Love and Hate (emo overload)

[Dreadnought]

Get ready for the most emo thing you will read all year.

[Dreadnought]

Mourningstar
by Engine of Hate

She flitted into Her cyclopean chapel on a miasma of cherubim, whose sweet cacophony roused me from a restless and ill-feeling slumber. The wings of Isis bore Her to the font of grief and lust, as She daintily dabbed Her countenance to remove the cleansing dew of mourning. From the gently sloping dome of that orb (wherein lay the womb of Highest Heaven) thundered a torrent of dripping chestnut, perfect in both purity and modesty. The skies beyond were reflected the cloudy blue of Her eyes, ever aloof yet piercingly alert in their vagaries. The rafters of Her palace shook with the wails of Her faithful, crying out for the love of the untouchable. The flood of effluent praise She diverted like a mighty pillar of humility, into the ever hungry mouths of the Aether.

Serenely She strode to the altar of cowardice, where miserable plebs raised red offerings to the G*ddess. The air became tense with foreboding as She deigned to stoop and admire the latest travesty erected in Her name. A smile… Oh, vultus mira! The sweetest of nymphs are boorish and crude against such divine elegance. Upon the altar knelt a man, a warrior whose soul had been pledged at birth into Her service. He stretched his arms (seeming puny against Her colossal ***-shape) towards Her sky, crying out for acceptance. She graciously accepted the offering of His Most Precious blood, and with a gesture of awkward grace, cast him into the jaws of Her ravenous familiars, cacodemonic sprites of dreams and lust.
Her face… Her form, curved to realistic perfection, gradually became more and more dazzling, until the very fabric of existence which surrounded it paled and frayed in comparison.
She floated frenetically across the great hall and slid gently into Her throne. She moved Her lips, and a first no sound was heard. Then the heart of every slave, every worm, and every low mammal felt a tremendous stab as She blessed them all with indifference and dictated Her wishes. Tears streaming from blinded eyes, the people rushed away, strengthened by their bloody communion; they ran much faster now that the burden of souls had been lifted from their shoulders. The humble few whom She selected as worthy of Her favour were never seen again; they stood with vacant, beatific smiles, before fading into oblivion. Every time a favourite “transcended” the High Priest, he whose veins pumped the sands of the Nile, he whose soul had consumed itself and all he had ever held dear, chanted a eulogy of passion and led the congregation in a prayer for release. “G*ddess, Numena and Mother, grant us respite from the ceaseless furies of emotion, that we may reflect upon your holiness.” The acolytes marched to Her feet, bitterly cursing all the faults of the flesh that hindered them in their obeisance. “I only regret the fact that I can give my life but once for you!” cried the most senior initiate. “You who snuff the stars, you who shape the mind and mould the flesh, and you who gnaw at the heart of the macrocosm: take us from this wretched place and give us peace!”
She merely smiled. Kneeling to collect Her rag-doll supplicants, She burned through the temple roof, Her long hair floating lazily behind Her regal crown like the tails of a dark comet.
As She shot into the sky, those left behind raced into the cities and burrows to alert the world of the G*ddess’s departure and impending return on the following Sabbath.

Every night after, strange and wonderful stars appeared above the planetary poles, with a cold sun clearly visible at each end. The new supernovas in the sky whispered blasphemies into the dreams of the world, tales of rapture and cosmic fusion. Every man bore in his skull the seven tongues of ***, writhing in an aria of benevolent and cancerous tranquillity.

“The cold stars dance hither and thither, but only She Who Sings the Tune knows why they twirl so”.

One by one they crawled on their sad pilgrimages, bringing their hopes and sorrows to the well from which the Queen would return. Within the edifice they fuelled an empathic force not felt for countless vigintillions of eons. It was this outpouring of vital thoughts that brought me to that disused fane; I was rediscovering what I had forgotten centuries ago. When I saw those icily kind blue eyes open in the sky, I was transfixed by a shaft of purpose and longing, hurled from the heavens by spiteful Eros. The floodgates of Asgard blasted open, bathing us all in an unearthly radiation of cold nobility wherein capricious spirits cartwheeled like shadows. I waited for the cursed red mist of life to cloud my vision once more; The darkness of passion and agony would push through my face again, and all hope would be lost. I would remain in the pit of tanha forever.

At the moment of my greatest despair she slid fluidly out of the sky to the hill on which our new Well of Souls was drilled. Her outline, like a colossal caryatid in the temple of Venus Illegitema, was only slightly opaque. The stars shone easily through her hair, and her eyes would have been just another two planets had they not seemed to stare directly into my core. Again, the same bittersweet smile! Oh, cruellest of raptures! Source of short lived elation and long-festering sorrow, make me yours or forsake me completely!

