I'll tell you a story, but I'll have to tell you telepathically, because I don't speak aloud.
Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.
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I'll tell you a story, but I'll have to tell you telepathically, because I don't speak aloud.
Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.
Online Classes with Certification
Events in Florida and Beyond
Work with Me
Workbooks, Study Guides, and Toolkits
I'd love to hear from you! Tell me how you use tarot and astrology for creative inspiration.
ONE for the betrayal of their own daughter, one for vengeance undeserved, one for leading lambs to the slaughter, one for rumors spun into riot, one for behavior most unbecoming, and the last for their selfish natures.
It was a slow suicide, indeed. The removal of the swords happened as they recounted the sins that had brought them to this point. They did not hold hands or comfort each other in other ways; for they knew they were undeserving of any kindnesses. This particular death in itself was a kindness compared to what else might have been done with them had they remained in town. Stares were lingering, judgmental, and filled with a shared current of wrath. There were no deals to be made or understanding natures to appeal to. In the end, this was the sole remaining sensible solution. A gentle atonement for the most significant of their past transgressions.
The boatman pushed from the shore in a single, sure stroke. His hood hid his face, but it was said the man beneath was a ghost; a collaboration of any soul to wander down a path of self destruction. Many called him “The Shepherd.” It seemed his nature to guide the strays when they reached a desperate tipping point. He did not push, but he did collect those who fell. After a short time he amassed his own flock and took them into himself in one big breath. His figure swirled with gray tones of mist. They were thought to be the souls of those in his collection. Trapped within him, and yet, free by way of escape of their previous existences. Overall, he presented a peaceful image of acceptance, with an awaiting undercurrent of doom.
Now, he guided Mary and Robert on their prolonged journey of penance. The tips of the swords dragged along the rocks in the shallow waters. A muffled scraping sound could be heard over the gentle rippling of the wooden boat’s self-made waves. The swords slowed their progress as intended. It would become easier to move forward with the removal of each sword — like the subsiding sting of removing splinters — with the gradual acceleration of the rising water soothing any lingering pains.
Cowardice conquered Mary and Robert both when the time came to pull the first sword and cast it into the water. Their hands trembled with equal apprehension. It was not so easy a thing to condemn oneself to one’s final cradle, but The Shepherd could not begin the deed in their stead. Robert looked away, ashamed of himself. Mary huffed out a breath in agitated adoption of their fate and pulled the first sword free.
There was a bubbling sound as water began to make its way into the bottom of the wooden boat. The entry was slow and lazy — one of convenience rather than one of purpose. Robert tensed at the first traces of the cool liquid nipping at his toes. Both he and Mary sat with bare feet. They had walked without shoes the entire distance to the shore. Now, a creeping feeling of needles accompanied the water and reminded them of the footwear’s absence.
Mary’s bravery in pulling the first of six swords gave Robert back some of his, and he reached for the second of the two harbored in the peak of the boat. It came out with a quiet splash, as an inch of water had now gathered in the bottom of their vessel. Bubbles floated upwards from the new opening as it, too, allowed water to seep in. Robert let out a breath he had held unknowingly in a loud sigh. A small sense of relief filled him in contradiction to the pending doom. This final task would be easier than either had anticipated. He did not allow himself to smile at the revelation, though. Even if the burden of the end had lessened, he was not to find comfort in it; much like he longed to reach for Mary’s hand so that they might pry the remaining swords free — united — but resisted the temptation. He swallowed down any hope briefly gathered and looked on to the parting waves before looking down to the rising water.
In a give and take, Mary took another turn and pulled the sword next closest to her. It squealed as the blade dug itself free from the wet, expanding wood. Another bubble along with a small uptake in their pace. Bit by bit, The Shepherd’s paddling was made easier with the reduction in drag.
Robert followed suit with the fourth of six swords to see the water level in the boat rise faster, still, now that four of the six holes stood unplugged. He released the handle of the sword so that it fell downward and pierced the water they tread through in near silence. It sunk with haste, down to the depths that the man and woman would soon come to know intimately. For now, the water greeted them by climbing further up the insides of the boat to tease at their ankles and calves.
