[a portrait by Edha (https://www.efupw.com/forums/index.php?topic=706474.msg749410#msg749410) is secured with the collection of works:]
(https://i.imgur.com/UMiTNAf.jpeg)
Greetings, dreamer. You who read my words. You who gaze in wonder and fear at the world you have conjured about you. How is this so? What does it mean? Come. Seek me. I will lead you to your answers. Do not fear, dreamer. Nothing you imagine here is real...
...yet.
This is your Dream. You alone have the power to make it Real. It can be made Real. I cast no light, but I am the Torch. I do not burn but I Illumine the way. By my blessings and Her power clarity can be granted. The scales shall fall from your eyes. You fears and doubts shall fade.
Look to the stars: they do not shine, but YOU do.
You gaze to the stars, dreamer. You divine from them truths but you do not find -your- Truth. You navigate the world by the light of the stars, but they cannot navigate your heart. With me, you will chart your path through this Dream. You will see with new eyes, behold with new wisdom, stride the horizons with new confidence. You will at last See the world around you and your place at the center of it. You have the power to make of it what you Will, if you will seize it.
Though lightless, I am the Torch. The darkness between the stars that marks the path. Take me in hand. I will illumine the way to your Truth.
The stars do not shine but you do.
The moon does not glow but you do.
The sun does not blaze, but you do.
This is the magic of the Dream. This is your magic. The skies are dark if not for the light you cast.
The desert is cruel. The wilds merciless. The wastes deadly. But you, dreamer, survived them where others did not. By the pity of the Sun? It has none it is said. By the dispensation of the stars? They are distant it is said. No. It is not by celestial largesse.
It is by the force of your own Dream you endure. Your will made manifest. You grope for the way forward, stumbling a path beset with knives and pitfalls. Serpents beneath the stars. You need not do so blindly. you need not move by instinct. You need not seek alone. I am the guide. Where no light shines, I illumine. I am the Torch. Take me in hand and See. The moment you live in revealed. And in that moment...
...the Dream can be made real.
It is in the moment we exist. In the now. Aswirl in magic, in potential. Cocooned in the moment, the present is the time of change. Of flux. There is danger in this, dreamer. But power, too. The terrors of the now are ever-present, but they need not be greeted alone.
Take me in hand. Abjure the scales of the Dream from your eyes and see the shape of it. Discard fear. Discard doubt. The Sun and Moon shine no light that illumines the path but, unburning, I do. Through the darkness between the stars, I reveal.
It is in the moment that you exist. It is in the perfect moment that you exist perfectly. Eternally. The ascendant immanent. It is through the pursuit of this moment the Dream can be made forever real. Affixed. Triumph unshackled from consequence. From judgement. From loss. The illusions of the Dream shall be abjured and the true face of the divine revealed.
You will GLEAM like the stars!
You will WAX like the Moon!
You will BURN like the Sun!
For an ETERNAL instant you will SHINE eternally in your SHINING world!
The turmoil of your heart is the turmoil of the dream. You give it voice in song. You expel it though ink on page. Paint on canvas. Exhale it through reed. Pluck at it with strings. But, tethered within you, it returns time and again.
The moment is to be experienced, not preserved. Not replicated. The moment is to be sought. For you who seeks, seek me. Walk the path obscured though the light between the stars.
You stride the battlefields of the dream, seeking answers, absolution. You seize victory, but not triumph. You survive, but do not thrive. Can the cacophony of war drown out the the clamour of doubt in your heart? Do you know what your heart desires?
To seek your desires you must know them. To know your desires you must abjure what you have woven about your heart that hides them. That which stymies you. Thwarts you. Limits you. Seize it. These are
your doubts. These are
your fears. You are free to do with them as you please. You are free to discard them. Assert control within and, resplendent, see it reflected without.
The stars do not shine. YOU do.
You chafe at the safety of the Shade. It protects but it bounds. The dream seeks to assert its limits. Know that the wind does not howl but YOU do. The sands do not burn but YOU do. It is YOU that will deliver yourself, not the Shade. It is YOU that will preserve yourself, not the Shade.
In pursuit of your moment, dreamer, you must find what holds you back from doing what must be done to achieve it. Discard the fears, the doubts and the obstacles. When the dream is affixed, made Real, you will be beyond the reach of consequence and judgment. That which was wrong, you can set aright. That which was broken, you will be above.
