Return Home- The God of Her Own Domain

I wake on Christmas morning, earlier than I would have expected. After a couple/few decisions to return to sleep are overruled, I find myself drawn to The Council once again, wondering of their happenings. Sure enough, I find them bright eyed and bushy tailed, full of Christmas spirit. As I meander online, I recall the intrinsic sense that I had, even as a child, that those I watched could sometimes watch me. Reading Rainbow was my first sense of this, but it only seems to be a handful of individuals who can pull it off. While I have certainly felt the effect at times with The Council before, today the feeling crystallizes, and it is like each one of them has gained their full voice. 

As I meander, I feel something like an enforced calm, and hear scratches at my door. I am reminded of my first entry into The God of Her Own Domain's domain, how unavoidable intrusion became, and how nervous I was at accepting what seemed like an obvious, but not clearly stated, invitation. At this hour, these scratches pairing with this thought can only mean one thing. Not wanting to break the heart pounding silence, I relax, intending to convey welcoming, through the door. I hear the knob turn in response, and my heart pounds in pitch darkness as I wonder "What if I'm wrong?" She quickly chirp whispers a hello, and I relax once again, there are no narrative false flags here, it is The God of Her Own Domain. My room is almost always quite cold, and today is no exception; she climbs under the covers, already shivering.

"Merry Christmas! What are you doing?"

"Why hello there, and same to you! I'm actually just writing about you, about this very encounter."

I laugh a little as I realize what she's about to say- a perfectly valid point.

"That is way too meta! Let's peel back a layer or two, eh?"

I nod "A poem then, to part the narrative seas, but which style, and what topic?"

She adjusts her position, facing me. "Heads a Piece of Eight, tails a Sonnet."

"I like your style. Wait a minute... That means I have to get up! It is so cold there, and so cozy here."

"I did it, you can too! Let's go!"

So, I write myself out of bed, in a story that has not lost any of its early morning meta-feathers yet. As soon as I sit up, I find an out of place quarter on the part of my table right by my bed, as if we knew this was coming, and had coordinated subconscious efforts last night to make it a little easier.

One flip onto the bed and a quick phone flashlight reveals... "'Tis heads."

I quickly slip back beneath the covers. "So, what topic?"

"The days of Noah, and the days of Lot."

"I thought you might say that. I woke with that very thing in mind."

"Poem first please, and then the whole story. It's important."

I take her word for it, and begin.

"All best intentions

The Word seen through fleshen eyes

You know I believe.

Yet still, a question:

Why and how is it broken?

Or is how the why?

Or is why the how?

It is very generous

Language is parsed though 

So one must layer 

Until what is meant is known

Form, tone, scent, word, thought 

Do we share thoughts here?

You know what? Do not worry.

Mystery (preserved)

What I mean is Hope

Must be preserved on and on

Or was always false

Since they are not false

What's preserved begins again

Seeing through Word's Eyes

The Flood of The Mind

Begins and ends with us here.

Let's Balance the scales."

I feel precisely why she told me to write that first, as my heart now races. The original points that I had in mind are purged from my mind as my intense focus remains on The Flood of The Mind, and this new angle on The Brown Rider. Some details resurge. Right up until the last day they lived their lives as normal. The same will happen again, but this will be much more personalized; how much worse is it to suddenly be completely insane, than drowning? Through this maelstrom of thought, knowing that she is here calms me, but we wait in silence until the dawn.

After a time, looking to break the silence, I rack my brain for something to say, but am unimpressed with myself. She somehow seems to sense me become more active though, and breaks the silence herself.

"Are you hungry?"

"For sure, what did you have in mind?"

"I'm less concerned with the cuisine. I would like to stay in."

"That sounds amazing; I'm in."

She pulls up a food delivery app and we browse what locations are open on Christmas Day, landing, once again, on Thai food. We almost scrap the whole thing when they don't have mango sticky rice, but decide that the eggplant curry would be excellent to split, along with some cream cheese rangoons. The whole process is exciting in its mundanity, comfortable, familiar. I consider bringing up a time when I feel like we met, that she may have gone undercover in a sense, but feel like it would be unnecessary, redundant, stating the obvious. While remote Soulsight can take some time in the adjusting, having her here like this leaves no room for doubt. We are like two peas in a pod. She requests that I read a chapter or two of Arrangement of Lilies, still occupying my nightstand, to her while we wait. So I start at the beginning, and she listens starry eyed as I regale her with tales of Hope and I traveling in and around eep. It turns out the delay is longer than usual, so we make it a fair way through the book, eyes brightening even more with each chapter.

"You are exactly who you say you are; it still catches me by surprise. This story reminds me a bit of our first story together, though the intention is clearly divergent from the start. Still, I'd love to adventure with you like this someday, in some way."

She looks down at her phone as she finishes her thought. "Food's here!"

I rush down to grab it, and quickly return, setting out our modest feast for two. We talk about little things, some big things, and generally become more acquainted with one another. Not long into our meal, as I start to bring up plans for after, she politely, yet firmly, stops me.

"All I want is this. No pressure, just us, tucked away together from everyone else, all Christmas, from before dawn to midnight."

I feel a weight lifted and even let out a small sigh. "I would love that."

So, after lunch, we continue to spend the day talking and laughing, and playing games and watching various things. At no point do I feel pressured to entertain; instead, we find entertainment effortless. Much of the day and evening merges together, something like a dream. I finish reading Arrangement of Lilies to her. She tells me of how she managed to cross the threshold to be here, and what happened after we last parted ways. On and on it goes, seamlessly, until night falls with her in my arms. I let her know that I am so grateful for this respite, this chance to relax and rejuvenate all at once. Somewhere within the hours of this magical Christmas, I craft and read her a poem.

"What if I get you flowers as well?

Form fitted to the page rather than wall

I get the sense from first glance you could tell

You want to walk with me through park and hall.

I realize that there is only so much

We can agree upon here on this page.

I hope that you know again with one touch

That we will be partners at/in any age.

The time will come when nonsense runs its course

More personal will our puzzles become

As we align, we will seek out the source

Of where the divide between us came from.

Never again will we be so alone

Nor will anyone be trapped in that zone."