#rorycaston

@rorycaston

Ruth’s nimble fingers shuffle the deck over and over while her dark eyes look Rory up and down. “Your future?” She asks with a smirk. “Alright~” She can tell them that they’re all going to die, that wings won’t be much help when they drown, or she could tell them that something big is coming, glimpses of a cabin buried in snow on a lonely wooded mountain, but that’s not part of the game. The game is filling in the blanks in-between all that. She shuts her eyes and sucks in a sharp breath. Air fills her lungs, carrying with it a light, dizzy feeling of peace. Her legs and tailbone rest firmly against the ground as she sits cross-legged on the floor. Another breath, this time instead of breathing into her own body, she breathes into Rory, reaching her mind out to them. She senses their presence there across the table. Rory always does have such a presence, whether they know it or not. Large, bright, intense like a spotlight. Rory shines. The third breath is directed at the deck in her hands. She feels it slide between her fingers, her breath streams a soft pinkish light from her, and a sharp white light from Rory. “Okay, cut the deck.” She places the stack of cards out in front of them. Once Rory selects where the deck is cut, Ruth tucks the cards back into one pile and immediately pulls the top three cards.

“The Fool, The Five of Swords Reversed, The Three of Swords. Oh Rory...”

Her soft features wrinkle with a deeply thoughtful little frown. Tiny wrinkles of concentration form between her eyebrows. Her delicate fingers trace over the images gently while her eyes scan from one to the next, then flicker up to Rory, then back to the cards.

“You want to make big changes. Ones that don’t necessarily help you but they make you feel good, which is important to you right now. But, you hold yourself back. There’s a lot of worrying and criticism going on up here.” She taps a dainty finger to the center of her forehead. “It makes sense. Swords are associated with the element of air and the mind. They are logical and sharp thinkers, good tacticians, powerful and single-minded in fighting for their beliefs, but they are prone to mental prisons of their own creation, anxiety and over-analysis. They get in their own way.” A little smirk tugs cheekily at her lips. She bites back the urge to say I told you so.

She shifts up onto her knees and slides The Fool card toward Rory. “You want freedom, but don’t we all? Yes, we find ourselves in a rather binding situation. We’re cursed. We’re stuck with a bunch of other doofuses who are rude and boring. However, you want to take it farther than that. If you had it your way, you’d rather have no responsibilities to anyone but yourself. Don’t like a situation? You wish you could just prance away. There’s always something better out there, no need to stay put and deal with this. A part of you would rather trust that things will work themselves out on their own, without your effort. That optimism is a good thing to have. A healthy sense of adventure, too. You don’t want to stress, you don’t want to ruminate. You wish to have thicker skin so injuries and injustices didn’t wound you so much, so you don’t feel their sting while you smile and dance away.”

“That’s not the way things are, though, are they?” Ruth pushes the Five of Swords Reversed toward Rory. Her fingers tap gently on the card as she shakes her head. “Oh Rory, try as you might, you take your losses very personally. You’ve been betrayed before and it left a taste in your mouth that you’ve never been able to get rid of. You don’t trust people any more, not until you’ve tested their loyalty quite a bit. You challenge people, sometimes unfairly. Whether or not they are honest and forthright to you, does not matter, you still feel the need to ensure your victory, even when there is no battle. You’ve fallen into a nasty belief that people are out to hurt you, and that belief hurts you more than people ever will. It imprisons you more than our curse does. It traps your mind and hides you away from the freedom and optimism you seek.”

Marco tapped the window’s cool glass with his index finger. The rain had not let up since the morning, growing more turbulent with each passing hour. The forecast called for a torrential downpour over Durham. There were even flash flood warnings for the lower lying regions. The rain reminded Marco of home. He had spent countless hours seated in his father’s study, hunched over a book that was bigger than him, trying to cram as much information as possible into his young mind. More often than not, grey clouds heavy with rain would stare down at him from above. Their constant, looming presence reminded him of his father. Still, whenever he grew bored or lonely in those long hours he spent alone, he would pause his studies to trace the droplets of water that hit the window and pretend that he was painting a picture.

“Are you sure the protest is still on?” Marco asked, turning to face his friend. “I’m not sure what sort of turnout you’re expecting, but it seems to me that it won’t be a substantial one. At least, not when the skies have decided to open up to do a rendition of Noah’s Ark.” He turned his attention back to the rain, to the pitter-patter sounds the water made against the glass. He clearly hadn’t thought this through when he had agreed to help Rory with their protest. His friend was always pushing him to make more of an effort to get involved in social issues. It’s not that Marco cared about getting his hands dirty, he just didn’t relinquish in the idea of supporting a cause he cared so little for.

“What is it that we’re saving today anyway?” he asked, leaning over Rory’s shoulder to read what they were writing in giant block letters on the cardboard sign. “Save the whales. Which whales are we attempting to save? The blue whale? The fin whale? And what are we saving them from? Pollution? Cargo vessels? Whaling? If you’re going to have me help you with this, then you’re going to have to be a little more specific. We need a sound argument, something measurable and attainable. Save the whales is too generic, too vague. If we want to impose new laws on cargo ships to restrict them from venturing into migration corridors, for instance, then we need to say something such as Strike A Pose, Not A Whale.” He tapped his finger beneath what Rory had written. “Actually, let’s include that underneath here. You’ve still got space. If I had known we were protesting about whales then I would’ve brushed up on the laws governing ocean vessels.” He stared out the window again. “Come to think of it, I find the rain oddly appropriate. A sort of poetic justice if you will.”

@rorycaston