[a poem is added]Between the stars
The darkness yawns
And smiles
The night diamond-dusted
The Moon hangs
Reflecting your light
Look not to the stars
They do not shine
But you do
[a eulogy draft is added]
Justin Rosedew was a man of passion and conviction. Faithful to my Lady Between the Stars. He strove. In that final act of courage and sacrifice, did you find your moment, Dreamer? Even in your curse, you were adored. In death, lauded. Loved.
I pray to Her that you charted the path unlit and were affixed. The dream made Real. To shine, forever, in that perfect moment. Beyond judgment. Beyond consequence. Gellema keep you, Justin Rosedew. Dreamer. May she hide you forever from the dream.
The dream cannot survive without its dreamer, but how does a dream die? The waking have left that behind and bear no witness. What psychopomps await the memories within a dying dream? Remembering each other so as not to be forgotten.
It is said that this City was the dream of the King, once. And the King is gone. Or so they say. The world dies, it is said. But it endures, it struggles. It awaits a new dreamer to make it Real again. This is their dream. And I am the guide. Let us chart the path through the darkness between the stars, dreamer. Dream yourself Real.
They say the stars are the domain of Izdu and it may be so. They say that the Moon is the domain of Kula and it may be so. It is in the hidden places between, though, that My Lady resides. The darkness between the stars yawns wide and, at times, it smiles. She smiles.
What prayers you have to offer, she will take. Your fears you offer, She will take. Your doubts you offer, She will take. The night is vast all that holds you back might be collected and hidden away from the dream within the darkness there. Seek me and I shall show you how. I shed no light, but I illumine the way.
To a dreamer who has learned the truth of the dream, Doubt becomes snare. A mire. Alongside its sibling, Fear, it clutches at the dreamer, seeking to draw you from the lightless, hidden ways. To draw you into a deeper, quiescent slumber.
You know what you want. It is you, after all, who walks this path. It is doubt that screams that you do not. It cries beyond all reason that your ambitions are impossible, unworthy, unseemly. Illusions abjured, cast your doubts into the darkness between the stars for She is vast and will hide the burdens of the faithful. Fear seeks to cage your dream. Doubt seeks to control your dream. But at the heart of this take strength in the revelation couched within:
That this is your dream.
Cast aside all doubts and seize it.
Fear is a cage. It bounds your horizons. Ensnared, you might look between the bars at that which you desire. You might reach through them but so long as you are imprisoned it will remain beyond your grasp. Your fears jail you, but at the heart of this truth there is, too, revelation. For they are *your* fears. You are prisoner and gaoler. You hold in hand the key. Discard your fear. Open the door. Step out.
Fear of consequence. Fear of judgment. These are the tools the dream employs against you. To seize the perfect moment requires drive. Ambition. Audacity. Cast your fears into the darkness between the stars and my Lady shall hide them away. I am Her torch. Take me in hand and though I cast no light, I will illumine the way.
[another eulogy draft inserted]
Babel was a Gnome of vision and passion. Faithful to my Lady Between the Stars. Long in the shadows of others, it was his dream to capture the essence of the dream in story. The perfect, encompassing tale. Did you, in the end, encompass it- a friend to so many?
May you have charted the hidden paths. May you have found your triumph in those final violent moments. Beyond judgment and consequence. Beyond reprisal. Shining. Eternal. Gellema keep you, Babel. Dreamer. May she hide you forever from the dream.
My Lady waits in the far places. The dark places. Beyond exhaustion, beyond agony, beyond ecstasy. Past endurance and reason She bides and to those who find Her there, She whispers. The vessel that you empty, She will fill. The cup upturned becomes Her temple.
There are those who speak of such things as Auguries. Prophecies. There is no future that can be predicted. Nothing is set. The idea of 'that which will be' is illusory. Forever mutable. Forever out of the reach of the moment. A revelationist, I illumine the path for those who would seek. I am the revelationist and between the stars yawns my Lady- the Revelation! The future cannot be seized, only the present. It is in the moment that all things are possible. It is in the moment that the dream can be made Real.
She shows you what Can be. You must make it so. The stars do not shine, but you do. The Moon casts no ray but, resplendent, you reflect Her glory.
A final draft of a sermon is tucked away here, a copy having been tendered to the Temple after its delivery on the steps, woven together with much of her previous work.
