Ishtar existed in the floating blackness beyond Versailles, deep in troubled thought. She could not see or hear anything in the blackness which pressed on every sense, but she knew the way back to that strange and twisted masquerade. She could almost smell it. Her mind whirled apace, but in the blackness it could have been days or more.
Too much, too soon, she whispered the merest musings of the possibility of a thought of... hush, in the privacy of her own mind.
Gilgamesh, and her defeat at his hands - the death of her own beloved bull, the gift of her great father - had taught Ishtar a valuable lesson on the fallability of godkind. She had learned, perhaps the best of her peers, her stronger, wiser, more powerful peers, to become mutable and mould herself to fit into the mortal realm. She no longer had temples, although she often thought of rebuilding them. Her followers no longer knew her name, now they worshipped her as a feeling in the brothels and the opium dens, in the silence before a gangland brawl and through the frenzied bass notes of the dissonant music of youth.
Too strong, too early on. The death of the bull of heaven had been her own fault, caused by her own pride. She had loved the horse, and given him the whip and saddle and spur. She had not anticipated that Gilgamesh could resist her love for fear of the cruelties it brought. Her family had punished him for the death of the bull, but not for his wrongs against her. She had remedied her overt tactics, becoming insidious. Adapting as the wheel of the year turned. She doubted whether most of godkind would deign to comprehend the little wars of numbers and money, supply and demand.
That she would dream herself into Seventeenth, Eighteenth Century France in less-than-appropriate clothing, in her own clothes from pre-fall Babylon no less, was highly unlikely. Fear pitted in her stomach as she stood. That her costume was twice incomplete - no mask and no ornate carved seal borne on a ceremonial rod - could only mean that it was not her dream. That she had smoked her own blend of hashish, a blend designed to produce soft and restful dreams, yet find herself awash in blood confirmed it. Who could do such a thing?
She heard a voice call out from beyond the darkness and answered it with all the calm she could muster. "I am Ishtar, Lady of Nineveh, Courtesan of the Gods. The blackness I cannot speak for."
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Date: Friday, 18 December 2009 07:48 (UTC)Too much, too soon, she whispered the merest musings of the possibility of a thought of... hush, in the privacy of her own mind.
Gilgamesh, and her defeat at his hands - the death of her own beloved bull, the gift of her great father - had taught Ishtar a valuable lesson on the fallability of godkind. She had learned, perhaps the best of her peers, her stronger, wiser, more powerful peers, to become mutable and mould herself to fit into the mortal realm. She no longer had temples, although she often thought of rebuilding them. Her followers no longer knew her name, now they worshipped her as a feeling in the brothels and the opium dens, in the silence before a gangland brawl and through the frenzied bass notes of the dissonant music of youth.
Too strong, too early on. The death of the bull of heaven had been her own fault, caused by her own pride. She had loved the horse, and given him the whip and saddle and spur. She had not anticipated that Gilgamesh could resist her love for fear of the cruelties it brought. Her family had punished him for the death of the bull, but not for his wrongs against her. She had remedied her overt tactics, becoming insidious. Adapting as the wheel of the year turned. She doubted whether most of godkind would deign to comprehend the little wars of numbers and money, supply and demand.
That she would dream herself into Seventeenth, Eighteenth Century France in less-than-appropriate clothing, in her own clothes from pre-fall Babylon no less, was highly unlikely. Fear pitted in her stomach as she stood. That her costume was twice incomplete - no mask and no ornate carved seal borne on a ceremonial rod - could only mean that it was not her dream. That she had smoked her own blend of hashish, a blend designed to produce soft and restful dreams, yet find herself awash in blood confirmed it. Who could do such a thing?
She heard a voice call out from beyond the darkness and answered it with all the calm she could muster. "I am Ishtar, Lady of Nineveh, Courtesan of the Gods. The blackness I cannot speak for."