The Father is prolific.
He slings many arrows.
The Son is none the wiser. He lives in ignorance of the quiver – grew up in the shade of a silver shrine, tucked away in a valley of singular quiet, with only her as company. These others pass by him like shades shook loose from Gehenna – it seems to him that they carry no song in their hearts, but eat nothing as voraciously as he; they are unclean, so dull compared to their own offerings, Mother and him.
They come bearing gifts of silver cloth and hips;
—one the Father’s many miracles, turning the dampness of seed and egg into something that shines line an eastern star.
When she approaches him he blinks, slow and dumb, at the night sky, turning his black eyes away only when she speaks. For her voice is like the discordant music from a belltower – one that upsets quiet so savagely; it is in one second the joyful, melodious call to worship, and in the next, the violent harbinger of enemies at the walls. He is drawn to it as much as he is repelled. She is, it seems to him, like a dying version of himself, pale and plain. He cannot, in his own simplicity, fathom the glory that runs through her own veins. Not just of the Godseed, but of the many demi-gods and goddesses that fill the gaps.
The Son is no magician, and this daughter is no lioness.
They are both inadequate products of their bloodlines.
They are not so different.
“Nothing,” his voice is young and untrained, too high-pitched, even now, for his age. “I was doing nothing alone,” the tone lacks any of the words’ annoyance. He is speaking only the truth, plain and sombre. He does much alone. “What are you doing alone?”
(OOC - Ryse's HTML seems to be trying to take over the world xD)
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17