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[Open] And Did the Countenance Divine
Who: Angel and You
What: Properly priesting, or trying to at least
When: July
Where: Yes!
Warning(s): None yet
1. I will not cease from mental fight [Temple Matters]
With Degas on his sabbatical, Angel is taking on the full mantle of Priest of the Mothers. He’s wearing the brown robes of a priest and the green stole with braided knotwork patterns similar to Celtic designs along it, even though doing so makes him feel a little like a child in their father’s shoes.
Still, he’s here if you need guidance or blessing, trying to fill the role.
2. Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand [Milk and Honey]
As he’s trying to fill the role of full-time priest, Angel’s still in his robes as he brings products from Kasprak farm into town. Vegetables and fruits, eggs and goat’s milk. And, of course, honey, in small glass jars all with a wax stamp on top–a bee with a pair of stylized feathered wings.
He’s visiting stores and restaurants, but if you catch him on the carriage Arcadia’s pulling, you might get tossed a ripe tomato or offered a melon. There’s plenty to go around.
3. Till we have built Jerusalem [A Day Off]
Sometimes, it’s all a bit much. Angel occasionally runs away from his duties. Never on days when there are services planned, never when he’s scheduled for something. But when restlessness strikes, Angel’s feet take him to the wild parts of the island. Paradesium, Lockwood Forest near Elsie’s Tree, and even nosing around the cave near Tawny Beach, though it’s been caved in since he and River had their adventure. He isn’t wearing his robes, he hasn’t combed his hair, he might be up a tree or sitting on a rock, and he surely isn’t expecting company.
But still, if you approach, there’s a sheepish little nod and a wave.
4. In England's green and pleasant land [Wildcard]
[find me on discord at darkersolstice to plot]
What: Properly priesting, or trying to at least
When: July
Where: Yes!
Warning(s): None yet
1. I will not cease from mental fight [Temple Matters]
With Degas on his sabbatical, Angel is taking on the full mantle of Priest of the Mothers. He’s wearing the brown robes of a priest and the green stole with braided knotwork patterns similar to Celtic designs along it, even though doing so makes him feel a little like a child in their father’s shoes.
Still, he’s here if you need guidance or blessing, trying to fill the role.
2. Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand [Milk and Honey]
As he’s trying to fill the role of full-time priest, Angel’s still in his robes as he brings products from Kasprak farm into town. Vegetables and fruits, eggs and goat’s milk. And, of course, honey, in small glass jars all with a wax stamp on top–a bee with a pair of stylized feathered wings.
He’s visiting stores and restaurants, but if you catch him on the carriage Arcadia’s pulling, you might get tossed a ripe tomato or offered a melon. There’s plenty to go around.
3. Till we have built Jerusalem [A Day Off]
Sometimes, it’s all a bit much. Angel occasionally runs away from his duties. Never on days when there are services planned, never when he’s scheduled for something. But when restlessness strikes, Angel’s feet take him to the wild parts of the island. Paradesium, Lockwood Forest near Elsie’s Tree, and even nosing around the cave near Tawny Beach, though it’s been caved in since he and River had their adventure. He isn’t wearing his robes, he hasn’t combed his hair, he might be up a tree or sitting on a rock, and he surely isn’t expecting company.
But still, if you approach, there’s a sheepish little nod and a wave.
4. In England's green and pleasant land [Wildcard]
[find me on discord at darkersolstice to plot]
Till we have built Jerusalem
Anzu finds Angel sitting up a tree on the outskirts of Paradesium — he was, without much hope of accomplishing anything, looking to see how much citrus trees he can find without needing to venture in too deep. He's got a spool of bright blue ribbon with him, to tie around tree-branches. Thus far, he's only had cause to tie two bows.
He waves.
"A gutn, dearest! Art thou occupied, or shall my company distract thee not?"
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Anzu doesn't mind at all — he himself finds the need to have facial expressions and tone of voice to be mildly taxing. Maybe no longer as exhausting as it had been in his youth, but still things he has to think about rather than things that just happen.
He eyes the tree skeptically, decides that all things considered, he's not in too bad a shape, and that heights might be a problem, but he can just avoid looking directly down.
If it were anyone but a very small handful of people (among whom Angel is included), he would've declined.
"I suppose I could, darling!" he calls up.
Before climbing up, he makes sure his Bukharan-style yarmulka's fastened properly, and takes off his morning coat (he hangs it on a low branch, out of the way). And in just a few minutes, he's sitting on the branch next to Angel — close to the trunk, leery of falling off. As long as he looks anywhere but down, there's no vertigo.
"Searching for aught?" he says to Angel, conversationally. "Or merely, ah, finding refuge from the madding crowd?"
