Light of the Womb

In the warm Womb of Her Mother, She rested and dreamed. She felt through the membrane all that had passed, did pass, and would pass with Her Mother. She knew that Her Mother was reckoned to be beautiful, kind and giving; yet too, She know that those Her Mother would succor had no thought of her Gifts, and would not repay kindness with kindness, but rather with rapine and disregard.

Light-of-the-Womb knew that She had been seeing future dreams; that the ugliness and cruelty of Her Mother's foster-children was yet to come. And so, She resolved in Her heart to become beautiful but uncaring to those who would grasp at her beauty — unreachable, yet so desirable that Her Mother's foster-children would ache in their hearts for desire of Her.

The day of Her birthing came, and as Her Mother shuddered in the agonies of labor, Light-of-the-Womb cared not for Her own pains, nor for those of Her Mother — but thought only of Her imminent freedom that would at last allow Her revenge on those-yet-to-come.

With a heaving surge, She tore free from Her Mother's thrashing body, and screamed in triumph at Her escape.

Now even as the Daughter knew of all that passed with the Mother, so did the Mother know of that which passed within the heart and mind of the Daughter; and She set up a great travail. The waters of Her Womb crashed and hissed in torment; Her bones creaked and trembled; Her flesh rent apart in pain and suffering.

Yet in Her great Agony, the Mother cried out to Her Child, "Oh, Daughter! Light-of-My-Womb! Why do you betray your Heritage?" And in coldness, did the Daughter answer, "I would not be as You, Mother, to be ravaged by the uncaring; to be ignored by the lesser who have no sense of what they do; who see not beauty in its truest form!"

And She placed Herself a distance from Her Mother; away from the warmth of Her embrace — yet within the reach of Her low, gentle voice.

Long ages passed, and the uncaring Child danced Her empty dance about the abode of Her Mother, growing more delighted with Her own frozen beauty; more strongly determined to exact revenge upon those who would bring pain and sorrow and disgrace upon Her Mother. Her light of beauty shone silvery and pristine upon Her Mother's sleeping form.

When the fosterlings came, at first they were reverent, and gave back to the Mother tokens of esteem and praise — all that they could with their limited abilities. Though Light-of-the-Womb saw this, She waited — unforgiving of the future grief She knew they would bring.

Always did the fosterlings worship Light-of-the-Womb, and She fed upon this worship as Her due, but did not soften towards them. Some of Her coldness touched the fosterlings and made them, too, a bit cold. But She cared not.

In truth, She became more cold and disdainful, at times even bringing madness to those who cared too deeply for Her. It was right and correct that they should worship Her beautiful Self, for was She not delicate and gracious in Her gift of Silver Light as Her Mother slept? Did not She cause Her mother's Love for Her to control the planting and growing of the food they ate? She, did She not, caused Her Mother's blood, Her salty Womb to pulse in rhythm to Her turning dance.

She ignored Her Father's brilliance, though She privately admitted that it was from Him She had inherited her gentle glow. At time, His anger flared at Her, then would Her gentle Mother intercede, coming between the Two, as if to protect the Daughter from His furious gaze. At these times, a bitter cold came upon Light-of-the-Womb, and Her cruel humor turned to dark despair. As soon as Her Father's wrath had cooled, Her mother would move gently away, exposing Light-of-the-Womb slowly to Her Father's gaze, so that He might remember the beauty of His Daughter.

Light-of-the-Womb began after a time to feel shame, and regularly turned Her face from Her Parents — so that at times only a sliver of Her shining countenance could be seen. Though She suffered shame at her disdainful ways, She found She could not change. For all heat in Her had died over the long ages, and no more was there the white hot rushing of blood in her veins. She had become stone — trapped by her own frozen vanity.

So now, as She looks upon those fosterlings that tear at Her Mother's pride and beauty, She cannot aid Her in any way, save to soothe Her Mother with Her silvery light, and to cause desire in the fosterlings' hearts. Her beauty and unapproachability tugs at their hearts, causing their bodies' water to flow in Her timeless rhythms — making them turn a portion of their desire for Her upon their fellow fosterlings. Lovers, too, pray to Her and are heard. The mad are sacred to Her, known as Moon-calves.

Upon Her full face can be seen a look of surprised sadness, for She cannot partake of Her Mother's Fate, save to watch — and know that She, too, will be ravaged. But since She never gave of warmth and substance, there will never be regret in the stripping of Her bones. And only a cold, frozen thought is lodged in Her heart, remembering what love was.

No tears fall from Her eyes, for Her waters are wasted, and Her blood is dried up; but a little remains of Her liquids; enough to warn the wise when rain will come. At these times She dons a halo of opalescent light to show the only She can, that She is still the daughter of Her Parents and that though She cannot feel love or give love, She can inspire that emotion in Her Mother's fosterlings when they gaze up at Her and call Her — Moon.

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