in tenebris est veritas.
The Thorned Crown is what it is called, Chaele remembers, as their hand drops away from the irregular circle of stars. It is one of the few constellations that they recall from times of old, of shuffling papers and wooden boardwalks and clear Longheat nights. Their life is much different now, but there is something universal in stargazing, something which transcends time and experience. They do not know that the Crown sits above the Siren’s head this time of year, that two pairs of eyes had found approximately the same spot to watch Safrin’s glittering art in the heavens.
And yet the two women’s lives could not be more different. “We do not need gods to be tested, nor to make promises,” Chaele replies with their usual bitterness, but then they loose a white sigh which splits over either side of their mask. Their voice is a little more tender as they add quietly, “But one can hope those promises prove true.”
They look to Maeve then, only then noticing her upward gaze. “What do you see?”
And yet the two women’s lives could not be more different. “We do not need gods to be tested, nor to make promises,” Chaele replies with their usual bitterness, but then they loose a white sigh which splits over either side of their mask. Their voice is a little more tender as they add quietly, “But one can hope those promises prove true.”
They look to Maeve then, only then noticing her upward gaze. “What do you see?”
