Fantasy

Zorya’s Rage as The Sun Also Fails to Rise

There’s a story in my eyes
Turn the pages of desire
Now it’s time to trade those dreams
For the rush of passion’s fire

I can feel you tremble when we touch
And I feel the hand of fate
Reaching out to both of us… — Survivor, ‘I Can’t Hold Back’

Lady Gwenllian Tudor as the fallen angel of the morning refuses to rise and open the gates because she feels the rage of the goddess Zorya.

Her rage shifts to sadness — and her sadness, to apathy. Why should the sun make his journey through the sky? What’s the point when mortals rather bask in cosmic-like light in shades that are golden, purple, violet, gray and blue? Bask that is, until they burn.

“The Sun will come up tomorrow but I wouldn’t bet my bottom bitcoin, goddess of the dawn,” her Butler says, bringing his only lady a bubbly refreshment during the witching hour. “Yesterday all of the world’s troubles seemed so far away.”

Rather than sleep on her bed with 1,000-thread count Egyptian sheets that have 22 karat gold woven directly into the fabric, Lady Tudor chooses a Bohemian floor mattress. She tries with all of her might to hold back the night — the long night. Not for herself, but for the ones who will never rise from the ashes.

“It must be so difficult for you to be like the goddess Aurōra turning mortal men into cicadas,” the Butler says in a mocking tone.

 

 

Gwenllian thinks about the fact that cicadas would likely survive a nuclear blast. And, who is to say that Aurora could not persuade the powers that be to let her try one more time? She could turn that one fabled cicada back into an immortal man, although this time she would get the spell right. He would stay forever young. And, he would be nice to other people rather than a narcissistic, sadistic albeit conscientious twat.

Maybe a mortal man can’t change. Ground control to Colonel Mustard.

Lady Tudor presses a button to put her Butler into sleep mode so she can teleport to a Palace by the Black Sea where her Scythian ancestors from the Ukraine dream in colors that are golden, purple, violet, gray and blue. Here, the world card of the tarot deck kisses her. In his hideaway, the powerful one who holds the whole world in his hands, kisses her for a length of five minutes. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Earth below us
Drifting, falling.
Floating weightless
Coming home…
Earth below us
Drifting, falling.
Floating weightless
Coming, coming
Home…
Home….. — Major Tom (I’m Coming  Home), Peter Schilling

She soothes the living world card as shooting stars go by — part of a meteor shower. Would it be in poor taste to streak through the night sky?

“I can see the goddess Aurora streaking, but Zorya knows the meaning of the word propriety,” the World Card says, chuckling. “Do you think I’m narcissistic? I have a lot of empathy for myself.”

He touches her cheek before he leaves her. Lady Tudor doesn’t feel like flying across the sky to announce this new day. Her apathy turns back to sadness. And her sadness, to rage.

I can’t hold back
I won’t back down
Girl, it’s too late
To turn back now.

 

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