Two swords remained at the stern of the boat. Mary and Robert both turned inward to look back at the last tethers to the life they left behind in such useless tatters. The Shepherd did not pay heed to their glances in his direction. His hooded figure looked onwards, though no distinguishing features could be made out. He didn’t see Robert and Mary; he saw a duty performed countless times before and another tragic couple to be added to his flock. With a singular vision, he paddled forward.
Robert saw Mary reach for the second last sword, as it was her turn in the give and take rhythm. He touched her arm to stop her before her fingers made contact with the hilt. He did not want to be the one to pull the last sword and seal their fate with certainty. His selfish nature proved true to the end in that regard. Mary understood; despite everything, she was an understanding woman. She allowed him to reach first and pull the fifth of six swords. He let it flop from his hand so it hit the water with a sloppy splash and was swallowed with a great gulp. Another few bubbles from the newly formed opening, another slight uptake in their pace, and another measurable increase of the boat’s internal water level.
The Shepherd steered the boat from atop a small ledge jutting from the stern of the boat. The water was high enough so the hanging hems of his black and gray robes darkened with the wet. It would not be long now.
Robert shifted to face forward again as Mary pulled the last sword from the bottom of the boat. He was unable to watch as she concluded this sad, but necessary deed. His eyes slid closed and he heard the muted slide of the blade from wood as she jerked it free. There, it is done now, it is over for th—
Robert abandoned the thought as he felt a hot swipe of metal cut through the delicate skin of his throat. His front was warmed as his neck opened up and rained down blood upon him. His fingers felt stupidly about the slash. He could not turn his head, so he let it flop to the side in order to cast his betrayed gaze over his wife. She met his eyes without apology, clutching the bloodied sword — the sixth of the six swords — to her breast. She lacked any concern for the blood spreading across the front of her dress.
“A final sin, my love,” she whispered before she pushed Robert out over the side of the boat. Blood dyed the cold water around him red as it overtook his fading body and devoured him whole. His sinking face held its shocked expression for as long as Mary could see it through the surface. A few last pinkish bubbles, stained with the last of his essence, broke the surface with finality.
Mary shifted so that she sat in the middle of the seat previously shared with her late husband. She continued to hold the sword to her breast instead of casting it overboard as had been done with the rest. Up to this point, she had resisted all temptation to turn towards lighter feelings of relief, and had simmered in the expected shame for her — their — prior infractions. Without Robert beside her, she felt less of an obligation to do so. She allowed the contained swell of relief that accompanied her concession to her deeds up to this point to rush through her. The boat sank faster now, diving forward into the water rather than gliding across the skin of the liquid. Mary’s eyes closed of their own accord in a manner similar to the way the corners of her mouth upturned into a smirk without thought. As water conquered over air, she felt a peace in each cool inhale that brought her closer to the end.
INT. EMPRESS’ GARDEN – DAY
We see the interior of a large greenhouse. Inside, there is a wide variety of flowers and trees. The structure itself is luxurious and elegant. Light streams in through the glass, illuminating the enchanting scene of fluttering, colorful butterflies, and playful little faeries. On a comfortable and cushy chair sits EMPRESS NERIAH. She is a pregnant woman of around age thirty, dressed in a beautiful green dress, and a magical, halo-like crown. Her fertile, feminine curves rest gracefully as she watches with pleasure the faeries and butterflies of her garden. In her hand, she holds a magical cup with the symbol of Venus on it. In the other hand, she holds a small scepter.
EMPRESS NERIAH Ah, what a wonderful place to grow a royal family.
NERIAH sighs with contentment, closes her eyes, and leans her head back in relaxation. Suddenly, there is a flash of light, a puff of black smoke, and when NERIAH opens her eyes in surprise there is a man standing before her. He is SZANDOR: a tall man who looks on the surface young, but who carries the quiet confidence and power of many, many years. He sports a goatee and a red tunic and cloak.
EMPRESS NERIAH Szandor! How did you get in here!? My husband’s mages assured me–
SZANDOR Your husband’s mages have never met anyone in my league. With all due respect, Empress.
He bows. NERIAH looks nervous. Her faeries hide behind her, peeking out cautiously. She reflexively holds one hand against her pregnant belly.
