DEMIGOD VISITING
They said he only came to villages forgotten by gods. Places where the ground had grown dry, and wombs even drier.
We were one of those places.
I had been barren five years. Every month, the blood came and left. Nothing stayed. Nothing grew. And still, my husband never turned from me. He worked the fields like he was punishing the earth itself. Tilled, lifted, hauled—hands calloused, back roped with muscle. He was strong in a way born from labor, not vanity. Thick arms, sun-worn skin, a chest that pressed warm and solid against me every night as we dreamed of a child that never came.
The red moon rose for the third time tonight.
I watched from the shadows of the old stone temple as the Demigod appeared—just like the old women said he would. He stepped through the broken arch, wings spread, body wrapped in strips of deep blue silk. His torso gleamed in the torchlight, oiled and chiseled, a golden pauldron catching firelight on one shoulder. He moved like he didn’t walk—like he floated just above the ground.
He said nothing. He didn’t need to.
My husband stepped forward. Bare, except for a cloth at his waist. I had helped tie it. Watched him bathe, watched him steel himself. He was trembling then, but now he looked proud. Strong. His wide chest rose slowly as he knelt before the god.
The Demigod looked down at him and placed a hand on his head. Then, gently, on his jaw. Then down, over his collarbone, until his hand rested low, at the center of him.
The cloth fell.
The god moved behind him. Pressed his broad body close, wings wrapping around them like curtains. I could still see—enough. My husband leaned forward onto the altar stone, palms braced. His back arched, muscles flexing, thighs tight. He looked like something carved, something being reshaped.
The Demigod parted him with strong, reverent hands. Not rough. Not hurried. Like he was opening a gate to a sacred field.
I watched the god press into him slowly, deeply—my husband’s head dropping low, his mouth parting. He groaned—not in pain, but release. His whole body shuddered. I felt it in my own bones, like the earth was answering. The sound of their skin meeting echoed in the hollow space of the temple. Wet, rhythmic. Unashamed.
The Demigod gripped his hips, then his chest, then laid a hand flat against his lower belly. Like he was planting something. Claiming it.
I wept. Not out of sorrow—but recognition. This was what it took. This was how life returned.
When it was done, the Demigod kissed the back of his neck. One final push. One final breath.
And then he disappeared.
My husband walked to me slowly, his legs shaking, his eyes dazed but full. I held him. I kissed the sweat on his chest. Pressed my ear to his belly and swore I could feel something pulsing there.
That night, he entered me, body still warm from the god’s touch. And I swear—this time, something stayed.
Something divine.
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