By the grace of My Lady Between the Stars I am a guide to those who seek. Though I do not burn, I am Her torch. Though I cast no light, I illumine the way. I am Mari Blacke, Gellemede.
Greetings, dreamers. You who gaze in wonder and fear at the world conjured about you. Though it is harsh, you struggle. Though it would test you, you endure. You strain against the dream- and know that it is so that we walk in a dream. Nothing here is real.
...yet.
The dream cannot survive without its dreamer, but how does a dream die? The waking have left that behind and bear no witness. What psychopomps await the vestiges that remain? The sands howl, the ash burns, walls crumble. Around us it withers.
It is said that the Disc was a dream, once. The land dies. But -you- endure! -You- struggle! The dream awaits a new dreamer to make it Real again. A path forward, whispered by my Lady. Know this!-
The stars do not shine but -you- do.
The moon does not glow but -you- do.
The sun does not blaze, but -you- do.
This is the magic of the Dream. This is -your- magic. The skies are dark if not for the light -you- cast. The Moon casts no ray but, resplendent, you reflect Her glory.
There is a path forward. For we live in the moment. And to live in the perfect moment, is to live perfectly. Eternally. The ascendant immanent. It is through the pursuit of this moment the Dream can be made forever real. Affixed. Triumph unshackled beyond consequence, beyond judgement, beyond loss. The illusions of the Dream abjured and its fabric made True. Made Real.
You will GLEAM like the stars!
You will WAX like the Moon!
You will BURN like the Sun!
For an ETERNAL instant you will SHINE eternally in your SHINING world!
They say the stars are the domain of Izdu and it may be so. They say that the Moon is the domain of Kula and it may be so. It is in the hidden places between, though, that My Lady resides. The darkness between the stars yawns wide and, at times, it smiles. She smiles.
What prayers you have to offer, she will take. Your fears you offer, She will take. Your doubts you offer, She will take. The night is vast all that holds you back from your moment might be collected and hidden away from the dream within. Through her unlit paths, I guide you. The vessel you empty, She will fill. The cup, upturned, becomes Her temple.
I am Mari Blacke. I am Her torch. Take my words in hand and walk between the stars.
Acclaim, adoration. To be truly seen, loved and lauded. Surrounded, admired.
An invincible warrior, defender, the bulwark on which the world breaks.
To put pen to page, merge all stories into one. To contain the dream in a single tale.
Mastery. Cunning and dedication transmuted into a symbol of victory beyond reproach.
To crack, strain and stretch anew. Spread wings and heave off the dusty earth.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
To stretch and grasp and strive. Ambition untethered by fear or doubt or regret. The way between the stars. The perfect moment must be sought with conviction. With drive. I watch my faithful, fired by Her word, and I am made proud.
I am Her torch. I do not burn but Gellema has set me alight. It is not given to me to walk the path, but to encompass my duties I must be no less. The vasty darkness of the sky contains multitudes and so, too, must Her guide. The darkness yawns wide and smiles and so, too, must I.
The candle is unlit. There is no fire.
But it shines
and it consumes
and it calls.
The call of the moment, of perfection. Through the dark places, into the unseen flames.
Dolls nested
within dolls
within dolls.
Between, around and behind the stars...
Her smile.
We steal into hidden places to find you, to hear you. We push ourselves beyond our limits for, beyond them, you reside. Elusive. Illusive. Your subjects bid you come out of the dark, adored. But, elusive, you must be sought. Illusive, you cloak even as you reveal. We exhaust ourselves, empty ourselves. We make of ourselves a temple as dark as between the stars and, miraculous, you reside within us in the moment. One with revelation.
Seek the ecstatic states. Beyond exhaustion. Beyond reason. Beyond pain. Beyond regret. Beyond fear. Beyond consequence. Push past. Push through. Be received.
Gellema awaits.
[a scrawled poem. Crossed and edited lines before it show the couplet that has seen some revision.]
Behold wing-stretched reaching stratum climbers, words stirring fires they don't know.
Climb on precious, striving passion seekers, the air is thinner the higher you go.
[Another eulogy draft]
My Lady dwells in absence. When I spoke to Kyana of this, she inquired, jesting, if she was not an embodiment of my Lady Between the Stars, as bereft as she had often felt of a greater purpose. Alienated as those she once called comrades grew apart from her.
