Every crevice is freed from the burden of blood.
But what is there in its stead? A seed?
A golden grain. Still unformed. Raw.
It grows slowly at first. But the seed rejoices, calling to its power. It swells and gloats until it trickles—until it streams.
The ichor.
The stream turns into a river, an ocean of time and torment inundating every fissure.
The ichor remembers the first breath, the last scream.
It sees all. It knows all.
Bones break like crushed ice in summertime.
Scraping and dry.
Gilded, resplendent, it’s soothed with a gentle caress.
Ribs pierce breathless lungs into the tallest cathedral, built to rejoice in the keys to creation.
Whispered lies and mumbled truths fill it until it bursts.
Once the breath escapes, the heart starts to sing its repetitive song. But not the song of life. No. Only of death.
Flesh decays like forgotten maggots. Muscles dissolve into mud and bones. The skin forgets itself, and air is all that remains. But the ichor prevails, as it always prevails.
Pushing itself through the forgotten roads.
Come to me, my love, it proclaims from the highest peaks to the deepest depths.
The body answers the call. The ichor remembers and remembers it all.
Flesh twists and turns until the muscles cry out in ecstasy. They wrap themselves around each root, each scar, each wound, until they disappear into the darkness.
Fire sears through every limb, trying to remember what once was. Screaming fills the void, reciting what could have been.
Ashen organs reform once again, similes of themselves carved by the masters of the unruly children. Smooth marble splinters until it’s whole, then smooths itself over the burning remains.
The flesh is there.
The ichor is there.
But only one thing remains untouched.
What of the soul when the body suffers?
Who will call to it?
The memories of hell are fresh in their eyes.
Why shall he return into this decayed form?
There is no more home; there is only the darkness of the afterlife. But the seed of power is still there.
Withered and untouched.