EMPRESS NERIAH That may be so, and we may be new to this realm, but our mastery of magic is still enough to defend ourselves if need be.
Her scepter begins to glow a faint green.
SZANDOR Now, now, I, a gentleman, would never attack an innocent mother-to-be. I simply came here to discuss, once again, our house’s differences.
EMPRESS NERIAH We have nothing more to discuss! We settled this land and built this new palace peacefully! You and your ilk still have plenty of hot, volcanic ground and subterranean labyrinths to call home!
SZANDOR Do you forget that you built this little greenhouse, as part of a seemingly ever- expanding domain, my land? Did I ever say it was free for the taking? You do realize that the disgusting enchanted pollen that your plants give off is deadly toxic to the wildlife of my domain, yes?
NERIAH stands up tall. Even in (perhaps especially in) her somewhat rotund state, she is an impressive and even intimidating archetype of femininity, nature, and abundance.
EMPRESS NERIAH My people had no choice but to flee our original home! Do you know how lucky any of us, me, my husband, our knights and servants, my unborn child, are to even still be alive, let alone able to put together our modest estate here?! We’ve contained our few remaining plant and animal specimens, the ones that weren’t burned that is, within the glass of this room, as you demanded!
SZANDOR Your walls are weak. They’ve already been breached.
EMPRESS NERIAH What?!
SZANDOR I don’t know what sort of enchantments you have where you come from, and frankly it’s not my problem, but they clearly aren’t strong enough to hold in your, your, invasive species! I’ve found your disgustingly pink little mushrooms popping up all over my caves. Vines and flowers spreading their tentacles across my plains. Birds devouring my native toads and dragonflies. You broke your promise: your house’s domain is not contained, it is ruining my entire realm! You are not an innocent woman. And your spawn will not be born here!
SZANDOR’S hands begin to glow red, as do his eyes, and the room becomes supernaturally darker around him. In turn, NERIAH’S scepter glows brighter green, and the light around her grows brighter.
EMPRESS NERIAH I’ve already had to fight to defend my people, I’m happy to do it again, Szandor!
They both begin charging powerful magical attacks to launch at each other, when suddenly, there’s a bright blue flash and a wall of blue light appears in front of each of the two enemies. A young male and female voice ring out in unison.
VOICES Stop!
Between two translucent blue walls of magical energy appears two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The boy, wearing black, is NESHER; he is NERIAH’S first son. Holding hands with him is IVONA, a girl with a brown vest. They are both attractive individuals. IVONA is SZANDOR’S daughter.
EMPRESS NERIAH Nesher, what are you doing, my son?! I’m trying to defend your unborn sister!
NESHER No, mother, this conflict has gone on long enough! Lower your scepter!
IVONA Lower your hands, too, father! You’re going to destroy our fragile peace!
Both parents reluctantly agree, though they both look past their children suspiciously at each other.
SZANDOR What is your barbaric son doing with my daughter?
EMPRESS NERIAH I was just about to ask the same thing to you about that little slut you spawned!
NESHER Mother, stop! Ivona is my lover, we’ve chosen each other. Our studies of magic have shown us a way to resolve this conflict without bloodshed!
SZANDOR How dare you trick my daughter, you–
IVONA Father, listen! There’s a way that all of our people and creatures can thrive. We’ve discovered a previously unknown spell that can allow us to travel to a new realm. We have a map of it and everything.
NESHER Ivona and I want to take groups of each of our peoples there, to join in a new beginning. A new understanding. A new hope.
NERIAH and SZANDOR become thoughtful at this, and their tones soften.
EMPRESS NERIAH Please, tell us more of this new star realm…
I'll tell you a story, but I'll have to tell you telepathically, because I don't speak aloud.
Are you ready? Okay. Here we go.
Cloudy mountains roll.
Fields of shoreline sweep.
Oceans look like home.