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"Okh, darling, thou'rt right. There's nothing more exhausting than having to be people for the sake of others," Anzu says. He's looking at the tree trunk, carefully studying its texture and colours, trying to figure out if he can tell what kind of tree it is — but he's not putting too much effort into that. It's merely something to do while he talks, and since Angel's not bothering with meeting social expectations, Anzu's not going to either. Fuck making eye contact. Fuck even faking making eye-contact.
"And truly, few things more exhausting than a congregation, nu? No matter how much one likes them."
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He doesn't have a startle response, quite, but the strain in his voice is a little like a small dog straining at a leash.
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"Okay? Darling, I would be worried if thou found'st it not taxing," Anzu says. "Feh, people ... people are exhausting. And thou hast the job of dealing with them at their most exhausting, as do I and as does mine husband. If thou wert not thyself exhausted ... ah, nu. Thou care'st too much, to breeze past it all."
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"So what do we do?"
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Anzu finally tears his gaze away from the tree, so he can look towards Angel — but not at him, necessarily. To show he's listening and present, while refraining from giving either of them cause to resume masking.
"I know not, darling," he says, sadly. "Oy. I know not. We can try to make space for ourselves, as we are ... ah. As we really are, in private. 'Tis the only advice I have for thee — try to keep room in thy life for thee, as thou art, when thou'rt not the person everyone else expects to see."
He pauses, thoughtfully, and adds, "misunderstand me not. I do enjoy being the man others think I am. He's not a bad fellow, for all that I'm skeptical either he or the one behind his mask is as much of a man as I once thought we were, nu?"
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"If by humanity thou mean'st what I think thou mean'st, of such matters much fewer are sure than many would admit, nu?" Anzu says. "Our Sages argue about it, more than once — who is a man in such a sense. But nu, here, I rather meant gender. I thought I'd decided it long ago, but ah. The older I get, the less sure I become. I know I'm a rose — gay, that is. But am I a man other than that?"
He shrugs, and circles back to a topic that by him is a little more pressing — he has already been through the whole questioning-one's-gender thing once, and re-litigating it seems like a thing that can be done at his leisure. Angel ... well. Angel's situation is more acute, he feels.
"But, ah. Listen, darling ... there is no rudeness nor imposition in asking others to call thee what thou art, rather than what they'd like thee to be. Thou'rt the best and the only expert on thyself, after all."
He pauses and faces in Angel's direction, still avoiding eye contact, still avoiding staring, and smiles.
"I'd never insist thou out thyself, if thou would'st prefer privacy. But ... if thou would'st trust me with such knowledge, tell me ... what art thou, in thine opinion? In the matter of gender, that is."
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It gestures loosely at its body, top to toe of feet dangling off the branch.
"This isn't me. I am not this. This body is not mine, it belonged to someone. I am something inside puppeting it."
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Anzu's unfazed — he merely nods.
"So then, dearest, thou'rt without gender," he says. "And thou owe'st not the pretence of caring, not to me, not to anyone."
He sighs, and looks up at the canopy, drumming his fingers on the branch the two of them sit on, thinking through what to say. He doesn't seem dismissive, merely unsurprised.
And he doesn't want to seem like he's got ready answers to something that's been weighing on Angel's mind for some time.
"The assumptions others shall make ... oy, darling, that is much harder," he says, at length. "None of us are truly free from the assumptions of others, but some of us, us two included, are subject to rather more than others."
He bites his lip, keenly aware that there's little comfort he can offer — the gaze of strangers has always weighed heavy on him, too.
"If thou decide'st to tell others, those what love thee, they'll learn to see thee as thou art, and not as no man, nor aught else with gender. But others may not. And I wish it could be otherwise. But just because some will insist on leaping to conclusions ... feh. Such obstinacy is their crass attitude, not thine. If thou say'st thou'rt not anything what can be gendered, then I believe thee. After all, for all that I'm lucky enough to pass, to be old enough to have forgotten the dread of correcting others ... I'm more like thee than not, nu?"
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Anzu notes the change in Angel's demeanour, and likewise turns to look at it without staring; he smiles.
"Yes, dearest, I think it's worth to try. The reward of being known even a little bit? Nu, the reward far outweighs the risk."
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Anzu smiles.
"Only too happy to help, sweetness," he says, and sensing an opportunity to ask something he's been wondering for a while, changes the topic.
"Nu. Tell me, art thou often by this part of Paradesium?"
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It almost sounds guilty with that response.
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Anzu catches that note of not-quite guilt, and raises an eyebrow.
"It's good thou take'st time for thyself," he says, gently. "But I was wondering what thou think'st of Paradesium. I have known not nothing comparable, in all the days of my life. I meant not to scold thee none."