title nor crown. Yet there was something that he could not get past. The woman's face. This mural had to have been centuries old. At least it seemed so. And yet, there was his mother's face imprinted onto the wall. Right there. As clear as day. There was no mistaking it. As hard as he had tried to forget her disinterested longing, that glazed stare that saw straight over him and into the distant beyond, there it was leering out from the stone. Yet now he was tall enough. He could lift his eyes into her view, into the painted dots of her pupils that stopped right at his. It scared him to know absolutely that it was her, somehow, some way.
A woman strolled up beside him.
"Beautiful. Isn't she?"
Lucifer tore his stare away from the tiny depiction of a white haired woman, drawing a curious creep of innocence to his side where he found a formally dressed young lady studying the white haired portrait next to him. His soft, cold blue eyes swept back to the image of his mother then back to the woman who seemed so unafraid to stand so close; to address him without formally addressing him.
"Alright everyone," she addressed three stragglers of varying insignificance with a pivoting rotation away from Lucifer. "Have a look around. I'll be right back. We'll begin the tour in five minutes."