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Hush heralds the dusk
Moonlight’s silver seep
A host of shadows play
Our souls in constant keep
Dying men request
Favors of the saints
Youth’s unspoken wisdom
Drips from bathroom wall paints
Mother coddles child
Yet orphaned we creep
Grasping wishes and wants
In fragile hues of sleep
Cinderella flees
Midnight rises to crest
Mislay tranquility
While the lamplighter
punches
holes
in
the darkness
Inspired by The Moon and The Hermit
INT. EMPRESS’ GARDEN – DAY
We see the interior of a large greenhouse. Inside, there is a wide variety of flowers and trees. The structure itself is luxurious and elegant. Light streams in through the glass, illuminating the enchanting scene of fluttering, colorful butterflies, and playful little faeries. On a comfortable and cushy chair sits EMPRESS NERIAH. She is a pregnant woman of around age thirty, dressed in a beautiful green dress, and a magical, halo-like crown. Her fertile, feminine curves rest gracefully as she watches with pleasure the faeries and butterflies of her garden. In her hand, she holds a magical cup with the symbol of Venus on it. In the other hand, she holds a small scepter.
EMPRESS NERIAH Ah, what a wonderful place to grow a royal family.
NERIAH sighs with contentment, closes her eyes, and leans her head back in relaxation. Suddenly, there is a flash of light, a puff of black smoke, and when NERIAH opens her eyes in surprise there is a man standing before her. He is SZANDOR: a tall man who looks on the surface young, but who carries the quiet confidence and power of many, many years. He sports a goatee and a red tunic and cloak.
EMPRESS NERIAH Szandor! How did you get in here!? My husband’s mages assured me–
SZANDOR Your husband’s mages have never met anyone in my league. With all due respect, Empress.
He bows. NERIAH looks nervous. Her faeries hide behind her, peeking out cautiously. She reflexively holds one hand against her pregnant belly.
EMPRESS NERIAH That may be so, and we may be new to this realm, but our mastery of magic is still enough to defend ourselves if need be.
Her scepter begins to glow a faint green.
SZANDOR Now, now, I, a gentleman, would never attack an innocent mother-to-be. I simply came here to discuss, once again, our house’s differences.
EMPRESS NERIAH We have nothing more to discuss! We settled this land and built this new palace peacefully! You and your ilk still have plenty of hot, volcanic ground and subterranean labyrinths to call home!
SZANDOR Do you forget that you built this little greenhouse, as part of a seemingly ever- expanding domain, my land? Did I ever say it was free for the taking? You do realize that the disgusting enchanted pollen that your plants give off is deadly toxic to the wildlife of my domain, yes?
NERIAH stands up tall. Even in (perhaps especially in) her somewhat rotund state, she is an impressive and even intimidating archetype of femininity, nature, and abundance.
EMPRESS NERIAH My people had no choice but to flee our original home! Do you know how lucky any of us, me, my husband, our knights and servants, my unborn child, are to even still be alive, let alone able to put together our modest estate here?! We’ve contained our few remaining plant and animal specimens, the ones that weren’t burned that is, within the glass of this room, as you demanded!
SZANDOR Your walls are weak. They’ve already been breached.
EMPRESS NERIAH What?!
SZANDOR I don’t know what sort of enchantments you have where you come from, and frankly it’s not my problem, but they clearly aren’t strong enough to hold in your, your, invasive species! I’ve found your disgustingly pink little mushrooms popping up all over my caves. Vines and flowers spreading their tentacles across my plains. Birds devouring my native toads and dragonflies. You broke your promise: your house’s domain is not contained, it is ruining my entire realm! You are not an innocent woman. And your spawn will not be born here!
SZANDOR’S hands begin to glow red, as do his eyes, and the room becomes supernaturally darker around him. In turn, NERIAH’S scepter glows brighter green, and the light around her grows brighter.
EMPRESS NERIAH I’ve already had to fight to defend my people, I’m happy to do it again, Szandor!
They both begin charging powerful magical attacks to launch at each other, when suddenly, there’s a bright blue flash and a wall of blue light appears in front of each of the two enemies. A young male and female voice ring out in unison.
VOICES Stop!
Between two translucent blue walls of magical energy appears two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The boy, wearing black, is NESHER; he is NERIAH’S first son. Holding hands with him is IVONA, a girl with a brown vest. They are both attractive individuals. IVONA is SZANDOR’S daughter.
EMPRESS NERIAH Nesher, what are you doing, my son?! I’m trying to defend your unborn sister!
