The Scrawled Drafts of Mari Blacke

[Mari]

[an entry speckled with red- wine or port- and scrawled in something of a more drunken and winding cousin of the authors usual languid scrawl. Sanguine and serpentine.]

What price constancy? What reward? We've seen it, we've seen, certainly, that it is something one pays for, yes? To be depended upon is to be taken for granted at times, yes. Advantage of, perhaps. See the league of White, riven riven riven by a certain hierarchy of obligation. To the colors? No, no, to friends to allies. Their bid to seat... who was it, Alexandria? Aubrey's last minute favored failed so on to the next the next- the torchbearers and the balladeers are bound with ties of blood and toil that perhaps perhaps simply are not the stuff of the White league not yet, not yet. A joke on countless lips.

But one must be faithful for there is a power in it, isn't there? For my Lady Between the Stars I have poured out my heart time and again and by Her grace am I exalted, made more-than, by degrees the mortal shed and the symbolic adopted, anointed, internalized by Her grace am I made a guide for those who would walk the path though such is not given to me. not yet not yet. In my devotion I am constant in my faith

And so too the league? Have I not bled- figurative and literal. Have I not? And one need not look far to see the rewards of the inconstant heart. See the gamesmistress, her own heart poured out on the sands of the souk for her unfaithfulness to her colors. bow and scrape to khaesh, loud declare against your own colors. may Her darkness yawn wide and swallow the dreams left fallow in the wake of it. would misfortune not have alighted upon you had you stayed faithful to Her?

See how the new-minted legate a'gold prosecutes refreshingly petty vengeance upon twice-unfaithful gers geiger. Did you raise each other up all the farther for your striving against one another? Perhaps. I think so. Perhaps.

A steady hand a discerning eye. Let the heart howl and pound for I stalk its wishes by degrees and still it with my triumphs. Count the breaths and drown them. Gaze, ecstatic, up between the stars and see Her. Strain ear for the notes unplayed, the words unspoken, the letters unwrit. The margins the gaps the interstitial revelation of emptiness. Though I do not burn my chest is set ablaze for you. Though I do not drown I gasp at breath for you.

for you
for you
for you

[Mari]

[a sort of languid scrawling sentence]

it's all a dance 
                              in
                                    the 
                                          end...         
                                                        ..
                                                               ... isnt it?

[Mari]

I lay awake when I ought be asleep, upon and amidst my trophies, my victories, the things I have laid claim to, for me. For Her. My heart growing restless again, its staccato metronome need in my ears. One loses themselves in moments and while one is lost in them, they are eternal.

But is never enough, of course, is it? And it never will be. The heart cannot be satisfied save in the moment. And so it demands and demands and demands.

[Mari]

[a journal entry of sorts, written out then struck through with lines of ink.]

Elle, Elle, Elle.

I was very fond of you. Queer as it may seem to some I value an earnest sincerity. A purity of intent. Was yours realized, in the end? Was it enough to perish in pursuit of your dream? It is not given to me to see the last steps, but only to shepherd. What courage we show when we face the end, some of it is Hers.

Yours was a distinct voice. In words. In verse. I do not weep for the dead, but the hollow left in your wake is keenly felt. But my heart is a possessive thing that pines for things denied it. But I am proud of you. I always was.

You were remarkable.

I commend this paen to Her, to take up between the stars. Perhaps you will recieve it, wherever She has hidden you.

[the paper was burned at some point, and no trace of it remains in the collection of papers]

[Mari]

[another journal entry written and struck through]

Bernadette.

"Later, yes?"

Well, I suppose this is later, isn't it.

I suppose we never did see quite eye to eye. How could we ever trust one another, considering. But I am ever loathe to interfere with works of her faith, orthodoxies notwithstanding.

I imagine it would please you to know I confess that a measure of uncertainly to my work was dealt, even if you would roll your eyes that I settled ultimately that I was always right. But I've never been accused of humility or a lack of conviction, have I?

I will tend what you've left- so far as I'm aware of it of course. Perhaps to some chagrin.

May Gellema take you up between the stars, hidden forever from the dream.

[this, too, was burned away, leaving no trace in the collection of papers]

[Mari]

[yet another as before. Written and obscured]

Gers.

I know how they got into my temple, you know.

All the same, you were remarkable.

Have you touched the Azoth in death? Been sublimated into Her Alkahest? It is not given to me to know and I commend this to the void. Perhaps to be transmuted into new and different form ere it finds you.

That was quite the legal precedent we set though, wasn't it?

[again, no trace remains of the burnt paper amidst the collection]

[Mari]

To lose ones anchor in the seas between the stars. To drift, dig, disappear.

Hidden comforts, private vices. To claw ones way up, over and through the nightmare.

An austere remove. To see works done, and done well, whilst others squirm.

To reach out and indulge. The smile that encompasses. The laugh that infects.

