Today might as well be a holy day: he remembers the Prophet's birthday. He is made of dead things, impossibly stiff, carved from weathered stone when he anoint her with his blessing. In his hand, there lies an offering to the Prophet: a gold ring with the head of a lion, twisted into a ferocious snarl. ' I haven't forgotten, Maschiach. '
Her body is a living altar, an ark meant to contain a divinity of cosmic magnitude, the soul of the Universe itself. He could take credit for being the one who prepared her body for ascension, ready to be hollowed out by the Crucible & receive one final transformation. (Your name is Bat-El, Daughter of God! Holy is the weight every tongue must carry when they speak your name!) Never once has she displayed any ounce of ungratefulness for his service & the LORD made sure that not a rivet was out of place. Her body is a Holy of Holies, her teeth are the Tables of Stone, her bones are the rods of Aaron, her skin is the first Torah scroll, her blood is mana.
On this day her form is swathed in her favorite finery, bolts of ebony fabric that cascade from the back of her head, robes that spill her shoulders to gather at her feet. Her favorite diamonds hang from her ears, wrapped splendidly around her neck & wrists, shimmering against the cold of her skin, glittering against the black of her hair & dress. Alien geometries mesh into the classical depictions of solar rays blasting outwards, she is enthroned by the abyss & crowned by the Milky Way. An exalted supernal horror, the stars sing as the seraphim do, their voices crying HOLY, HOLY, HOLY. [I’A, I’A, I’A!]
She has received offerings all day, human & alien dignitaries that bring her the most precious of gifts, the faithful who attend to their synagogues, churches, mosques, & temples for prayer before laying the most beautiful of flora before her, the pilgrims who flock from all corners of the galaxy to whisper blessings before giving her gemstones & textiles. ( They cover their eyes to feel the full effect of her presence, allowing the lull of Indoctrination to take them, they weep with joy & terror!) But he needn’t participate to such ritual, when her influence on him has become neuron deep, drilled into his marrow. Skeletal hand reaches outward & the small box in his possession, carefully opening it. Stygian lips spread into a soft smile upon revealing the contents. She admires the ring briefly before sliding it onto her finger, eager to wear it. The Emperor has only a simple response, her voice traced with an ethereal fondness, a delicate quality twisting & screaming amongst the bone-shattering swarm of sonorous syllables.
The Greatest music piece of all, “Requiem Mass in D minor”, was composed by the greatest musician of all time, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in Vienna in 1791. Left unfinished on the composer’s death on December 5, it was completed by Franz Xaver Süssmayr and was played at Mozart’s own funeral.
She’s young, but not too young. She’s seen enough, done enough, survived it all to begin to question her purpose:WHY AM I HERE? WHAT AM I DOING? These are the questions that plague her night after night, that render her simultaneously senseless & restless. She’s a killing machine with reinvigorated sentience. Self-aware, she knows what her God is done. The Illusive Man pretended to be a saint, a messiah& she fell for it all. Her father, her creator.
Face to face, she looks her re-animator in the eye – a man who gave her life { F A M I L Y }& could easily take it all away. Smoke whirls past his cracked, parted lips, but he doesn’t wear the false smile she’s well accustomed to. She bows her head to him & chooses to remain grounded. It was Jack Harper who told her to move the stars for no one. For her to care not for the offspring of her might, but her ambition.
Now, in bitterness ®ret, she wishes to put an end to this mis’ry. The circle will ne’er be unbroken for their legacy spirals on for miles, for the galaxies that dance behind him. The dreams in which they’re dying will be the best she’s ever had. She could snap his neck, she could. Yet, it wouldn’t be enough to break him.
Calmly, he extinguishes the cigarette. Squashes it like an ant beneath his heel. His eyes are as cold as the day they met. With a rueful tsk & a shake of his head, he steps into the light. Thumb & forefinger caress her jawline, a smooth line that dips. She’s a proud one. She stands tall, even when he caresses his trophy.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝You’re incapable of
change. It’s not hardwired into your DNA.❞
