Lev is too relieved to be getting away from the star-things (so like, and so unlike the very thing that Lev themself is) to really care about the fact Vika doesn't seem to be organic (eh, they've read about things like that, in rag novels and in the Talmud, and in their husband's medical reports) or about the flying (that is right now entirely academic). But ...
They are afraid of heights.
So they screw their eyes shut and in a moment of hysteria, through a lapse of trust they'd hoped would never have reason to face again, start reciting Viduy. There had been a time, a decade prior, when they'd memorised it—after they'd abandoned their family and their duties, before they'd abandoned their faith.
Now, granted, they went back for all of the things they'd discarded, and it was just their luck and the Infinite's mercy that all of it was still where they'd left it. But in that first year, most of it sunk beyond conscious memory, veiled by the ghost of their first acute psychotic episode, it had not felt like that.
It's the night. It's the night, and the stars and the metal woman, who may be anything at all, but given the fact she's flying, is either some kind of bizarre and novel genius loci—of an airfield, maybe?—or just one of the lilit with funny aesthetic ideals. It's overwhelming.
"Just please don't drop me," they manage to mutter, once they're done with approximately two-thirds of Viduy. "I ... I recall not, what I ought recite next— and it's not time for the three-fold dedication. I hope."
no subject
Lev is too relieved to be getting away from the star-things (so like, and so unlike the very thing that Lev themself is) to really care about the fact Vika doesn't seem to be organic (eh, they've read about things like that, in rag novels and in the Talmud, and in their husband's medical reports) or about the flying (that is right now entirely academic). But ...
They are afraid of heights.
So they screw their eyes shut and in a moment of hysteria, through a lapse of trust they'd hoped would never have reason to face again, start reciting Viduy. There had been a time, a decade prior, when they'd memorised it—after they'd abandoned their family and their duties, before they'd abandoned their faith.
Now, granted, they went back for all of the things they'd discarded, and it was just their luck and the Infinite's mercy that all of it was still where they'd left it. But in that first year, most of it sunk beyond conscious memory, veiled by the ghost of their first acute psychotic episode, it had not felt like that.
It's the night. It's the night, and the stars and the metal woman, who may be anything at all, but given the fact she's flying, is either some kind of bizarre and novel genius loci—of an airfield, maybe?—or just one of the lilit with funny aesthetic ideals. It's overwhelming.
"Just please don't drop me," they manage to mutter, once they're done with approximately two-thirds of Viduy. "I ... I recall not, what I ought recite next— and it's not time for the three-fold dedication. I hope."