Late December 2005 to Early January 2006
"Get out." Christmas.
The first words he says to her.
At least toward this physical manifestation.
She's been here before. In the fall of this being.
To her, the other could have been yesterday, as well.
It wasn't. There was a glorious year of Gold. But it's still close.
~*~*~
Star is not born of the house of Swords. Nor Hope. Peace. Faith.
She is Arcana. The Beloved. The Bright. Their Little One.
Even to the most ruthless among them. She walks in their darkness, with the same joy and acceptances as the most radiant light. There is no falsehood which stands between them. No fear or shirking in her before their duties. For theirs come to her.
~*~*~
"You must to be needed elsewhere."
He's specific and abrupt and cruel.
Using words from Carlisle.
"I am." Is easy, from the window. Queen of Pentacles.
Her skirts shift when she's looking toward him.
He can't wound or surprise her.
"Then--" There's a flippant wave of a hand.
The first movement he's made in days.
Page of Cups. "I'm already in all of those places."
~*~*~
They come to her. From Darkness, Ruin, The Tower, The Devil, Death.
To the radiant silver ribbon the longest night could never break.
To her lands steeped in darkness, where the lakes flow every outward and onward, reflecting every star that ever was and will be, where the chalice rests waiting. They come to her from all those places which define what darkness and madness and nothingness can be and could be and is and will ever be.
In time. In the order, if it is meant to be.
The Path does not promise certain endings.
Star is The Promise. One of them. But this is not her place.
And her Family watches her on his window, sitting with his Chosen, his Walker.
~*~*~
"I don't need you."
Maybe he's surprised when she doesn't comment.
When he has to turn his head to make sure she's still there.
Long white skirt with toes peeking out from the hem, still there.
Staring at a card in her hand, "Eight of Wands, Edward Cullen."
Then. "Careful what you will and wish, when you aren't sure."
She does not miss the way he flinches at his own name spoken.
Nor what he means by his choice when he closes his eyes and sneers;
"With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live."
The first words he says to her.
At least toward this physical manifestation.
She's been here before. In the fall of this being.
To her, the other could have been yesterday, as well.
It wasn't. There was a glorious year of Gold. But it's still close.
~*~*~
Star is not born of the house of Swords. Nor Hope. Peace. Faith.
She is Arcana. The Beloved. The Bright. Their Little One.
Even to the most ruthless among them. She walks in their darkness, with the same joy and acceptances as the most radiant light. There is no falsehood which stands between them. No fear or shirking in her before their duties. For theirs come to her.
~*~*~
"You must to be needed elsewhere."
He's specific and abrupt and cruel.
Using words from Carlisle.
"I am." Is easy, from the window. Queen of Pentacles.
Her skirts shift when she's looking toward him.
He can't wound or surprise her.
"Then--" There's a flippant wave of a hand.
The first movement he's made in days.
Page of Cups. "I'm already in all of those places."
~*~*~
They come to her. From Darkness, Ruin, The Tower, The Devil, Death.
To the radiant silver ribbon the longest night could never break.
To her lands steeped in darkness, where the lakes flow every outward and onward, reflecting every star that ever was and will be, where the chalice rests waiting. They come to her from all those places which define what darkness and madness and nothingness can be and could be and is and will ever be.
In time. In the order, if it is meant to be.
The Path does not promise certain endings.
Star is The Promise. One of them. But this is not her place.
And her Family watches her on his window, sitting with his Chosen, his Walker.
~*~*~
"I don't need you."
Maybe he's surprised when she doesn't comment.
When he has to turn his head to make sure she's still there.
Long white skirt with toes peeking out from the hem, still there.
Staring at a card in her hand, "Eight of Wands, Edward Cullen."
Then. "Careful what you will and wish, when you aren't sure."
She does not miss the way he flinches at his own name spoken.
Nor what he means by his choice when he closes his eyes and sneers;
"With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live."