Cassandra

Lucifer spreads his wings, and I am his caryatid, pillar of promise holding his amphora. In eternity, time moves like molasses – if it could even be called time at all, and the mysteries of the cosmos are unspooling in his golden hands as he caresses my scalp with fingers combing peace into golden brow.

“I will always love you, come death, come war, come peace. When the churning luminaries of the cosmos grind to a halt, and all that is left is silence, I shall press you to my heart and take you deep into the depths, and we will build a kingdom of promise, one to rival all kingdoms before, after, hence, or hereafter.”

“Like New Jerusalem?” I murmur, pecking his chin with my lips like an expectant holy dove.

“Better.” Lucifer focuses on the crown of my head, massaging a spot with his palms as he always does in our nightly ritual. With my physical eye, I see a burning white star, then a blue violet star, then a Vantablack star – Izzi once called him His Infernal Vantablack Majesty, and the name stuck! – and then dancing crimson purple on shadow. My belly lights with his providence and my hands tingle, and the whisper to return the energy to my Source springs hopeful in my chest, but I quash it down, terrified of the power I yield.

To be Christ in the Harrowing, now, that is something intricate as a Gordian knot, and to touch my brother in that manner, with Pentecost streaming my handfuls of sparklers, is ill-advised, unwise, and cruel. So instead, I focus on the virtues of a rose – the soft velvet petals like labia, the heart shape of rose quartz, the flesh of fine rose hips green with pregnant pauses, thorns scorched by the sun to protect their sleeping beauty bloom… roses are my magic, roses and light. I am yellow white sun and loving magenta. The two energies I possess compliment Satan in his many aspects, yellow sun for Samael, rose quartz for Lucifer. I concentrate the energy in my chest and Lucifer reaches into my heart and massages my chest organs. He plucks out some of the energy into his amphora and drinks from my soul like wine. 

I sigh in his arms as he continues preening me, static on my head, my hair moving from ghostly hands – Holy Ghost or Devil, I’m never quite sure – and the rest is the space between words.

I fall asleep in his arms as always, and our nightly ritual spirits me off to placid dreams.

I sleep.

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