Shades of Grey

“The choice in politics isn't usually between black and white. It's between two horrible shades of gray.”
-Lord Thorneycraft
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Before a cold meeting at a nondescript bench in the Green, before a phone call from Ellie, before one from Ashley's father (Jim Novotny [Shatterer of the Way]), before Monday's dawn even broke resplendent across the Winter sky, painting the snow in silvered hues -- step back to before all of this, to a point in a weekend that was neither restful nor relaxing, back to a community Church in Lake View, to the tiny God's acre where a small girl's body lies under the blanket of snow, under the frozen ground, to a place that all but trembles with the weight of memory.

I don't know why, but it feels like all of these sad things, that they somehow belong here.  That this Sanctuary and these stout walls can survive them, carry them up, ferry them away.

Toni and his sister.
Owen.
Gabriel.

That there is shelter for the heart, here, not only the body and soul.  It may be a silly hope, something symbolic and ultimately empty, but I don't care anymore.  His home is finally my own again; I won't be cast out.

Gabriel's last letter weighs heavily on my mind, prefaced as it was by Evan's own.  I haven't told anyone what the Messengers at last confided, and I don't know if I believe any longer that their missive came from a Council, Rogue or otherwise.

I know that I don't care.

I have seen people in this city do worse for lesser motivations.  I have killed someone, knowing only where her allegiances lie, not even her name.  And that someone had not even hurt me, directly.

These stone hallways and the tiny flames that dance about the votives I light in memory are just reminders of how very human we all are.  The building will withstand lifetimes, harbor and shelter hundreds of souls, and this flame is a pin-prick, just brightness, fragile.

It's all shades of grey.  It has always been shades of grey.

Step back further, to a bloody apartment, to memories rising at the back of my throat, the taste of copper, the way my steps knowingly avoid the soaked carpet -- not for fear of leaving footprints, though that's there, but because I don't ever want to relive walking through blood-soaked carpet, or the sick sounds of suction releasing my bootheels. 

There's a laptop on a table, playing back a gruesome murder, a message left by a madwoman -- except that I know, now, what made her that way and the horror is twofold.  She was somebody's sister in arms. Somebody's friend.  Someone's daughter.  She's not rabid because she chose to be, not entirely.  (She's a monster.)

Step back, to a bookstore, to words thrown across the table that is set for tea.  To shades of grey that will not resolve in to black or white, simply because they are told to.  To absolutes that crumble, not for lack of faith, but because of broader understandings.

Step back, to the same church.  To a quiet conversation.  To a Monist by my side and burgeoning intimacies and things that went unsaid because of Faith, or love, or duty.  To a friendship that might have been.

And now forward, to a cold February afternoon, to the crunch of snow beneath my feet, to its pristine white and shadows, even dirtied by the road muck.  We are all dirtied by something, greyed somehow, worn.

It doesn't stop, and the longer it goes, fewer and fewer absolutes seem to hold.  I'm falling into my father's world, where it's all about diction, subtlties, and shades of grey.