The head strewn, a leg here, an arm there, the torso in hideous pieces, phallus devoured…
What possessed you to search and search until you found every last bit of him? Were you certain that you could put him back together again? Did you know that you could awaken him? Were you confident you would conceive? Did you ever fear a monstrous mutation of the seed posthumously conceived? Was it your love that resurrected and conceived or your magic? Was your love your magic? Was it only your passion and power that raised the dead and birthed a god? Or was it too, your beloved’s undying will even in death to live, love, reign?
Forgive us, Mother, the press for answers, but our lovers too and sons have fallen, and our efforts are futile. What on earth will become of us?