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The Goddess of Four Letters

Heimarmene.
Luna.

A dark, lonely, mahogany desk. A window. A feather. Ink. The sky. Luna.

Night. Light. Darkness. Silver. Luna.
Death, and Life. Luna.

Shines through the night. Ah my beloved, as I stare up from my desk of riddled paper. Up: into her excellence. I put my feather down, and gaze into the deep, dark, shining craters. Such… A celestial goddess, deflecting light off the sweet blood ranging down the streets. Yes, how I crave such an excellent site. Red silver.
Insanity. Obsession.
You see, the moon would shine every night, and I would prefer to sleep every day, when the sun takes its place. The moon shines through the trees, bestowing a halo of bright light upon the Earth, and in this light I walk. So do others. Those are the Night Seer. Those are the ones who walk under the moon with no right. They don’t deserve how they spit upon the ground. The moon is everywhere. The moon sees, and it cries. I hear the moon. I hear the cries! I hear my beloved hurt! Why must she cry? Luna, why?!
If I cannot stop the cries, allow me to cleanse…the Earth.

Crimson.

I stood there, watching, with the moon once again overhead. Who are the Night Seer? They try to control, predict, and harm the moon. They took up the light, and wouldn’t give it back. The moon was forgiving, but still they should have given it back! They should have never stolen the beams! Ah, but if they didn’t, would I have their sweet blood to sacrifice? No, I would not. To Luna, my love, I come with a show, a very special one in fact.
Old and new blood collected in a glistening swirl, illuminated by the moon. She was happy. Like a dark ink in water, the two bloods danced in harmony, and a tear fell from my smiling eyes. The tear rolled down my cheek, and sang as it fell towards the blood that soaked my feet. That one tear that united itself with blood set the flow in motion. Liquids combined and morphed into a beautiful flow that swam too fast to be soaked into the Earth. Soon, the whole world should know what has been done. The world will see the blood under the moon, as the night is young: the blood, this night, shall not dry by the hands of the sun.
It rippled over every stone and between every individual piece of gravel. In its wake was left a saturated stain of red. I would follow each path, and be amazed to find the blood turning another way, shaking the souls of children as they slept. Scent. It was the pure smell and presence of the blood that made the children cringe into a shiver in the night, and the blood left few fathers and mothers to ever wake again. It is hopeful that the children learn, with the kind horrors of the night, what their parents have not.
I will open my hand for you, so that part of me, too, can atone. I will crumble to the ground in pain, in tears, and sing the holy hymns of the night. Oh, how much I love you! Enough to spill my blood for you; enough for me to make you your own, cleansed, pool of nectar! Drink, my ethereal queen. The day approaches and the night grows old. You haven’t much time, but hush now, enjoy the show. Isn’t the world beautiful, glowing in red? Under your holy sanction, I shall return to my dwelling.

Sacrifice.

How was it that he was able to present such a glorious showing, with so many colors of red? The task was simple. I, he, would watch for any flicker of light evaporating off a cloudy shadowed figure. I would perch on a structure, waiting there in an ultimate silence, until the night came. With paper and ink I create a Calling, a rendition of dreams, a powerful drug that could lead any man or woman to its developer, their master. They stand, in a trance, holding the paper; eyes passing through each line. Seeing the fear in their faces, the love in their eyes, or the perk of their ears, I would recall my written note and recite with them. Holding a candle in one hand, I would use the other to carefully extract from my cloak a perfect blade as to not cut myself. Drawing nearer. A deeply breathing victim as their eyes could not leave the page that read their doom. For you, soiler of her throne, I have chosen a serrated edge to slowly unbind muscle from bone and to release all blood in a scattered fashion. For another: He came closer with a straight edge for puncturing of either the jugular or the heart. Don’t squirm, or the blade’s suitor might have to wash the hilt and his hands. Although, it always ended the same, perfect way. Blood seeps down in a glorious light. You fall as your limbs lack the life to keep you living. The blood upon the floor slowly devours your body, last claiming your eyes, your flawless hands, and the note. Then it was all over. If beautiful enough, it deserved a tear, just one.

Ultimatum.

But tonight the moon did not give him sanction.
Was it too much? No, it was too little, I know of it! See this knife here? I can fix it, all of it! I can bring it to all of them! The children! The mothers! The fathers! And even better, we don’t have to wait until the night, Luna! I could do it in the morning so that your eyes don’t need to strain! The blood will dry, and you won’t have to wait to see its stain!
… But that’s not what the moon wanted.
All the blood rose from the Earth. It has been so long that the blood, the guilt, the desire, now had the power to eviscerate his virgin soul. The blood, crimson, what once so beautifully gleamed, pulled him in with a gravity greater than the Earth’s. As the man crippled onto all fours, the blood rose up his limbs and halfway upon his back, then encrusted. With a final cry, as his head passed by, he took his final glimpse of the sky.

Ocean. Beauty. A promise to never leave.

Now, there were oceans. These came from the salt of a man’s tears as he died. The man who gave his life for Luna, for her to be happy, left his greatest legacy in his final hour. Knowing the nature of this blood that succumb him, it would not drag his passionate tears to be eternally purged. Purgatory was not for his final act of devotion—not for the tears that would peacefully forever gleam under the moon, in the night.

~~~
Copyright 2010 Vladislav Zhirnov