(no subject)
and the angels wouldn't help you
Faster and faster. At first you didn't
feel anything. You burst into flame.
And the angels wouldn't help you.
They've all gone away.
Darkness now. Mother weeps in darkness thinking that she is not brave. Shadows cold, Valtiel listens to her moving parts - the throat of her, the eyelashes, the fingers slowly tracking out the wounds of her in the flesh of her - and hears other movements buried deep like gentle music submerged in the thunder of old machines.
Mother keeps the godchild cocooned in her blood and her body, sealed up against a long wait finally coming to its end. Human woman, soon to be bathed in the flames of regency. It must be so. Hale and whole shall God emerge from the core of her at the proper time. From the womb of her, the temple of life inverted, shall God emerge. From her blackened bones shall God emerge, if God deems it proper.
Valtiel waits, still as she trembles. There is a moment and a purpose. One comes, and God's chosen attendants will serve the other. It is no matter of loving or knowing or believing anything. Valtiel serves when the moment for serving arises, as it does when Mother falls. Weak, the body of her; quick, the blood of her. Dying, as living things will do. Shades fade, harbingers decay, all servants are bid to destroy each other in time. Only the living delivered from Silent Hill possess the great secrets, the blind faith and the courage required to simply die.
Wrapped around the godchild, Mother dies in the dark without any words.
Something calls out, even so. Voice of God, speaking no command. The weight of all the sacraments presses heavy on Valtiel's shoulders. Mother is a dread creature not to be approached; but the voice calls. The voice calls to Valtiel, who submits to the strongest will, the great flame trapped in a bed of coals, the mouth in the pit, the absence of sky. The Mother of your God needs you.
Valtiel does what is needed.
Stitched and stranded back on her bones, Mother lives for God again.
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