To dance through ashes in forgotten galleries. To dream the steps to long-absent songs.

~~~

Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.

[Mari]

"The Gellemede has sown chaos by being here, her goal is achieved." is a very precious thing to say when you're the one who started all the shouting.

but I do imagine She cracked a smile all the same

[Mari]

Another dream.

Of a cup. The cup. The Dahkqar. My Lady's chalice.

I hold it in my hands and it hums and sings in time with my heart. Do I dream that too, or does its beat even follow me in dreams? It is in my hands. It is on Her altar. The dagger is in my hand and I plunge it into my breast. My life poured out into the vessel, for Her. And I lift it overhead, even as my heart finally- finally finally finally- stills.

It tilts in hand, and tumbles as the strength leaves the flesh. The blood spills from the vessel and swathed in the austerity of silence, it describes a beautiful crimson arc. Everything fades into quiet, at last. Perfect.

And then I awake, and though once mor-

[the entry ceases the lines above are struck through]

[Mari]

A swirl of chaos and misfortune swirls about and through the Well. The election was invigorating in the moment. "all you have to do is enter the room" they said. Perhaps my heart hammers in their ears as well and drives and gnaws to distraction. Perhaps perhaps but mine is a Lady many serve despite their calls otherwise.

Retribution is the domain of the Wroth. Not justice certainly certainly. Not what one deserves (no such thing- but the heart does beat and yearn) but one other thinks one deserves and something often often best avoided, isn't it.

They politic and they betray and they lie and they obfuscate and they deflect and they do this because it is expedient because they want to protect themselves to protect the ones they treasure.

They keep their secrets and spit on She who keeps them. She who hides what must be hidden. And they spill out and the Wroth nips at heel. It perhaps feels righteous to indulge in fashionable impieties, but it is not wise to.

Do we get what we deserve? An imagined idea.

Do we get what we think we deserve, or what someone else thinks we deserve.

Perhaps perhaps perhaps.

[Mari]

[another in the set of letters written out then struck through]

Lynneth.

"Lynneth's shrine" they call it and it is very apt, I think, amongst a certain cohort.

Had you but succeeded in turning a measure of that devotion to you to the Wheel perhaps some of those close would not be so godlessly adrift without you.

They whispered as Khalid gave his sermon. I attended. The man is rather temperamentally disinclined to such things, yes? I was rather curious to see it and he acquitted himself quite well. But yes, they whispered. That they hate what the shrine had become, that it was "hollow" without "her". Without you.

And the webs did part. Why Estellise sundered the symbol of your devotion. Why Mae with her godless faith only in her machines attended it. Why the shrine is papered now not with praise, prayer and paen to the Wanderer but to you, love letters in myriad form.

I am given to wonder at times what forms the faith and my work will look like in my wake, yes? The future is ever unpromised. The wake of your death has granted a facinating look into the dynamics of such. I suppose they were largely your associates and not your flock though. Your subordinates, your lovers your friends. Perhaps if you had had more time.

I made my effort to explain, to educate. That the Shrine was always His. That while you were important to them, it was important to you. I am a priestess of the Wheel, and I would bring the faithful within it, if I cannot see them to my Lady's grace. This you understood, I think. I wonder if they listened or discarded my words as the work of a villain. Well.

I will take care of those left behind as I can, hm?


[burned away, there is no trace of it in the collection, in the end]

[Mari]

Silver like the stars, cloaked in Her shadow. A vision found at the bottom of a chalice, pursued.

The long journey and coming to realize one can believe in a lie. In essence, if not in education.

A passion that burns, uncowed. Unrelenting. To embrace Her challenge, to spread Her kingdom.

A charming audacity and ascendant ambition. Garbed for one and all to see in lies, the masquerade is embraced.

To look between the stars above and the paths Below. To empty every cup, in search of one that never ceases to pour.

~~~

Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.

[Mari]

Every heart lies at the center of a web. threads of shadow and fear and desire and other such ephemeral things. I enjoyed the spider. The threads might skein and twist about the fingers and one might spin and weave a cloth of them, mantle themselves in hopes and despairs. by Her grace might hands be nimble at the loom as we are woven heart to heart to heart.

My heart is no exception and as it beats and beats and beats its threads tremble, and so do in turn all the things to which it is entwined, and so on and so on and so on and so on in thrilling echo. Call and response. A reflection.

And I do love reflections.

[Mari]

An unexpected, but most welcome sight. To see one kneeling, the other a'whisper at their side. A swelling of pride, to see things grow beyond my direct hand. That it is Her they revere ultimately, so much as they might love me.

And the beat of Her kingdom is felt, it's pulse. Sensed as it ever expands. My Lady, look upon my works and smile. Our works! To Your vasty dark between the stars do we commend our efforts! For You do we pour out our hearts, to collect those myriad doubts and fears and hesitancies and shames and offer them up, offer them out. For You.

Always for You.

[Mari]

No further entries forthcoming, the collection finds itself, tucked amidst sums of coin and letters, in other hands.