NESHER No, mother, this conflict has gone on long enough! Lower your scepter!
IVONA Lower your hands, too, father! You’re going to destroy our fragile peace!
Both parents reluctantly agree, though they both look past their children suspiciously at each other.
SZANDOR What is your barbaric son doing with my daughter?
EMPRESS NERIAH I was just about to ask the same thing to you about that little slut you spawned!
NESHER Mother, stop! Ivona is my lover, we’ve chosen each other. Our studies of magic have shown us a way to resolve this conflict without bloodshed!
SZANDOR How dare you trick my daughter, you–
IVONA Father, listen! There’s a way that all of our people and creatures can thrive. We’ve discovered a previously unknown spell that can allow us to travel to a new realm. We have a map of it and everything.
NESHER Ivona and I want to take groups of each of our peoples there, to join in a new beginning. A new understanding. A new hope.
NERIAH and SZANDOR become thoughtful at this, and their tones soften.
EMPRESS NERIAH Please, tell us more of this new star realm…
— ©G.R. Wilson, authorgrwilson.com
She was altogether indisputably untouchable. Not because of the way she dressed, or the way she sat, perhaps not even the way she talked, but because of the way she saw. Because of the way her enigmatic eyes shone with a dead light that indiscernibly read one’s soul. She was lovely to behold, distantly Egyptian in her style. Cat-like eyeliner framed her eyes as the velvet sky in constellations contoured her frame.
Yes, Illeana was beautiful. But she was of the stars and skies: beautiful, but cold.
She unraveled the scroll given to her, crackled parchment rustling softly. So. It was to be as thus. She scraped a painted nail against the inky runes, thoughtful. She was to create a lover for a man, made painstakingly out of stars and space dust, because he had honored the wishes of the gods. Even her customary indifference could not wrap its cold fingers entirely around her heart; it had been some time since she last was able to carry out Fate’s duties and she could not deny the small flicker of excitement within her. Her creation would be exquisite, modeled after Illeana’s own likeness and blessed with brightness of the stars.
She set into motion the plan, constellation maps and compasses aside, askew and strewn all over her marble balcony. Illeana worked painstakingly throughout the night, until it at last it was complete. She looked over her work, and allowed herself the slightest of smiles, slipping silently to her feet as her starry dress glimmered. The tall, olive figure required only a few tweaks to perfection. Illeana tugged here and there, brushing a stray lock of chestnut hair back, straightening out the clenched fingers.
And then she took a step back. She would make her enchanting, witty, coy. Her name? Marianna. And she would be boundless.
But life was a cruel lover of fate. And so it wasn’t until she had sent the stardust woman off that she noted the woman had been planted in the pathway of a certain Mr. Crawford. No. Illeana’s blood ran cold.
. . .
Marianna Eaton was a woman without a purpose. It wasn’t so much that she hadn’t yet acquired one, more so that she had gone without the twenty-odd years most people had to figure out at least in part what they wished to do with their lives. She had merely been created. But she wasn’t ignorant, no. She would not label herself that. Perhaps naïve, unaware, but apparently with enough knowledge to acquire a position as a bookshop keeper.
She had acquiesced the life she led without much complaint, contenting herself to the quiet, mundane lifestyle of an everyday peddler. But it was certain instances that she found her longing all the more unbearable. She was not one to be a bookshop owner, or a merchant at all, for that matter. She longed to travel, to roam, to seek, even if she was uncertain of what she sought for.
Everything, every last thing had been stripped away from her in the numbingly stagnant lifestyle. Her heart she had kept, though. Or, she thought with bitter amusement, what was left of it. She had always been careful, careful to be aloof and detached, lest the anchorage of her devotion to someone been too much for her to bear when time at last decided to wrest them from her grasp.
But then Isaac had come. It had all been in good fun to begin with. His love was not something Marianna took seriously; after all, she had been created in the likeness of a star, and what was a star, but evanescent? She laughed and spun soft sugary tales around him, wheedled with those large doe eyes of hers, teased with the soft, yellowed pages of her books. She enchanted him with knowledge and stories, lured him in with the smell of apple cinnamon tea and the musty scent of sunshine through warmed, afternoon windowpanes. She had courted him with feathers, with ink stained quills and an oaken desk.