And in recognizing this emptiness, she was indeed blessed of Gellema, for in this realization did she seize control of her desires and cast aside that which needed to be cast aside. Quietly in Her name did she strive.
Kyana sought to push her limits. To explore and chart to the edges of the Disc, and beyond. To test her mettle as far as it would go. She pushed her limits and went beyond them. Beyond us. Beyond reprisal, doubt, regret, judgment or consequence.
Did you find your moment in those last fateful hours amongst us? Did the emptiness within yawn wide and smile? I pray it was so. May Gellema keep you, Kyana. Dreamer. May she hide you between the stars, free at last from this dream.
To weather the vales of loss, wrench meaning from the pyre and find a new meaning, a new path.
To seek and chart the paths and limits, within and without, to push until the breaking.
Companionship and lucre, sea and sail. The romantic dream beneath the rime.
To forge a kingdom anew. Cast away the ashes of the old and and be unfettered by its failure.
To hide what must be hidden, don mask and cloak to deliver Her will.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let Your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
[poetry, worked over again and again to perhaps no real satisfaction]
See stars shine but cast no light
Adrift, enmeshed in the vale of night
Incandescent, calling- the eye is bidden
Whilst in between what must hide is hidden
Desire. In the dream the heart yearns, and it reaches. All have wants, but to know the truth of your own heart is a difficult thing. A heady thing. To look within and cast aside all shades and self-deception. To look with eyes unclouded. Unscaled. See your heart for what it is. See you for what you are. Accept it. Embrace it. Champion it.
Do you roil in turmoil, dreamer? Unsure of what it is you wish, what it is you want? Directionless, adrift? By my Lady's grace I am a guide. I am Mari Blacke, Gellemede of my Lady Between the Stars. Seek me and walk the paths of your heart. In the darkness between find the truth of your heart. Empty a part of it for Her.
Look upon my works, my Lady.
Smile.
To spite those who have belittled and mocked you. To make the pampered proud squirm.
To climb in Her name, the hidden footholds, the paths obscured in darkness.
To scream challenge and dare the world to break you for it. And in being broken, be reforged.
The knowledge and power to save this dying dream and, in doing so, to return to the one before.
Ecstasy and revelation. To empty the vessel in grand revel and make home for the divine.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
[A draft of Mari's speech in the wake of the Stele being marked to Gellema]
Rejoice! Rejoice! My children beneath the night sky! The darkness between the stars yawns wide and it smiles! Gellema smiles! In Her arms Ephia's Well is embraced, misfortune cast aside and outward. What must be hidden shall hide. A grand portent!
Our enemies will find their works a'crumble. Our weaknesses hidden from searching blades. She is ambition! She is inspiration! See your heart with eyes unclouded! Know that your -soul- has a -shape- if you've the will to perceive it! Seek! Live! Drink! Dream!
I am Mari Blacke, High Priestess of My Lady Between the Stars, Gellema. The Sabotage. If this be an age of Ruin, let it not be -our- Ruin. If the storm must rage, let Ephia's Well sit in the eye of it, sublime. And those of the Wheel, take heart-
To exalt the spoke of our Lady is not to discard the rest. B'aara shall yet mend the broken. The stars of Idzu yet twinkle while fierce Kula's Moon reflects Her glory beside. The Warrior's arrow will find purchase. The Wroth yet find His revenge.
The Twindarii will shepherd the dead. Warad will watch as we chart our paths. And over and through and between and around it all- Gellema. Let yourself be set alight though you will not burn. Take us in hand as a torch and save this dying land, this dying dream.
Empty a place for Her in your hearts as we have. You need not walk this dream alone. The vessel you empty, She will fill. The chalice- upturned- becomes Her temple. The cup by which we will restore the wastes. Rejoice. Live. And Dream well. Dream fiercely.
Those who offer whispered scorn and disrespect to the patron of the Stele in its presence should not be surprised at the dissatisfaction of the divine. Offer Gellema your prayers and your praise that misfortunes be collected and cast outward. Know that Her smile might be courted. Her gaze averted. Seek me in word or in writing. Learn how you might show Her your adoration.
Ever must we endevour to court the favour of our Lady! Ever shall we ask Her gaze cast onto our enemies! She is inspiration! She is ambition! And we, the Well, her faithful children will seek to repay and please in prayer and offering in kind. To this end- the creation of a temple in the name of Gellema. I call upon those faithful, those who would ensure the protections of the Well seek me to make tithe and pledge funds to the effort.
