I wanted darkness; pentecost

[perse]

i wanted pomegranates— i wanted darkness— i wanted him. She has dreamed of this day! Dreamed of the day when He would come to her, when He would consummate the relationship long cultivated. For she had always given Him everything – every bone, every nerve, every drop of blood – but He had never taken the most basic thing a man takes from a woman, had never given her children, though she had begged, had begged. (Not that she pictured herself much of a mother, children were odd and alien things, but she knew it was a thing lovers did, a thing He did often, spawned legions across this land.) He’d come to her like the stars, all blues and purples set stunning against her own silver skin, and after, her stomach had grown large and bulging as the child roiled and kicked. Truth was, she didn’t much like being pregnant, but she bore it happily, for Him, was ready to give him a glorious child, a thing of silver and stars. Her stomach wrenched, a different kind of pain than the kind she’d long loved; this was a more natural thing, her own body becoming a turncoat as the child sought to take a freedom she was all too willing to give. She fell to her knees, and nature took its course well enough (she was a new mother, but young, and strong). What comes is a son; silver, like her, but with purple mane and tail, and a purple constellation marking upon him, the mark of the stars. She isn’t sure if she loves him, her son, but she knows He will be pleased, hopes that He might return – might even take both of them back to the lair she’d so loved, where they could raise the child proper. “Pentecost,” she murmurs, touching her muzzle to him, tracing the marking. p e r s e ------------------------------cordis x spyndle

@[Berber] --- also I may have cordis make an appearance

[Pentecost]

An ache of want and stars.

He comes from a visitation, so unlike many others, because she receives him so willing.

So like a zealot taking song into her heart – a many-mouthed thing because, after all, he is divinity; evil; all-seeing and everlasting fire. She drinks deeply the wine of his coming, and after he spills and leaves, the last note of a hymnal remains.

He could be hallelujah – the Son...

But by and large the boy is not special – He is the Father, and to be His (to be His in coitus; to be made of Him, spilt seed and good works) is not special. Pentecost is a single, cracked seed among hundreds sowed in pink earth. 

But he is her’s. And that must be something. 

Because she is His.

A Son.

He grows in that safe and softened place – the first to carve her out and make this womb his – and he shines, as his flesh closes in around his young bones and muscles, like her, bright and refined silver. There, he rocks and listens to the muffled sounds of everything – the cataclysms and revelations of strange voices and songs. 

He keeps in his mind the rumbling, chorale tone that, now and then, shakes the walls of his solitary temple, gentling him into slumber.

On the two-hundredth day, a serpent lashes, fork-tongue and condemned belly, down his slender neck. And behind it leaves a senseless passage, spelled out in stars that die on his neck – purple tattoos.

On the three-hundred and fortieth day, she lays down and the firm, pulsing halls of his hermitage squeeze. Pull. Contract and push. A Rapture – an end times; the terminus of beautiful months in solitary, single thoughtlessness that he will never be able to recall. It is no agony – not for him – he is filled with the will to breath and cedes to the division, him from her, and moves ever down, down towards light.

Her touch is his Beginning. Down that ancient and holy text on his neck, and he leans into it, shaking and blinking. Gurgling nonsense as he fixes on her self-same shine.

Mother.

@[Cassi] - blank cheque for anything to happen