But Isaac meant to stay. And by the time she realized it, she was in far too deep. She tried, oh, how she tried. But it seemed the harder she tried, the closer he clung. He was patient with her, no doubt, but persistent to stay as well. And now it was he who courted her, he who brought her hazelnut scented coffee and woven basketfuls of russet apples (she did love her apples). It was he who pursued her relentlessly, pushing her back almost as far as she had pushed him, almost as if desirous to even the score.
Please, she begged. Please. She shut her eyes. Don’t make me love him, too.
. . .
Isaac Crawford was a judge. Things were, or weren’t, and all the wheedling in the world could not alter that truth. They could not be more different.
Her eyes were the color of a storm and his of a tranquil forest. She was flighty, terribly afraid to be bound, and he was solidly ground, anchored by a steel contraption of his own design, built of facts and proof. But Illeana had no doubt that they would fit – not as puzzle pieces might, but as stained glass shards, perfectly imperfect.
Don’t. Don’t.
Illeana knew they would fit. Heaven knows she and Isaac had made it out together. It worked, in some odd science, like two planets, as different as night and day, aligning. Marianna was like her, too much like her. She was coy and fickle, fleeting as the light, unsteady as the waves that rocked with the coming of the moon every night. And Isaac? He was constant and secure, stable as the lighthouse, patient as the rock bearing every wave.
She watched. They were speaking now, silently mediated by Aster, the Northern Star. Illeana knew her well, and though they didn’t always see eye to eye on issues, they often worked together to carry out Fate. It was in instances like these, that Illeana was grateful for her aid. Isaac. She would not have been able to let go. Illeana instead turned her focus to the couple. They were talking now.
He was contemplative, Illeana could see, but not absolutely certain. And that bit of uncertainty was enough to rattle even her usually poignant demeanor. If he said no? She had hope he would refuse. But it faded faster than the fleeting, bright twinkle of the night sky.
He would not say no. Fate would ensure it, as would Aster. They would Touch him, prompt him to turn around, if he left, prompt her to bump into him as she walked. They were destined to be together. But that did not make it hurt any less, Illeana thought. She left.
. . .
“Fate was unkind this time.” That was Aster, soft bell chimes breaking the silence.
Illeana said nothing. She had once more returned to her balcony, but this time with Aster trailing behind her. Her presence was a welcome one, a soft golden glow on this overcast day. And Aster knew. Aster knew of Illeana’s relationship with Isaac, Aster knew of their forbidden romance, a dalliance that had happened so long ago, a rendezvous destined to never be complete.
“What was it like to love him?” Aster was the one to break the silence.
It was a while for Illeana to find her voice. “It was like being freed, freed from the weight of freedom and anchored to solid earth. It was like being heard, after eons of deafening silence. I adored him,” her voice grew soft, “as if he were the one that put the stars in the sky.”
“And what was it like to lose him?”
Illeana was silent. Then she spoke, “It was nothing.” Her voice rose slightly at the end, astonished. She had felt nothing. Perhaps some mortal sentiment, brought to life within her under the smoggy spell of allure. But she had felt empty. And that was the worst of all. To feel pain would have been welcome, but to feel nothing? She felt as if that were the ultimate betrayal, the final act of murder against a relationship gone wrong, a final stab.
Had they loved each other? Had she loved him? She’d like to think so. She so desperately did. Perhaps. Perhaps not. But she was not his intended, and that was all that mattered.
Fate had not been so kind to her. And she herself? Why, she had been an accomplice in her own heartbreak. For that she could not forgive herself. And yet, between the constellations and galaxies, in the smoky space that separated the universe, there was peace, and there was closure.
That would do. Yes, Illeana thought, that would simply have to do.
— ©Evelynn Lee
Image: The Star card from the Wizards Tarot by Corrine Kenner and John Blumen
There has to be more than this. They think that by locking me into these stone walls I’m no longer able to dream…but that can not be farther from the truth. I can see the beautiful blue shimmer of the sky. I have my window and, therefore, I have my dream. Most people think that I have everything I could have ever wanted. I have riches, a family in power, and these breathtaking jewels. But what does any of that mean when I don’t have freedom? The freedom to do what I want. The freedom to explore! I want to feel the desert sand between my toes. I want to learn and read about those things I shall not know. I want so much more than anything that can be made my man here on earth! But I can never let my father, the King, know. My parents would shame me. They would lose their respect for me. They would take away the things I do have…and those are the things that are the most valuable of my possessions.