We will show our sincere faith. We will empty a space for our Lady Between the Stars in our hearts. The vessel we empty She will fill. The chalice, upturned, becomes Her temple. The Cup by which this dying deam, this dying land, might be restored.
Does the thirsty man curse B'aara?
Not if he is wise.
Does the armsman on the field curse the Warrior when his shot goes astray?
Not if he is wise.
Those who spit upon the Wanderer will lose their way. Those who levy spite on Kula ought tend no flowers.
So, too, my Lady. She is fortune and misfortune and one turns to the other with a smile turned away. A fashionable impiety for some, yes, but under the gaze of night, under the horns of the revel, not without consequence.
To each spoke of the Wheel it's due.
To Gellema, Her due.
My Lady Between the Stars. Revelation and Obscurity.
The Ecstatic One. He who is the Horns of the Revel.
The Darkness Between, They that Take. They that Forget.
Muse. Ambition. Fortune and Misfortune as the sides of a coin. The space between the stars is vast and holds multitudes. Each facet in turn, revealed to the faithful to receive Gellema. All-encompassing, I can be no less. There is no regret in the present. Action and reaction. I mark well the chaos of the Now. Even those misguided who rail against our Lady- what passions they pour into it- some of that courage is
Hers.
Fretful, frightened children, starting at loud noises, stubbed toes, the dark.
The fears of a dog.
Blind to the blessings you provide. Principles cast aside, disrespect of the Wheel. That they could see you.
That I could make them all see you as I do, my Lady.
Tireless, I work to realize the desires of my heart.
Though I do not burn, I am your torch.
Aswirl in the glory of the stars and the space between, a knight of the night sky.
To shred the uncertainty and strife of the dream. To forge a life, simply. To live.
Secrecy, Knowledge, Innovation. Craft and Invention. A voice- Engineered.
Practicality in all things. Transact, strive and perhaps even protect.
Sisterhood and stillness. To fill oneself in the empty places. To seek solitude and connection both.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
. . .
o
g
u
o
y
higher .
the
thinner
is
the air ..
The Warrior. The Mother. The Wanderer. Prayers are raised in victory over the Thousand Clans. And, in whispers, Gellema.
Plan as you will, prepare as you like. March in ordered rows with command chains lovingly detailed. When battle is joined there is only one master amidst chaos and blood. Discord and disorder.
A swirl of misfortune rages over every battlefield. And as storms rage by Her grace one might stand at the eye of them. Hidden from the falling arrow. The gaps in armor obscured from seeking blades. The works of your enemies crumbling in the tide of war. Mark how those who live and those who die are determined by fortune's turns, and mark well that My Lady is set over this. The fog and confusion, bent by gaze and smile.
Cast Her aside at peril, campaigner. Seek your moment on the battlefield. Seek Her.
One is given to reflect on the fit fate for the unrepentant adherent to the Sun.
They have rejected the divinity of the Wheel for vain asceticism. Cast aside Gellema. Cast aside the Wheel. Mercies declined.The path back to the faith spurned.
Should they be granted an honor unearned? The final blaze of glory offered the voiced? No. While I respect and mark the indulgent desire of the Magistrate to feed a man to her namesake, I can in the same beat of the heart disapprove. No glory to the heretic. No last hurrah to inspire. They ought be drowned in the tears of the Mother they have in their folly rejected- no punishment more terrible to their sentiments- but failing that they ought die in fear and repentant terror before the might of the Wheel.
And so he did.
Decry the lack of a 'show' if you will in short sight for want of entertainment. Know the death of a heretic as it ought to be- ignominious and pathetic.
Victory. Snatched from certain death by unbreakable resolve and the grace of my Lady. Mercy, but at a cost.
To wash away a father's blood and be worthy of the now. To know one's heart and swallow it.
To take torch in hand and walk the unlit paths away from schism. To seek the Wheel anew.
To be cloaked from all sight, untouched and untrammeled. To seek the hidden things, collect the old secrets.
Indulgence and importance. The glimmering golden lure. To yawn wide, encompass.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
[the dried crimson smears and drips suggest this page was written with bloodied hands]
the blood for you
the heart for you
the flesh for you
for you
for you
for you
under the Horns of the Revel- the celebrant bled!
under the Dark Between the Stars- devotion given!
the heart of Ephia's Well empties for you, Gellema!
