The Joys In Satellites

  The air bodes winter’s approach, the transitional season of autumn ever flighty and quick to relinquish its clutch over the late months. Everything is dressed as expected, however, with shimmering leaves of amber and crimson perched among the tree tops. No soon will they falter and shiver on the branches before cascading on the rich ground floor, as is the way of things.

  The animals bustle less, scamper less as they stock up their resources for the cold months to come. A small chipmunk peaks its head out of its burrow, sniffing the air in search for little seeds. Songbirds twitter a melody as they return to their nests. Lunetta inhales deep and strong, smelling both life and decay nestled in the forest. Her bootsteps are muffled by the soft grass, freshly soaked with morning dew. She takes another breath in to savor the rich cacophony of smells. The rotting of wood, sweet berries, changing leaves. The scent of melancholy and nostalgia.

  Back in the palace city, if she were to take a stroll on a morning such as this, she would smell the brewing coffee outside of a café, most assuredly a blend seized from the warmer Lazuli Isles. The clean streets would take her towards the scent of a pastry shop, lined with the freshly baked products of the first hour of the working man. Meanwhile the stones would glisten, warming as it catches the first waking rays of the sun, rising on the cornerstone of an empire vast as the sky itself. The city would slowly awaken, and the steady staccato of people would trample on the streets, ready to start the day.

  With an exhale Lunetta continues her walk within the woods. Hair like gossamer bellows behind her, a midnight blue coat hidden mostly under the warmth of a red-brown jacket and a thick black scarf. Slung across her shoulder is a small leather bag, a gift the meek servant girl embroidered herself on her return. The contents inside it ruffle and clink.

  She comes across a stream bank and silently sits under a tree of copper and fire. The water whispers and flows, unaware of her presence.The bag is set gently on the ground beside her, handled with the delicacy of a child’s first breath of life. The quiet sounds of nature surround Lunetta's lithe body, ensuring her of their small but lingering presence. She listens to them. Her ears are attentive and sharp, more like tools of great craftsmanship forged in the cold, invisible flames of silence and void.  Lunetta lowers her head and lifts the flap of the bag. Inside she retrieves a small book, more akin to a journal. The linen covers are of a blue as deep as the depths of the sea, as fragile and expectant of a robin egg, and as mournful as the long departure of a long known paramour. Small specks of silver dot the front cover, like stars in a constellation. A soft scarlet quill is next to be set aside her, followed by a small bottle of ink. The morning chill still permeates the air, the rest of her slightly damp from the wet dew.

  Lunetta rests and lies back on the rugged trunk of the tree. Taking small breaths, she adjusts her scarf before turning the cover of the journal. She greets each page marked with past musings, poems, and songs. Words that are from a forgotten time, yet still hang and loom over as if it were yesterday.

 A phantasm that silently stalks its host, bolting and bleeding into the shadows at a moment’s notice. It waits until it drapes around her, a smothering done in the dead of night. It strangles her quietly, leaving neither trace nor presence.

  The words help her cope with a long forgotten act. A forgotten act, in a forgotten age, yet still echoes and traces still resonate to this day, in the whimpers and scowls of subjects she glimpses at in the corner of her eye. Lunetta settles her back against the rigged and rough bark, sits on the flat grass, and watches the sunbeams shining on the water’s surface. A good enough scene as any for retrospection. She picks up her quill and dips it into the ink well, putting pen to paper.

 “Leagues and leagues,
still leagues many more,
I crossed over,
between the expanse and the dark.
Thousands of miles to a white powder shore,
And on this lone island,
life is its only mark.
Steps on stones not fit to tread,
I wandered and gazed and saw.
The only faces and voices kept in my head,
And still behind nothing but vacant maw.
Like lamps in the distance,
a flickering hope,
Swelled within this chest of mine.
But sullen I grew,
for no flame can cope
With the biting winds of time.”

  The scratching of the quill tip is suddenly halted. Lunetta hovers the pen over the surface, holding it aloft by a minuscule amount of effort. She is forced to put both the book and the quill down as blobs of tears well up in her face. They plummet down her cheeks as they would any other being. The warm drains of her anguish impair her vision and Luntta retreats further into the clothing, hiding behind the scarf as she huddles her legs

  The gentle water pays no mind to the soft sobs of the queen, and nature carries on with its tune once more.