power
To TRUST IN OTHERS
Power.
You were perhaps expecting
Cassandra.
Fair.
Instead, we begin with her son.
Cassandra would approve.
There are very few things she places
before herself.
He is one of them.
Possibly the only one she wouldn't
argue about.
He carries something of her.
The light.
The longing.
The tendency toward solitude.
The stubbornness, unfortunately,
appears to have survived the bloodline
rather well.
Cassandra has noticed.
She has not noticed the irony.
Not yet.
But this isn't really a story about what
she gave him.
It's about what she cannot give him.
Protection has limits.
Even love does.
Some paths have to be chosen by the
person walking them.
Even Cassandra can't do that for
someone else.
She may have opinions on this
arrangement.
Naturally.
the silver-haired child
When he was born, it was just us - him
and me. A silver-haired child, unseen by
others, a rare light.
He carries my bloodline, yet he’s the
first son in generations on the
maternal line, as I was the firstborn
daughter on the paternal.
His words weave spells, gentle like
water, not fierce with fire like mine, a
heart that longs for depths, yet
belongs nowhere. I know this so well.
His voice, a quiet current, holds a
power he does not yet name. Quiet as
moonlight, warm as dawn, he is my
heart’s warmest flame.
I would burn cities, conquer the stars,
to keep him safe.
And he would soothe the ashes after.
They call us witches, is it true? He, a
warlock, not yet fully taught. In dreams,
our line’s witches whisper to him.
“Beware,” I warn, “some walk in blood
and shadow.” Their spells, woven from a
crimson tide, seek to bind the world to
their will.
We are different, I know now, born of
light, not the crimson tide of old. The
white ones, they name us, cast out,
despised by them.
Once kin, now divided, they scorn us
for the light we cradle.
I weave stories, he crafts melodies, both
rooted in deep truth.
Truth brings solitude, a weight he feels
deeply, while I’ve learned to hold it
close.
He was conceived on New Year’s Eve,
no chance occurrence.
The Threshold Night, some call it,
between endings and beginnings. A
bridge to other realms.
The Thirteenth Night, others say,
outside time, when past and future
blur.
And he is both and more, on the verge
to understand.
That night I knew. The air stilled, frost
veiled the glass, and silence stretched
too long.
I felt him spark within me, luminous, not
of chance but chosen.
A flame seeded in darkness.
Though he does not yet know. His light,
a beacon woven from the stars’ own
thread.
I knew, seeing his silver hair.
Now, in his darkening locks, a shimmer
stirs, his awakening begins.
Forged by loss and longing, a quiet
sadness clings to him since birth. Yet
his smile dims the sun.
I look to the stars and feel a storm
rising. The crimson line lurks, tempting
him to their side.
Some lures he’s tasted, seeking to ease
his heart’s ache.
The dreams came.
He closed his eyes, and shadows
gathered. Three women stood before
him, crimson-clad, their mouths curved
like blades. Witches of our blood, but
not of our path.
Their eyes gleamed with hunger, their
voices a tide that drowns.
“Child of white,” they whisper, “your
heart is heavy. You carry loss not yours
alone.
Let us take it. With us, you will never be
alone.”
Their voices wrapped around him,
honey-sweet, knife-sharp. His voice
faltered, his melody bent toward theirs.
His chest ached with the promise of
ease, of belonging. His breath caught,
his fingers trembled, yet a spark of
defiance flickered, holding fast to a
light he did not yet grasp.
“Your song could command fire and
blood. The world would bow.”
He leaned close, almost theirs. And I
felt it, the thread between us straining,
cutting me with its pull.
My voice carried into the night:
“Guide him. Do not let them take him.”
Another presence came then, quiet,
steady, patient. A warmth brushed his
heart, ancient as stone, unyielding as
starlight.
The crimson ones hissed, their song
breaking. Smoke on wind, they
vanished.
He woke with hands over his mouth, his
shoulders trembling.
Not with fear, but with the weight of
what he had almost given away.
His voice stirred, a soft hum of starlight
and sorrow, grounding him in the truth
we share.
In visions, I see him, one version shines,
afraid of his own light. I smile, stubborn
like me.
Another shows him as a mage, ancient,
walking this path before.
My guide, as I am his. Choosen to walk
as mother and son together on the
edge long before.
Bound by light and dark, we stand to
change what none dared before.
I see myself, a single silver strand in my
hair. I smile, and the night smiles back,
glowing silver tonight.
And the stars whisper, waiting for his
storm to break free when he will step in
the light of the night.
He chose.
Cassandra let him.
Those two things belong together.
The second may have been harder.
Cassandra loves fiercely.
Protectively.
Given the opportunity, she would
apparently burn cities.
A slight tendency toward excess.
We've seen worse.
But there are things even Cassandra
cannot do for someone she loves.
She can stand beside him.
She can keep the light on.
She can ask for help.
She cannot choose.
So she doesn't.
Interesting.
Power is often mistaken for the ability
to change what happens.
Sometimes it is knowing when
something isn't yours to change.
Cassandra is learning this.
Don't mention that to her.
She'll want evidence.