Fear, devotion, adoration, respect, exultation-
for you
always for you
The darkness between the stars yawns wide, and it smiles!
and it shrieks!
and it howls!
and it hunts!
Scatter, heretics! Scatter, cowards!
Wreak terror! Wrack havoc!
How well can you hide from you own mind?
How far can you run from your own heart?
Fear has a shape
a shape to grasp
a shape to mold
a shape to yoke
a shape to direct
and it is so beautiful
[a scrawled draft of a eulogy is here]
I am Mari Blacke. High Priestess of my Lady Between the Stars: Gellema. My Lady dwells in absence, and it is this night we mark a new one.
Apothar Lojir Trajaros, I am given to understand, is no more. His faith and his brilliance intertwined and, too, his ambition. His drive. His courage. What strength he found within himself some of it, too, was Hers. For even as the Moon casts no ray we, Her faithful, reflect Her glory.
Obscurity and Revelation, the hidden truths between the stars. Were you triumphant in your final fate, I wonder. Though we shepherd and conduct, it is not given to us to take those final steps with our charges.
May Gellema smile on you Lojir, dreamer. May you find your way between the stars, hidden forever from the Dream.
[a poem scrawled out in languid script]
A rare vintage spilt-
and fit to share
One could get drunk-
on headier fare
[this page is spotted with dried blood. the scrawl languid]
I muse we both bested a lion tonight Velan,
and then found that lions are, by nature, sore losers.
To be a the beacon, the aspiration, to become a legend, dissolve into it. Sublimate into your own glorious tale.
Desperate revel, beyond endurance and reason. A vessel emptied and filled from unexpected quarters.
To stalk with gentle steps into the Dream. Probing, eager, seeking. To find footing on strange sands.
To see blood and smile echo in dreams. To be reached again, touched again. The instinctive yearning.
The vessel that realizes its emptiness. To hold the world's cup once more. To pour it out.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
[a sort of distracted jot aside]
Does one's heart only beat when you notice it?
I suppose it doesn't want to be ignored.
Obscurity
and
Discovery
entwined... l i k e l o v e r s.
Well that's quite a line worth stealing away with, isn't it?
[a few half started sentences and poems mark the page, then scratched out again and again and again and again]
Gold or Steel it doesn'
between the ribs
even a soft metal not surpr
faith entailed/to be failed doggrel well of course you aren't
my breathing
blood pounding in my ears /
they'll never prot
[It goes on for the page. There's really nothing to salvage of it]
"You're only human"
ivepouredmyheartoutforHerforHerforHerforHerforHerIhavetobemoreforHer
[beneath the crossed out line above, the entry continues in her normal, languid script]
My heart beats its dissatisfaction, its disquiet, its discontent its disappointment. Gold set a'tarnish.
I will have my satisfaction.
[another page with spatters of red but, this time at least, it seems merely stains of port or wine. Each line has a number of hash marks beside it, some manner of accounting or tally, alongside scrawled and half-crossed out lines.]
Betrayal of contract and murderous intent. what admixture of orders and ambition? The red gold broken.
"I just counseled her, it was her choice"
the truth in the absence to that- it is by my finesse i yet live, and Her grace
A guild, squeamish and spooked.
a curious sort of alchemy to turn gold into lead
Glaziers set to fire to prop up their little doll.
conspiring at a loss
Weeks and months of politic, shows of faith and restraint, for a lyricist to crawl from his cup to give marching order and bribing the polls open days early.
to sacrifice their bargaining position to the purple and get little and less for it
The desperation should be flattering, I suppose
[this entry seems to be caught somewhere between a sermon draft and a journal entry. The less ecclesiastical lines appear to have been scratched out somewhat]
My Lady resides in absence, in the empty places, my heart poured out long ago for Her.
And it beats, and it pounds and it will not be silent, it will not be stilled, it will not be ignored.
Mizzar barely calms it. A fire that wine struggles to quench. Only in the deepest ecstatic states, beyond exhaustion and reason- reprieve.
To know the true desires of the heart, one must listen, one must look within without scales and be prepared for what will be revealed of the self. To know the whole of yourself is a daunting prospect, but through this... liberation.
I have anointed the altar with consecrated libations, but delay after delay on the true re-dedication. The heart wants what it wants... and it needs something thicker.
