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02-08-2015, 01:05 AM
ISOPIA
And we came forth to contemplate the stars
And we came forth to contemplate the stars
She was born. There was already a time in the womb, while her body was catching up to a mind that already seemed vast, that the youngling believed she would have nothing in common with the host who was currently growing her, but perhaps that was mistaken. A youthful mistake, perhaps the first of many.
Kahlua had not asked for this, but had been unable to deny the request of a God. Similarly the child had not asked to be conceived, had not agreed to be the burden of this painted queen, and yet here she was: thrust unceremoniously into the world. What obligations did they owe one another? If neither has asked for these roles how could either somehow be obliged into the service of the other?
Paint markings marred her hide, bloodying her shoulder in a splotch of colour, as if her mother's own genetics were so fearful that the child might ignore her mortal lineage in favour of her divine one as to mark her as her own. It was maternal and it was useless, but it didn't matter. The way her body looked - the way the hairs fused into different shades of tan and maroon - didn't matter. What mattered was inside, hidden in what was already a crystalline and impregnable palace of knowledge and understanding.
With eyes that glistened with the very hum of the chorus her mother's body produced, the filly regarded the female half of her creator. Why are you cleaning me? She wanted to ask, the question lingering in an already judgmental stare, but the filly's lips remained sealed. If Kahlua felt no obligation, no adoration or connection, why did she bother? This world and her place inside of it, made no sense.
"Have you named me yet? I understand that is a role typically left to the female. But-." Already her voice held a confident lilt, implying wisdom impossible of one so young. It was unsettling, the way the descent into the uncanny valley could be unsettling, as if the filly was some facade and not real at all, just a mimicry made to look real. "-I would prefer to name myself. " It was a statement of fact, rather than a request for permission. Something in her tone edged on the certainty that should Kahlua deny her request, whatever name the Queen gave to her daughter would be wholly ignored.
The filly looked away from her mother's painted side, out to the world, confusion and intrigue apparent on her oddly painted face. Death it seemed, had marked the youngling, for the mask of the dead coloured her cheeks. With golden eyes, scrupulous and intense, the child studied her immediate surroundings. She did not balk as her legs seemed to sprout grass like that in which they were currently sprawled, nor when a spider curiously began to walk up her leg. "You are dying." She whispered to the arachnid softly, her voice almost sounding soothing as she condemned the creature to death. "But aren't we all?" She added rhetorically, before returning her gaze to Kahlua.
Her mother. As if that meant anything at all.
Rumblings of hunger suddenly clouded her mind, and the filly's intensely distant gaze moved instinctively to Kahlua's belly, her mind searching for where she might satisfy her cravings.
Kahlua had not asked for this, but had been unable to deny the request of a God. Similarly the child had not asked to be conceived, had not agreed to be the burden of this painted queen, and yet here she was: thrust unceremoniously into the world. What obligations did they owe one another? If neither has asked for these roles how could either somehow be obliged into the service of the other?
Paint markings marred her hide, bloodying her shoulder in a splotch of colour, as if her mother's own genetics were so fearful that the child might ignore her mortal lineage in favour of her divine one as to mark her as her own. It was maternal and it was useless, but it didn't matter. The way her body looked - the way the hairs fused into different shades of tan and maroon - didn't matter. What mattered was inside, hidden in what was already a crystalline and impregnable palace of knowledge and understanding.
With eyes that glistened with the very hum of the chorus her mother's body produced, the filly regarded the female half of her creator. Why are you cleaning me? She wanted to ask, the question lingering in an already judgmental stare, but the filly's lips remained sealed. If Kahlua felt no obligation, no adoration or connection, why did she bother? This world and her place inside of it, made no sense.
"Have you named me yet? I understand that is a role typically left to the female. But-." Already her voice held a confident lilt, implying wisdom impossible of one so young. It was unsettling, the way the descent into the uncanny valley could be unsettling, as if the filly was some facade and not real at all, just a mimicry made to look real. "-I would prefer to name myself. " It was a statement of fact, rather than a request for permission. Something in her tone edged on the certainty that should Kahlua deny her request, whatever name the Queen gave to her daughter would be wholly ignored.
The filly looked away from her mother's painted side, out to the world, confusion and intrigue apparent on her oddly painted face. Death it seemed, had marked the youngling, for the mask of the dead coloured her cheeks. With golden eyes, scrupulous and intense, the child studied her immediate surroundings. She did not balk as her legs seemed to sprout grass like that in which they were currently sprawled, nor when a spider curiously began to walk up her leg. "You are dying." She whispered to the arachnid softly, her voice almost sounding soothing as she condemned the creature to death. "But aren't we all?" She added rhetorically, before returning her gaze to Kahlua.
Her mother. As if that meant anything at all.
Rumblings of hunger suddenly clouded her mind, and the filly's intensely distant gaze moved instinctively to Kahlua's belly, her mind searching for where she might satisfy her cravings.
Table style by Tamme! Image Credits
