Ego
There, Afterwards.
I once met the moon.
It was a dark night – how could it be light, with nothing in the sky to illuminate it?
She came to me, out of the dark. A cold-faced, solemn woman, wrapped in a silver cloak. Her skin was pale, so pale that it seemed to shine. And in her arms, she carried a baby.
Her
I am alone.
It is not that I am not surrounded by people. It is that my ties to them are loose, and could be broken with scarcely a thought. It is that I am alone, and none of the crowds around me have any responsibility for me, and would waste little time in missing me, if I were gone. It is that I need a husband, one to bind me to this group, these people, to keep me safe.
She
Late at night, she climbs to the top of a nearby hill. She kneels before me.
And she asks for a favour.
She asks me for something I may not have for myself. Something which I cannot have, for who would be my equal?
So, in return, I ask the same. I ask for something which I cannot create for myself. After all, if one would give this up, in return for the other, surely they are not worthy of it in the first place?
Her
And I say to her “Silvered lady, what do you intend to do with a child of flesh?”
And she looks back at me, still smiling that calm smile, and says not one word. She waits for my answer.
I say yes.
The next day, a man rides into our encampment. A strong man, one who would not usually be bound to one woman. But he is, bound to me.
And I know this is her doing, his passion, his restraint, all hers, and I know what I am expected to give in exchange.
She
She would seek to deceive me.
Her
I have no intention of keeping my vow.
This is foolish, perhaps. She can find me, anywhere. I look upon her every night, save for those few days a month when she disappears. But I can make it work, I am sure of it. I make plans over those months, endless plans. Stay indoors at night, save when she is not in the sky. Hide myself, and the child. Raise him so that he never looks upon her, for if he does, I know her power is greater than mine, and that he will leave me.
She
Every month I wax, and then I wane again, with nothing to show for it.
Other women wax the same way, their bellies growing full and round. Yet when they wane, there is something to show for it. Blood, admittedly, sometimes, in a rushing flow over their thighs, as they cry and mourn for lost chances. More often…hope. A child. Something which they have created, deep within themselves. As I cannot.
Her
There are hours upon hours of screaming, sweating, crying. The pain is like nothing I’ve felt before. It tears me asunder, and I fear I will break in half.
He waits, outside. Waiting to see his child, the child he insists will be a son. I do not care what it is, as long as it is out of me before it kills me. Still, I know I will not give him up. I will not give her my child. Luna, you wish to be a mother, but this child is mine.
She
...this child is mine. I engineered his birth. We made a deal, a fair trade, a love for a love, and she attempts to fool me, to hide from me.
She has broken her part of the promise. I will no longer uphold mine.
He
The scales fall from my eyes as the child is born.
She had me bewitched, but no longer, not when I see this creature that comes from her. His skin is white, white as the fur as an ermine. His eyes are grey, instead of olive. This is not my child. This vile witch, she who captured me, has deceived me. But no longer.
She
The man mistakes the white skin. He believes it is a sign that the child isn't his. Instead, it is a sign that he isn't hers.
The intent to create this child was mine. Before he was ever conceived, he was mine.
Her
He comes to me with a knife, as the child cries at the end of our bed. He asks “Whose son is this?” and does not give me time to reply before burying the knife within me, up to the hilt. He does not give my life time to bleed out by itself, gushing between my fingers. He hastens its departure with further blows. I whimper, try to whisper. Luna...
He
I cannot bear to look on this small child, this milk white monster born of the witch I married, who lies now in a pool of her own blood, her eyes fading as they become glassier. I take him to the forest, to the hill, and leave him lying there. Let the wolves have him. Let the moon take him. I do not care.
She
My son.
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