Your name means ‘spear’, son of the field.
It sounds like the way you would take a sharpened stick and drive it into the ground, to make tiny nests for the seeds you planted.
It sounds like the way you would plunge your hands into the clay at the river’s edge, a grin upon your face as you traced shapes on the bank and stirred up small whirlwinds of sand and silt.
It sounds like the way you would help your mother slice fruit and vegetables for the family meals, talking to her about how tall the tree you planted has grown and how a honeybee alighted on your hand with a whisper of a touch before flickering away.
It sounds like the way you would run your fingers through thousands of pebbles and stones warmed by the sun, eyes shut, a smile on your lips and a song on your heart.
It sounds like the way your feet hit the ground when the word comes, and you race to find your brother, to warn him that a danger greater than any he or you have ever known is rising and he needs to be careful.
It sounds like the rattling of the panicked breath in your throat and the trembling of your hands as you speak the words that will change the world - your world - for the rest of eternity.
It sounds like the sharp sob that rips its way from your lungs as you drive a blade into your brother’s loving heart, to send his glowing soul to Heaven while yours - sacrificed to corruption and the whim of a serpent - takes the place of his in Hell.
Your name means ‘spear’, son of the shadows.
It sounds like the way the serpent claps you on your shoulder with a laugh, and the words “you made the right choice” that ring through the prison you find yourself in; telling yourself that it is for your brother, it is for your brother, you did this for your brother.
It sounds like the restless hours you spend gazing at the Mark on your arm, knowing it is a curse and knowing that it was unavoidable; and yet you feel so much fear and so much hatred, because you never wanted this.
It sounds like the low laughter and darkening eyes of the order of knights you train with your own hands, hands that once held their mother’s, tilled the earth and brought life instead of tearing it away.
It sounds like the way time marched on, decade after decade and century after century, and no matter how long it went on, you obeyed the whims of the serpent - because that had been the deal you sealed to protect your blood brother.
It sounds like the gunshots and the cannon fire and the furious shouts of men, brothers fighting brothers, clad in blue and grey; a war that you invest time and energy into because of the violence, a path you were forced onto.
It sounds like the first time you follow a soldier into the tent where the nurses mend the wounded, the Mark pulsing on your arm and a craving for violence sparking red on your fingertips.
It sounds like the scuff of your boots as you stop still, face-to-face with with a woman who seems for all the world a mortal angel, the gentleness of a doe and the courage of a lion setting her eyes aglow - and the sparks of violence fade as you stumble onto a new path, one equally as inescapable as the path of shadows.
Your name means ‘spear’, son of the earth.
It sounds like the way your hands shake when you fight against the pull of your Mark, fight against the path of darkness, because you’ve somehow stumbled across a soul who reminds you so much of summer.
It sounds like the laughter of the mortal angel whenever you find a way to amuse her, whether it’s by allowing the rain, tears from the sky, to soak through your hair and your clothing or by falling onto your back and rolling down a hill of grass and sun-yellow flowers.
It sounds like hitch of your breath in your throat as you tell her what you are and the relief that washes over you when she says she loves you anyway; and the hitch of your breath in your throat months after when you sink to your knees and speak words, voice a question that strikes fear into you - a flutter of the heart, a tightening of the chest that you had not felt in centuries.
It sounds like the rush of the wind through long grass as you walk, smiling for the first time in a long time, arm-in-arm with the mortal angel down a meadow path, away from the officiant who has just declared you both one soul.
It sounds like dancing a waltz around an oaken table in the backwoods of Mississippi to music that you hum while the mortal angel - your angel - clasps your hands and spins silken words to match your melody.
It sounds like the first of many times when guilt and black memories crash down on you and tear into your heart, and you find yourself on the floor, wrapped in her arms as she holds you close and sings soft songs of light and love.
It sounds like the way she holds your hands when you are plagued by nightmares; the buzz of the honeybees that she and you keep; the knowledge that she - your mortal angel - loves you and will always love you, and that even the moon is dark on one side and blazing bright on the other.
Cain.
Your name is Cain. And it is a name that holds the pain of your past and the mistakes that you made.
But now you have the chance to attach new memories to your name, and it can be a name that holds the warmth of a summer angel and the steps that you now take to leave your past behind.
Remember who you used to be, the child who grew living things in the earth and held his mother’s hand, who harboured a quiet admiration for the world. Remember who you were before the serpent tried (and failed) to encase your heart in ice.
— the first son (a mother’s message), dedicated to @grigiocuore
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