“a fathomless chaos of eternal night.”
Eshek is the moonlight in the dark garden.
Bright stones are alive in the pits of her head, small pearls dusted with all the star-shine and universe-light that the deep black could hold. Galaxies are rushing through her veins and each moon-flower and each winter nightshade that is blooming out of season unfolds and leans a little towards the wake of her. She's a current, a tide, an entire ocean of brightness. The canopy when a breeze blows through hot and humid, seems to recall knowing all the bits of her. Each branch seems to reach down, and down, and down towards the crevice of her spine.
And maybe, maybe each tree remembers how to be a seed inside of her and each vine remembers what it felt like to grow along the wall of her chest.
Twilight follows her as she wanders along the strange creek. Obsidian rings against her hooves like hollow bell-song. It sings a mournful sound and each note rises down her dead nerves like terror holy and grotesque. Eshek smiles, and light pours out until the river current refracts strange bits of her into the dark treeline. Bits of her light catch on the tree bark and those pieces look like sharp bits of glass instead of light.
When she finds him, the golden boy, the night-black boy, the river has long dried out. Eshek does not wonder where the water has gone (didn't she drop her head back there to slake her dry, parched throat?). And when he talks to the darkness she only opens her mouth and light pours out.
The moon has come to the thick forest and it's silver-bright against his black skin when she anoints him in the bits of her caught between the blackness.
Her brightness (she leaves no shadow when she walks) drags across the strange graveyard and worms rise up like flowers in the sun-white glare. They wave in a airless wind-- back and forth, back and forth. Their mouths open up too, small gaps of blackness in the thinness of their segments. And Eshek hums to them, like a god humming to a congregation of bloody, bent mortals.
There are no words to answer him, only light, only a mighty moon that has swallowed up a hundred suns. But her smile, oh her too wide and too wicked smile, gives him a hundred different names of what she is.
Each ray of light dripping from her spells out that word, the only word....
e v e r y t h i n g
And in the silence, strange and heavy like silence always is (a song, a chant, a prayer of weight), the forest is still waving in the light and the worms as still swaying like wheat-grass.
@Erasmus
