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Entry tags:
wahayla wateshbukhta
For Ji!
(expanding on this)
Lucifer watches and counts as Yeshua pulls them in, one after another, recognising the gift for attracting loyalty -- albeit one played out on a much smaller scale than his own -- and waiting for the best fulcrum, the best place to enter with his fingertips and apply pressure. He will not sit this one out; he has not resigned himself to a war fought in the shadows.
The number reaches twelve and settles, and it does not take Lucifer long to find promise in one. Hard and impassioned and idealistic, he sits with his back very straight and his hands now flat on the table, now animated, his voice ringing out like an angry bell.
To the end of his existence and long after the death of the language itself, Lucifer will hold the notes and the resonance of Aramaic in his voice, in his laugh, in the way he will find himself singing the abwoon d'bwashmaya under his breath on the rare occasion that he walks into a church, in a time when the prayer's first line has become Our Father and lost its literal meaning, which has a lot to do with light. He will recognise in retrospect that it is the tongue of music and dust, but for now it is simply what is spoken in the corner of the world that the Power has chosen to play out this newest game. For now it pours from the lips of the man Judas Iscariot in fluid, unrehearsed indignation, and Lucifer hears the potential there and smiles.
"You're right," is all he says, when he finally closes the distance. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Judas looks at him, startled, not saying anything for the few long moments it takes for him to take in Lucifer's face, Lucifer's quiet smile, Lucifer's clothing and way of holding himself. The Iscariot is professionally wary in a way that bespeaks awareness of his own volatile social safety.
"Thank you," he says finally. "What am I right about?"
"Accountability. Freedom."
"And is there more to your opinion than the recitation of attractive nouns?" An assessing tilt of Judas' head, a sudden light in his eyes, and Lucifer feels something flicker in his own face. More than just potential, here, and perhaps this will be both more challenging and more entertaining than he had initially thought, but at least he knows that he's talking to the right person.
"I'll let you judge that for yourself," he says, and pours two glasses of wine.
It takes half the night before Judas remembers to introduce himself, and by this time he has unwound from his caution and is spread out as one colourful thread of conviction shot through with unexpected, mercurial humour. "And you?"
Lucifer gives him the single name only.
"Nehorai," Judas echoes, and smiles. "It suits you."
He is, Lucifer thinks, quite drunk.
"Have you heard him speak?" Judas asks then. "Yeshua?"
Lucifer nods. He has. He has been, perhaps, the sole person in Yeshua's audience who accepts his identity without requiring a single scrap of faith to make the leap: knowledge, recognition, is enough. Forty days in the desert dancing slowly towards acceptance of the truth; he has looked at Yeshua and tried not to think the word brother. Tried not to think: Our Father. There is a new light of the world; it is difficult not to feel as though revisionism is taking place, new words and new symbols rising out of the sand and threatening to bury the old.
"I must go," Lucifer says, instead of taking the cue from the man's curious expression, an expression that will become familiar: the deep insatiable need to understand those around him. He leaves the last few drops of wine undrunk and leans forward to tap his fingers against Judas' hand. "I will see you again."
Judas nods. "Yes, I would like that," he says seriously. "Shalom."
"Shalom," and Lucifer thinks, but not forever, because he is now quite certain that if he pulls at this thread for long enough then the war will fall out of the shadows and into the light.
(expanding on this)
Lucifer watches and counts as Yeshua pulls them in, one after another, recognising the gift for attracting loyalty -- albeit one played out on a much smaller scale than his own -- and waiting for the best fulcrum, the best place to enter with his fingertips and apply pressure. He will not sit this one out; he has not resigned himself to a war fought in the shadows.
The number reaches twelve and settles, and it does not take Lucifer long to find promise in one. Hard and impassioned and idealistic, he sits with his back very straight and his hands now flat on the table, now animated, his voice ringing out like an angry bell.
To the end of his existence and long after the death of the language itself, Lucifer will hold the notes and the resonance of Aramaic in his voice, in his laugh, in the way he will find himself singing the abwoon d'bwashmaya under his breath on the rare occasion that he walks into a church, in a time when the prayer's first line has become Our Father and lost its literal meaning, which has a lot to do with light. He will recognise in retrospect that it is the tongue of music and dust, but for now it is simply what is spoken in the corner of the world that the Power has chosen to play out this newest game. For now it pours from the lips of the man Judas Iscariot in fluid, unrehearsed indignation, and Lucifer hears the potential there and smiles.
"You're right," is all he says, when he finally closes the distance. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Judas looks at him, startled, not saying anything for the few long moments it takes for him to take in Lucifer's face, Lucifer's quiet smile, Lucifer's clothing and way of holding himself. The Iscariot is professionally wary in a way that bespeaks awareness of his own volatile social safety.
"Thank you," he says finally. "What am I right about?"
"Accountability. Freedom."
"And is there more to your opinion than the recitation of attractive nouns?" An assessing tilt of Judas' head, a sudden light in his eyes, and Lucifer feels something flicker in his own face. More than just potential, here, and perhaps this will be both more challenging and more entertaining than he had initially thought, but at least he knows that he's talking to the right person.
"I'll let you judge that for yourself," he says, and pours two glasses of wine.
It takes half the night before Judas remembers to introduce himself, and by this time he has unwound from his caution and is spread out as one colourful thread of conviction shot through with unexpected, mercurial humour. "And you?"
Lucifer gives him the single name only.
"Nehorai," Judas echoes, and smiles. "It suits you."
He is, Lucifer thinks, quite drunk.
"Have you heard him speak?" Judas asks then. "Yeshua?"
Lucifer nods. He has. He has been, perhaps, the sole person in Yeshua's audience who accepts his identity without requiring a single scrap of faith to make the leap: knowledge, recognition, is enough. Forty days in the desert dancing slowly towards acceptance of the truth; he has looked at Yeshua and tried not to think the word brother. Tried not to think: Our Father. There is a new light of the world; it is difficult not to feel as though revisionism is taking place, new words and new symbols rising out of the sand and threatening to bury the old.
"I must go," Lucifer says, instead of taking the cue from the man's curious expression, an expression that will become familiar: the deep insatiable need to understand those around him. He leaves the last few drops of wine undrunk and leans forward to tap his fingers against Judas' hand. "I will see you again."
Judas nods. "Yes, I would like that," he says seriously. "Shalom."
"Shalom," and Lucifer thinks, but not forever, because he is now quite certain that if he pulls at this thread for long enough then the war will fall out of the shadows and into the light.
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