Hephaestus

Hephaestus lifts his gavel high,
Pronouncing verdict with iron’s cry,
Forging fates in steel and stone,
Probing deeper than mortal bone.
Heft and heart in sync shape,
Hewing future into current’s nape,
To craft a vision buried in his soul
That will spark more than fiery coal.
Hammer falls, and falls again,
Flattening, fixing, form to plane,
As if mystic substance solidifies
Upon his anvil with swift, deft ties.
Hephaestus measures out his plan
For both divine and mortal man,
A clever trap, a subtle feat,
His workmanship can’t be beat.
Warily watch and learn, o son,
The end is made ‘ere he’s begun–
So, the heavens will the earth,
And craft in us our eternal worth.

Lady Lune

A river flowed into a lake, whose teardrop shape endeared the moon. On clearest nights, the moon’s silver radiance infused the waters with its own enchanting hue. Upon the lake stood a gazebo of starkest white, pale bones of birch brightened with gloss. Few people stood upon the ghostly citadel at night amid the moonlit lake, as each trip required a boat. This solitary vigil stood as a sanctuary for those who longed to feel the waves and sky cloak their souls.

A man strode upon the waves in his glistening boat, a lady astride the bow. The stately craft slid swanlike alongside the gazebo; the gentleman fastened a rope to a post by a decorative gate. The lady looked wistfully across the rippling waters toward the cobalt heavens that darkened toward inky night. The moon rose with a regal air toward her throne above the pavilion. The man gazed at her and the slowly followed her stare at the withdrawn sky.

“What holds you so, dear?”

“Nothing, Cedric. I am merely captivated with the view,” she sighed.

“Well, then, shall we take our study of the sky to the gazebo?”

The man stood carefully and strode onto the deck, turning his tall frame to stretch a hand to his fair guest. The two walked into the middle of the floating refuge, whose interior was furnished with cushioned benches along each wall. They sat under the soft perusal of lady Lune and her gossamer face. Silence held them for some moments, each soaking in the gentle warmth of each other’s company. An inaudible cue went between them like the tap of a maestro’s wand before a orchestra performs.

Cedric raised his hand, a milky globe blooming from his palm. He raised the sphere and more crystalline balls of various sizes appeared in the air around them. Each one seemed to be formed of glass, whose hollow body had a invisible fire at its core. Silver tracery flowed over their surfaces, scribing geometric patterns both graceful and mesmerizing. Delicate symbols flowered alongside the lines, fading and reforming in an enigmatic order. The orbs danced around the globe in Cedric’s hand. The tiny cosmos seemed fueled by the eldritch light of the moon above.

“Cedric, what are you doing?” The lady could not suppress her alarm from her voice.

Cedric smiled. “I am showing you the world.

“Look,” he pointed to the third ball from the one in his palm. “That is our home, a small haven in a wide, empty sea. You and I sit upon this beautiful pavilion, a splendid dot upon the lake. That lake is a precious drop on the expansive face of the land. This land an emerald gem set into our giant planet. Our planet—our earth, dearest—sails as one of many wandering stars, priceless in its ability to harbor life.

“Behold, the beauty and majesty of our home nestled among the stars!”

The gentleman threw his hand wide, tossing the sphere that represented the sun out over the lake. The others followed like faithful goslings after their matron, circling dutifully in their oscillating revolutions. More dazzling lights joined the dance, until the entire surface of the lake shimmered and glistened with thousands upon thousands of attendants.

“Compared to which, you are still the fairest to look upon.”

The woman looked at her companion, her eyes luminous in the display’s gloaming.

“How?”

“This is the art of lunomancy, coaxing the light of her lady’s face to dance upon the air. It is the hidden song between the distant queen and us below. Of old, men learned to sing her song and came to sail the bridge to her fair land beyond the sill of the world. Now few know the tune; of whom I am one. Would you like to learn?”

“Surely this is a strange and marvelous thing! But how did you come by this art?”

“Ah, this art comes to me through ardor. I labored over decrepit tomes and withered grimoires, hunting the lace of truth in a sea of fog. However, I came to my discovery here. This is the fair lady’s refuge on our world, a shrine placed by her devoted students. Look at the rafters and railings, which shine in her light. What do you read, Giselle?”

Giselle studied the slender posts and curved arches, which, to her amazement, held veins of moonlight in their grains. Letters wove and spun in a delicate hand. She whispered them aloud.

“‘Weary head, rest on my shoulder, and dream of me. Sleep in silence and sing my song. On the wings of trust, awake and see.’

“A strange riddle that. Who am I supposed to dream of? The moon?”

“Yes and no. It is a riddle, indeed. The queen has her guardian, who protects her gifts to men. This guardian stands before her, his face a shield against the dark; his image darkens her reflection as he gazes out upon the world in silent vigil. But on some nights she allows him leave and he exits his post to walk again among his own. Only in the silence of dreams can you hear his song he sings—a song of her, his home, and his lost lady.”

Giselle piqued at the last words.

“His lost lady? He has another beside Lady Lune?”

“Yes, he had one once, long ago. A guardian forswears his former life to live among the stars. Forswears, but does not forget. It was his love of his lady that led him to give his life to the fair queen’s service.”

“How tragic! Does he venture often to see this woman who spurred such sacrifice?”

“He does. And when he is not able, he stands at the gate of the heavens and looks through the lattice of the clouds in search of her. He is ever longing to see his beloved’s face…”

Silence returned as the lights vanished, a hush blown in upon the wind. Giselle broke the pause.

“I would greatly desire to see this man.”

“You may. The power is in you to summon a sphere with his visage. Lady Lune is a mirror and her art a reflection of her. ‘On the wings of trust, awake and see.’”

“Very well, Cedric. I shall try.”

A single star fell from above into view and slipped across the glassy surface. The bright spark hovered before the lady’s face, dimming to reveal the dimpled face of the moon. She reached for the ball, carefully cradling it in her tender palm. The sphere’s skin flattened into a looking glass as the shadows on its face converged and swirled. She gripped its ornate handle with new confidence. A new face took shape upon the mirror. When she saw whose appearance the image created, Giselle gasped.

“It’s you!”

“Yes, dearest. The face you see is me.

“I am the man in the moon, and when you dream, dream of me.”

Giselle awoke at the first gleams of dawn’s rosy light, the moon slipping off behind the forested rim of the lake. She sat alone in the gazebo with a white hellebore upon her lap and ermine cloak about her shoulders. She came to the gazebo every year when October cleared the air and the moon let down her silver hair. Every year she brought a winter rose, as had once been brought to her long ago.

She inhaled deeply at the flower’s fragrance and let the hellebore fall into the still water. A cold silver ring on her left hand caught its pale reflection.

“Next year, beloved.”

The moon winked and vanished behind the earth’s emerald screen as the lady sailed away.