All I have is my dreams if I can’t have the knowledge and the adventure I truly seek.
That’s why I need to keep my most prized possessions safe. I will guard them with my life until the day I die. As I have been sitting on the ledge by the night sky and breathing in the cool air of the river, I have been living out my dreams in my own way. I have been mapping out the stars I see each night with my compass. It’s the part of the day I look forward to most. They create such wonderful patterns every night. New characters come to life before me. They speak to me in such a unique way. It’s as if each night provides new memories. New stories I will hold on to forever and revisit as often as I may. What I love about the stars is the way they seem to change over time. They never seem to be sitting in the same place the way that I am forced to. They seem to move about and head on to other things. They move around our world and see all of the wonders I so wish I could see with my own eyes. Yet, they are never gone for good. They always return as the seasons of the year turn. While I can’t join them myself, the stars have never forgotten me and my dreams. They always return like an old friend…Peering through my window waiting for me to welcome them with a warm embrace. They tell me of the wonders they have seen without me. They connect me to the things that, no matter how hard he tries, my father will never provide for me.
But, oh! How I love the breeze of the river! It’s the clarification of the hug I’ve been longing for from the stars. They understand me. It may sound crazy, but… By learning to understand them they help me understand myself. The stars are my freedom. When I’m with them, and don’t have to worry about anything else, I am being myself in my truest form. I am becoming one with the stars themselves when I spend time with them. I am as much a part of the night sky I’m looking at as the stars are. That’s my true family. And it forever will be. Even after I am asked to take over my father’s throne. For I will always maintain my foyer by the window, my map of the stars, and my compass guiding my explorations of the night sky. If I didn’t keep this… I would lose myself. I would have nothing.
He walked with nervous purpose, with anxiety and fear lingering in his eyes and threatening to spill out with every shaky step. His long, flowing robes and the air of grandeur in the halls that surrounded him seemed betrayed by the petty and fidgety way in which he stormed around, fists clenched at his sides, eyes locked downward. All around him the only the light came from the flickering of weak torches that lined the dark blocky walls, and, though there were shadowy figures moving just out of eyesight, most seemed to avoid him; they all kept their voices down to low husky whispers.
“I can hear you out there!” the man finally shouted, swooping his cloak out of the way and raising his hand up to push some of the scruffy brown hair that framed his head out of his eyes. “Whatever you have to say… make it quick! Speak!” His free hand remained in a fist at his side and his voice shook a little while he spoke.
“M-my lord,” a voice came squeaking from around the corner, and finally, a short chubby man stumbled forward and fell to one knee. His brown robes were dark and dirty and frayed at the edges. “We have — we have another message from the Empress, my lord,” he said.
“… so deliver it,” the man before him — evidently, his ‘lord,’ though the young-looking man’s small stature and the squeamish way he held himself didn’t quite befit the title. “Hurry, now. What did she have to say?”
“Your brother is still at her court, sir,” the fat man said, taking a few steps backwards. He tried to move subtly but he was unable and he bumped right against the wall, eyes going wide.
The other man whooshed his cloak in a wide arc as he spun on his heel dramatically and stormed off in the hall, back in the direction he had come from. He eventually came upon two enormous well-worn stone doors and forced them open with surprising ease. Beyond the doors was a wide, room with a tall ceiling. The torches on the walls did little to illuminate it, but the scattering of spidery and intricate runes and patterns that ran up and down most surfaces pulsed an unsettling dark red. This provided sufficient light for the outline the room’s few furnishings — a large table and an ornate throne — to be seen.
The so-called ‘lord’ shut the doors behind him and stomped his way over to the throne, took a seat, and folded his arms over his chest. He heaved and sighed noisily.
“I knew I should never have sent him up there!” the young lord of darkness growled.
