Perhaps she would have pondered the deep red sunlight as the color of blood, would her blood be red. Though reflected as it was through the stained glass, the light splattered ornate walls with any color she would wish to choose. It slid across her features as she moved, the light, growing in cosmic similarity to the movement of stars, the milky centers of far away galaxies, and that, in turn, lead to growing apprehension and primal fear. The growing pressure in her chest of things moved beyond her grasp, beyond her control. The realization that praying could calm none of it, but determined to try.
Her steps echoed on walls older than her mother, the mother before that, and perhaps a hundred generations stacked. Stone dug raw from the ground, pulled to its resting place, and pushed up onto stacks upon stacks. Bound to the history of her species more tightly than the literal mortar used to bind it.
She stepped through long shadows, sprung from colored glass edges, by window frames; by rows of tall figures, ancient heroes, figures of ancient prophets, all of it soon to be lost forever.
Ahead, the ordered rows of benches, humble, worn from use by those hundred generations, her mother and mother before her. Among them, more light. This time small crystals, from the Jewel Mountains, placed with consideration, with purpose, to light each path to each bench.
To offset the deep red sunlight, once so nourishing, now a portend for the death of a world.
Lara found the bench she wanted and sat. Her grandmother held her hand on this bench, the first time she was here, many sunsets ago. Her mother didn't have the same feeling for nostalgia and Lara's adolescence was a series of new benches, all at the whims of an arbitrary selecting method she was never privy to.
Until Lara drifted away.
Into adulthood.
Lara's gaze drifted through the nearly empty church. Once filled to capacity, now, like her planet, on the edge of extinction. There were mothers, always mothers, with children. A few old people.
Weariness emanated from her, pushed her downward, collapsing her bones. Her head sank low, tapered chin resting against her flat chest. A mass of cranial ridges, of various length and thickness, ringed her scalp. The tips rested among the spines of shoulders as she let gravity curl her pose. Thin, hair-like filaments, made a soft sound as the motion pulled them over her face.
Would her blood red, perhaps it would have rushed to blush her cheeks, but it was not. And the keratin on her cheeks wouldn't allow them to change color if it was.
Lara-El, the last mother on planet Krypton, prayed.
Hello, sister. Are you well?
Lara sank in the question, drown in it, before finally lifting her head, pushing herself back into consciousness. She couldn't decide if the interruption was welcome or not, but the priest had a genuine look of concern on her face.
I haven't been to church since I was little.
I'm not surprised. The Science Academy has done a good job of pushing away tradition faith. The priest smiled lightly and continued. The poor without fables of gods, are reliant on fables of the rich, she said.
Lara glanced at the brightly colored cloth over her shoulder and pooled around her waist. I'm not sure why I wore these today. I still have my traditional robes. Somewhere.
There's no dress code, sister. All are welcome.
A nearby child noticed the conversation, recognized it for distraction against its mother's attention. It slid delicately toward the two women, an unintentional spy.
You still believe, Lara asked, unsure if she was asking a question.
Of course. Rao doesn't cease to exist because a group of grouchy old men in a tower declare it so. The world is a pendulum. All things far away, become close again, and vice versa. Pain. Happiness. Belief. The very sun, named after him, reminds us by its cycles of dimming and brightening.
Lara couldn't meet her gaze. Her eyes would give it away, the future she knew was inevitable, the future that loomed fat and red right outside the window, would move over her, would spill out of her, would destroy what little time the world had left. She would spatter the ornate walls with it, her guilt and horror.
Rao will shine brightly again, as it once did, reminding us of his way. The priest followed Lara's gaze, to the front window. Beyond.
The giant, red sun, filled most of the sky.
The glory of Rao.
Have you been a priest all your life? Lara returned again, to face the priest, reengaging, on her last day in church.
I am fifth generation, in fact. My mother, her mother, mothers before her.
You were given up at birth, then, raised by the church?
Yes, I never knew my mother or father.
Very traditional. The old way.
Perhaps, someday, the priest said lightly, it will be the new way, again.
You're comfortable with parents giving away their children?
The moment right, the priest sat beside Lara on her grandmother's favorite bench.
A child raised in love, knows only love. Rao is the love of all mothers and the love of all fathers. Of all Kryptonians. We are all his love.
She looked at the marriage band on Lara's wrist. Do you have a daughter you're thinking about giving to the church?
What makes us Kryptonian, sister?
That is a complicated question. The words of Rao have plain passages, but there are many more than could be interpreted differently with the right spin. The priest ran the words over in her head, choosing carefully, practiced her response. I may not have the necessary skill of a clear answer.
The colors in her lap insisted on Lara's attention.
I'm a biologist. Geneticist, actually. Being Kryptonian from a biological point of view, that's easy. That's a specific thing. Trillions of little parts, pieced together in a very specific way. Parts that way separate us from flamebirds, or thought beasts, or Kypto, by husband's dog.
Lara's hands interlaced, writhed, as if an occult ritual was being performed, as if somehow all the energy inside her could be expended out the weaving of her twelve, multi-jointed fingers. It had the opposite effect she intended. Any calm inside her was now spun into the tangled mess of her anxiety.
If I were to take those trillion little parts, and shake them in a jar… Any resolve left in Lara was pushed down as her eyes betrayed her, their inevitable future coming to pass. If I were to dump it out…
Would whatever came out of that jar, be Kryptonian?
Lara tried to affirm with a motion of her head, but her head felt as heavy as a stack of stones, her real question buried, underneath.
Would whatever came out of that jar, know Rao's love?
His word says Rao created us in his image. But look at you, at me. At this child. The priest motioned her hand to the nearby unintentional spy. It closed on the priest with the energy of something just waiting to be asked.
That image already takes so many forms. Forms that change constantly, from birth to adulthood. All throughout life. Intentionally and unintentionally.
The child moved under the priest's arm, a wayward pet finally let back in from the cold.
What's one more?
Lara stood then, more sudden than she expected. The child averted its gaze, its tiny mind aware it had nothing to offer.
Lara regarded the priest and the weight of truth, of consequences, of social graces, of mercy, of all the things moving through her, pleading their case for release.
Your pendulum has become an axe, sister. Rao soon grows so bright, no love can shield your eyes from his wrath.
The child openly stared now, the priest uncomfortable. I don't understand.
Rao speaks to you for the last time. Please hurry home. Hurry home to your wife, or husband; to your boys and kept girls. Gather them up and tell them Rao loves them. That Rao didn't turn his back on us, the Science Academy did. You and I and they and them, are Kryptonians to the end.
Lara turns away now, spent, guilty at the burden she should have kept secret.
Rao be with you, the priest says softly, in her wake.
Rao be with us all, Lara returns, by rote, her grandmother's voice, she's sure.