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wisdomeagleFandom: Bible
Title: Pillar of Water
Author: Ari/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wisdomeagle
Written for:babydraco in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
purimgifts 2008. Originally posted here.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This is a work of creative fiction based on a sacred text. The author claims no credit for the characters or their stories, only for these imagined interactions. No disrespect is intended to those of any faith. The photography is the author's own.
Pairing: Jesus/Mary Magdalene
Notes: Thanks tosangerin and yhlee for last minute betaing.
Pillar of Water
When morning breaks, Mary (no longer Magdalene, Jesus' closest companion, beloved disciple, lavish lover, but just another Mary among many, reborn a bitter crone) forces herself from bed, goading herself with the memory of torture. The scent of blood is hot in her nostrils, the agony of scourge and nails as real and painful as the unforgiving dust of Jerusalem, hot underfoot.
Though she has walked this year farther and faster and with heavier burdens than a Judean woman of independent means ever expected to, this last journey wearies her the most. She's no longer buoyed by hope, no longer comforted by plans and fables, by Kingdom stories that were brighter than the Roman-spilled blood that blotted the countryside. Those stories have faded now, dust and shadows, nothing like the worlds that spun from the Master's tongue, swirling like sandstorms, brilliant like sunrise -- the Kingdom coming alive in his mouth, dusty against her tongue, sweet as wine.
This morning she walks into the sunrise carrying bright spices and robed in blue, red hair coiled tightly beneath its veil but still bearing the memory of his touch, gentle against her neck and pressed firm to her hands, like the wounds that --
This journey, this morning, no woman could endure, no long-suffering saint, no anxious prophetess. This morning is impossible, paradoxical. This morning he is dead, and he was Life, and Truth, and Sweetness.
The garden, rosy and fragrant with sunrise and spring, dewy and glorious with morning and Paschal sorrows, is empty, and the tomb -- and the tomb.
The sweaty, haggard body of the teacher, the sweet, beloved body of her lover, the bloody, shredded remnants of the man who was Jesus -- it's gone from the tomb, stolen by robbers, removed by Romans, it doesn't matter: he's gone, and everything that mattered has been destroyed, and this morning's revelation shatters the safety of her grief.
Easter.
++
cloud+fire+water
Title: Pillar of Water
Author: Ari/
wisdomeagleWritten for:
babydraco in purimgifts 2008. Originally posted here.Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This is a work of creative fiction based on a sacred text. The author claims no credit for the characters or their stories, only for these imagined interactions. No disrespect is intended to those of any faith. The photography is the author's own.
Pairing: Jesus/Mary Magdalene
Notes: Thanks to
sangerin and yhlee for last minute betaing. Pillar of Water
When morning breaks, Mary (no longer Magdalene, Jesus' closest companion, beloved disciple, lavish lover, but just another Mary among many, reborn a bitter crone) forces herself from bed, goading herself with the memory of torture. The scent of blood is hot in her nostrils, the agony of scourge and nails as real and painful as the unforgiving dust of Jerusalem, hot underfoot.
Though she has walked this year farther and faster and with heavier burdens than a Judean woman of independent means ever expected to, this last journey wearies her the most. She's no longer buoyed by hope, no longer comforted by plans and fables, by Kingdom stories that were brighter than the Roman-spilled blood that blotted the countryside. Those stories have faded now, dust and shadows, nothing like the worlds that spun from the Master's tongue, swirling like sandstorms, brilliant like sunrise -- the Kingdom coming alive in his mouth, dusty against her tongue, sweet as wine.
This morning she walks into the sunrise carrying bright spices and robed in blue, red hair coiled tightly beneath its veil but still bearing the memory of his touch, gentle against her neck and pressed firm to her hands, like the wounds that --
This journey, this morning, no woman could endure, no long-suffering saint, no anxious prophetess. This morning is impossible, paradoxical. This morning he is dead, and he was Life, and Truth, and Sweetness.
The garden, rosy and fragrant with sunrise and spring, dewy and glorious with morning and Paschal sorrows, is empty, and the tomb -- and the tomb.
The sweaty, haggard body of the teacher, the sweet, beloved body of her lover, the bloody, shredded remnants of the man who was Jesus -- it's gone from the tomb, stolen by robbers, removed by Romans, it doesn't matter: he's gone, and everything that mattered has been destroyed, and this morning's revelation shatters the safety of her grief.
Easter.
++
cloud+fire+water