There was a pause, and then, from the far corner of the room, some shuffling. Yet another robed man, this one much older, stepped forward. “You had no way of knowing, sire,” the man offered up through yellowed teeth. “It was a good idea.”
“I shouldn’t have sent him,” the man repeated. He sunk down, slightly, putting his face in his hands. “I should have… I should have done something.”
“Knowledge is power,” the older man said, taking a few more steps forward. “Isn’t that what they always say? What you did you did for the empire — for the underworld — for all of us. Your brother… he knew the risks when he agreed to go.” The man stopped and adjusted his robes. “Besides… there may be time for us to rescue him yet.”
“I don’t know,” the dark lord mumbled and kicked his feet out a little. “It sounds… it sounds like they’ve really got him this time,” he said. “He sent me letters, did you know that?” the lord asked. He pushed his hand forward, to some scattered papers on the table, and held them out in the direction of his adviser.
The other man waddled forward and snatched the pages. He then thumbed through them, mouthing the words and reading them quietly under his breath as he darted from one line to the next with surprising mental dexterity. Once he had finished, he stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and swallowed, hard. “I…” he began, but he caught himself slack-jawed and unable to speak for a moment. “I’m sorry, my liege.”
Before the dark lord could respond, the doors he’d entered through were thrust open. His introspective frown quickly gave way to a scowl, as a woman entered. She was dressed more regally than most of the others who’d been hiding away in the shadows earlier, and she stood with confidence and poise even under the icy stare of the devil himself.
“The stars have shifted,” she said. “Something has happened.” Her brows furrowed slightly and, when the dark lord and his adviser exchanged a knowing glance, she only furrowed them further. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you know what is happening?”
The young lord rose quickly and pushed passed the woman on his way into the hallway. “I hope not,” was all he said. His adviser, spry for his age, darted out behind the man, and the scholarly woman followed from a safe but curious distance.
They made a frantic dash for the observatory from which the woman had departed only a few minutes earlier. As before, what few tortured souls and peasants populated the halls of the dark lord’s estate were only visible as quivering, whimpering silhouettes in the distance. The trio ascended an enormous staircase that seemed to go on for an impossible length of time, until they came to another pair of large doors. The brutish lord entered the observatory with a violent shove and the two scholars who were still inside scattered without words.
He gazed out the window at the vastness of the skies, of space, of the darkness. One single star shone much brighter than the rest, and his gnawed his lip in thought while he traced the others in his mind. Finally, he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away.
“It’s too late,” he said. “… it has happened.”
“I’m confused,” the woman said, looking to the adviser. “What happened?”
“The Empress has our lord’s brother,” the adviser said.
“… oh, no,” the other woman whispered. “She killed him?”
“Worse,” the old man said, tone lowering. “She married him.”
— ©Ed Beaumont, edbeaumont.wordpress.com
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I met a lady long ago in a heaven far away.
The beings, the divine ones, worshiped and crowned her-
Mother of man, empress of Eden, savior, and preserver of sin.
A doorway, the others rumored, to something new and fortuned to be fiendish.
Her skin was like milk, her hair fell in curls, and her eyes were ablaze with light.
She drank from a cup made of gold and laden with life, youth, and death.
In the distance I stood, I watched, I noticed- the cycle:
Drink, absorb, emit, preserve, birth.
. . .
It was at this moment I beheld a man, a curious fellow indeed.
His skin resembled rot, his hair fell in points, and his eyes smoldered in black.
This man, this ruler of fiends, stood beside the lady, watching with curious intent.
Again, as if in tune with time, there was the cycle:
Drink, absorb, emit, preserve, birth.
. . .
Sound suddenly soared through my ears;
A devil, this man, was laughing at the empress!
The laugh was not of fun, but of evil and mischief- of sin and death.
The cycle began again, only this time, I observed a change.
No emission of light through her eyes.
No absorption and preservation of sin.
No birth of light creatures.
No birth of the divine.
No birth of man.
. . .
The divine chalice dropped, shattered, and smoldered in black amongst dirt.
A twilight chill ran through my bones; I cursed aloud,
“Hell and earth shall slumber in the same bed tonight!”
— ©Sarah Ashley, www.paintitrogue.blogspot.com