To be freed and untethered. Beyond regret, beyond consequence, beyond reprisal, beyond shame.
It is not given to me to walk the path but, though I cast no light, to illumine it. Though I do not burn, I am a torch. Take me in hand for by Her grace I am a guide to those uncharted paths between the stars.
It is not given to me
It is not given to me
It is not given to me
I am given to a moment of clarity, beneath the stars. This season has been most unkind to my humors and, denied its desires, my heart fills within unwelcome emotions. I must pour it out, and re-consecrate this vessel. I would feel the stillness of that vasty darkness once more in my breast. The annihilating reprieve of the ecstatic states. To drink from the Horns of the Revel, to sound them, to be pierced by them and to spill the tumult in my chest that She might yawn yet wider within.
That She might yawn wide and smile.
This unwelcome and impious melancholia snaps at my heels, waiting for me to slow, to stop. And so I must be tireless in Her service. I will keep moving, for Her.
Time, distance, secrets and a bit of blood.
Well that does feel a bit better, now.
"The Well seems cursed these last few nights". they said in so many words. The turmoil, the strife, the murders and the corruption. And they made their tithe that the swirling misfortune might not alight on them.
There are degrees of devotion, one supposes. Layers exoteric and esoteric. As ever when the ward of my Lady Between the Stars offers is cast aside, woe is invited. As ever we are poised agile to receive the tumult of the present, by Her grace are we granted the strength to wrench the now into our shape. By His wit are we made to see the true forms of things by their absence.
In between the stars and in the empty places in our hearts, the space between, know we adore you.
Magistrate Mari Blacke, High Priestess of my Lady Between the Stars- Gellema. Champion of the Contest of Izdu.
"To the craftiest"
Behold my finesse my Lady- Izdur trophies delivered into the service of Your vasty dark.
[another page with some of the lines crossed out, only partially readable]
I did warn him, her, them. All signs there to see.
too sluggish a hand to I was vain and self-serving, yes, but I was correct
have we strayed in our vanity
I suppose I had not realized how close they were
were they unprepared
But I by my long works am I prepared to receive
always for you
"Are such things unworthy of me?"
"I think you know the answer."
There is power in the alignment of faith and desire.
There is wisdom in recognizing when they are in conflict.
Shedding that which holds us back. A guide, the path is not mine to walk. Yet- I am not aloof of the lessons tendered unto those who do.
To mourn. To lash. To stride heedless of warning, assured. To drown in a vale of tears.
To stoke and serve. Fellowship kindled in strange alignment. Signals in smoke.
To revel in obscurity, strip shadow and dance deeper. Tireless, indeed, in works.
Hubris and indulgence. The confidence of the mad. To reach for the stars, and burn for it.
An earnest sincerity that quickens the insistent heart. An uncompromising vision, be it virtue or folly.
~~~
Between the stars, keep their dreams. Let your darkness yawn wide and swallow them.
[jotted into a margin]
I suppose it wasn't really given to her either in the end, was it?
"If only you were..."
"If only you were not..."
In time, perhaps, wisdom will find those who speak such preamble. They would see the qualities they adore are intertwined with those that give them, in their ignorance, pause. To accept that they are drawn because not in spite of. Strength, vision, resolve, confidence- all from Her.
All for Her.
By my Lady's grace I am a guide. One by one may I prise the scales from their eyes. Seize hold of doubt and twist. Make them see You as I do.Though I do not burn, I am a torch. Like moths, let them come to me that I might guide them between the stars.
Some nights a dream comes to me.
In it I am older. My hair is grey but I am still beautiful. Ageless, as my grandmother was before the calamity consumed all.
Fine silks adorn me and I sit- recline- upon intricately embroidered cushions, luxuriant before the shining marble altar to my Lady. Marble pillars soar to the temple roof, and underpriests and priestesses attend me.
Open air, a cool breeze of the coming night wafts through and the moon hangs lambent and full yet in the darkening sky, stars winking in one by one as
[the entry ceases and the lines above methodically struck through]
[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
[a sort of languid scrawling sentence]
it's all a dance
in
the
end...
..
... isnt it?
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.
[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]
[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]
[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]
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.
"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
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]
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.
[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]
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.
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.
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.
No further entries forthcoming, the collection finds itself, tucked amidst sums of coin and letters, in other hands.