With that smile, her dual-purpose “whip and carrot” used only in love, she bent on one knee and motioned to her ethereal servants. Down the well they streaked, until the silvery ichor of a planet-wide emotional reservoir came spurting through the small stone circle. She collected the jet of empathy in her cupped hands until no more liquid could be gained. It was quite pathetic, actually. The hopes, fears, dreams, jealousies, desires and rages of ten billion people fit easily into the palm of her hand; hardly a satisfying mouthful. As she drank eagerly each individual subplot in the tragedy of man became, once more, increasingly defined. She grew from within, shedding her paler sham into the maw of a locust-sprite, until she towered over the crowd like the giant-saviour of old, the fabled Lemuel Gulliver. She straightened up, and black clouds gathered above her head, from pole to horizon. For the first time in centuries, darkness was absolute. And still I could see her perfectly, when not even my own hands were visible. Her eyes, as always, seemed as beacons, calling the storm-tossed ferry which held my soul safely across the river Cocytus, into the marshes of blessed forgetfulness.
She stared at each of us simultaneously, with the same piercing gaze. She made no sound, merely put a finger to her heart-grindingly beautiful lips, as if hushing an infant frightened by a night-terror. Then she giggled, and looked up to the cumulus blanket in the sky. As the clouds dissipated, ten billion rods of light blazed from the uncaring cosmos into the eyes of the gathered faithful. Those fortunate enough to have loosened their grip on the flesh were instantly reduced and unified into a sea of primordial slime; Her entourage lapped that soup up like milk from a saucer. As she daintily twirled into the flood, thousands upon thousands of us fell to the ground with moans of ecstasy.

I received mine with wonder, and I succumbed instantly to the numbing cold maelstrom of this truly celestial mind-meld. I felt the world fade away, leaving a white void in which only Her eyes were visible. Then She began to speak.

I learned that our G*ddess had once been mortal, a woman of modesty and reflection, who attracted many suitors who rivalled those of Penelope in their attempts to impress her. Like that fabled queen of Ithaca, She accepted few for long. The misery and bewitchment she caused would put to shame the Marquis de Sade. Those who won her favour found it a pyrrhic victory, never lasting long.It was at some point in her twentieth year that the universe, in need of a metaphor, descended upon her being and lifted her up through planes and spheres unknown to the maddest of lunatics; and thus The G*ddess was crowned.
The supreme irony of her condition was the terms of her G*dhood. In order to rest, she must guide all of her new charges, the pitiful shaved apes, through the burning whirlwind of their emotions and into the soothing pool of nothingness. She who had caused so much pain to so many* with her nymph-like evasion was now obligated to ease the pain of existence for all mankind.

Her stature…Her form…Her blessed essence…
Praises! She is the promise of soothing simplicity, of an oblivious ecstasy. She is happiness through forgetfulness; She is Nirvana, the cessation of suffering. She is Nathicana, Sofia, Psyche, the razor line between D*mation and deliverance. She is a thousand and one faces of the compassionate void, ever calling my name.
I will continue in the worship of this Noumenon, and I will give burnt offerings in Her unspeakable name, as I learned to that night. I devote my soul to Her glorification, and pray for the day when She will answer my pleas for peace.
I will spend eternity in her chaste embrace among the sleeping stars, and forget my worries in a coma of bliss.

*chief among whom was Her High Priest

[Shade]

I read the first paragraph...and had no f*cking clue what was going on. :(

[Acheron]

I read Shade's post...

[Shade]

I read the whole thing this time, and couldn't understand what you were talking about. I think I need cliff-notes for this story. :(

Also, you seem to be mixing mythology, including both Isis and Asgard. One being Egytian, and the other being a heavenly place in Norse mythology, I believe.

[Dreadnought]

Yes, that was intentional. It gives the illusion of culture.

[Shade]

It just doesn't seem right, jeez. By what I think I understood, you're talking about a ***dess, while mixing mythology? No sense made there.

[Dreadnought]

Not to an atheist, or a pantheist. It's either all ***s or no ***s. My woman (I wish) embodies all the old pagan beliefs.

[Dreadnought]

It's because she is a ***dess of my own invention (interpretation, more like) and thus all the rules apply and yet don't. Who is to say that we got the mythology right?

The one I love embodies all the old pagan beliefs....

[Shade]

Well, mythology is mostly made up of stories passed down through the generations, or so I think.

But I see where you're going now.

[Dreadnought]

So how come you are so divine?

[Shade]

Just cuz.