"That's all I needed," Sam said. And then something... A sound, on the very edge of hearing. Distant and trembling and Sam turned – looked around and then up. Something in the sky, very far and pale – a mote of light. A feather, drifting down. Sam felt himself move into a stance – feet planted solidly apart, hands loose and ready at his sides. Instinct for fight, because flight wasn't an option. The mote fell slowly closer – grew brighter.
Grew louder, a rushing, rustling noise that tore the muffled silence to shreds. *Eight miles high and falling fast...* Sam thought, watching it. Blinking and then squinting as the mote expanded to a point of fiery light – to a candle, a spotlight, a sun.
A roaring howl like every wind had been let loose from every quarter. Light that burned his eyes and then his brain, his nerves and Sam felt dimly that he'd fallen to his knees – that he was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. Couldn't see the snow or the ward-wall or the sky, just...
Light, moving, rushing – a hundred-thousand dove's wings, their tips dipped in ice, in silver, in fire, in blood and in ash. A thousand-thousand eyes that could see every molecule of his body – ten-hundred mouths that were whispering, screaming, shrieking his name. Blast-furnace heat that boiled the air – pressure of planets and galaxies and his bones were creaking – shattering – his blood was bubbling away, his skin split and shriveling and he was dead, nothing, please, please, stop....
Dude. That was made of OMG--especially: A roaring howl like every wind had been let loose from every quarter.
I do believe that line is one of my favoritest ever. It's so--perfect. The picture it conjures is crystal clear, the feeling it stirs up is wonderful and terrible,
The angel, in all its ragged glory. Torn jeans and worn leather jacket, broken boots. Fall of hair like a starling's wing, and its eyes... Sam flinched from them, frowning, and the angel smiled. Let something go, or maybe pulled it in and then its eyes were simply dark.
I don't know how you always know just the right thing to describe and just the right way to describe it, what details to add, but that was--lovely.
He'd been away from it for only seven days but he could feel it. Feel the angel – the leashed intensity of it. Feel it: unliving, undying...immense.
That's just--creepy and good and I can't wrap my brain around, just as I'm sure I wouldn't be able to wrap my brain all the way around a real angel. Something that can only be described as "immense" and "unliving". "Undying."
And even those are probably too human to really encompass what it is. Mean less than nothing, next to what it is.
no subject
"Damn straight."
"That's all I needed," Sam said. And then something... A sound, on the very edge of hearing. Distant and trembling and Sam turned – looked around and then up. Something in the sky, very far and pale – a mote of light. A feather, drifting down. Sam felt himself move into a stance – feet planted solidly apart, hands loose and ready at his sides. Instinct for fight, because flight wasn't an option. The mote fell slowly closer – grew brighter.
Grew louder, a rushing, rustling noise that tore the muffled silence to shreds. *Eight miles high and falling fast...* Sam thought, watching it. Blinking and then squinting as the mote expanded to a point of fiery light – to a candle, a spotlight, a sun.
A roaring howl like every wind had been let loose from every quarter. Light that burned his eyes and then his brain, his nerves and Sam felt dimly that he'd fallen to his knees – that he was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. Couldn't see the snow or the ward-wall or the sky, just...
Light, moving, rushing – a hundred-thousand dove's wings, their tips dipped in ice, in silver, in fire, in blood and in ash. A thousand-thousand eyes that could see every molecule of his body – ten-hundred mouths that were whispering, screaming, shrieking his name. Blast-furnace heat that boiled the air – pressure of planets and galaxies and his bones were creaking – shattering – his blood was bubbling away, his skin split and shriveling and he was dead, nothing, please, please, stop....
Dude. That was made of OMG--especially:
A roaring howl like every wind had been let loose from every quarter.
I do believe that line is one of my favoritest ever. It's so--perfect. The picture it conjures is crystal clear, the feeling it stirs up is wonderful and terrible,
The angel, in all its ragged glory. Torn jeans and worn leather jacket, broken boots. Fall of hair like a starling's wing, and its eyes... Sam flinched from them, frowning, and the angel smiled. Let something go, or maybe pulled it in and then its eyes were simply dark.
I don't know how you always know just the right thing to describe and just the right way to describe it, what details to add, but that was--lovely.
He'd been away from it for only seven days but he could feel it. Feel the angel – the leashed intensity of it. Feel it: unliving, undying...immense.
That's just--creepy and good and I can't wrap my brain around, just as I'm sure I wouldn't be able to wrap my brain all the way around a real angel. Something that can only be described as "immense" and "unliving". "Undying."
And even those are probably too human to really encompass what it is. Mean less than nothing, next to what it is.
You jam a lot of meaning into a short paragraph.