"Okay," he says, letting her doubt strip away any guilt he feels for his own attitude. Her doubt could be the source of it, and he really should be better by now at not letting things affect him, but he only has so much energy to spare. "Your scarification artist has a sick sense of humor. That, or you can cut me some slack, because your runes are just as fucked as my cards, here."
For all he knows, she's from outer space like half of his new friends, or she has to wave a wand around like the other. For all she knows, tarot is a lot more direct.
"Keep going," he says, when she pulls the five of spades--at least it isn't the three, and he doesn't have to tell her anyone's dead. As she does, he holds the question in his own mind--tell me about her. The seven of spades follows, then the ten of clubs.
This place always goes in for the swords, he thinks, letting her hold her spread while he replaces the rest in his back pocket. "You've lost them," he tells her, tapping the top of each card in turn. "You've left them behind, you're alone on a new path. But it didn't start here." He skips to the ten, and carries backwards through them: "They put too much on you, a responsibility, a debt--or you've picked up your own. Maybe you did your best, but you've fumbled it, lied and stolen on your way here."
He finally plucks back the five of spades, flipping it straight in his fingers, and he doesn't have to press it, but he's tired of being scrutinized for having the gall to come out of his house and help. "You've left in dishonor. You want them now that you're here, but you were pushing them away when you disappeared."
He might as well be reading himself from a few years ago--but that's what this place is like. Everything is double edged, and you cut yourself as much as anyone else.
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For all he knows, she's from outer space like half of his new friends, or she has to wave a wand around like the other. For all she knows, tarot is a lot more direct.
"Keep going," he says, when she pulls the five of spades--at least it isn't the three, and he doesn't have to tell her anyone's dead. As she does, he holds the question in his own mind--tell me about her. The seven of spades follows, then the ten of clubs.
This place always goes in for the swords, he thinks, letting her hold her spread while he replaces the rest in his back pocket. "You've lost them," he tells her, tapping the top of each card in turn. "You've left them behind, you're alone on a new path. But it didn't start here." He skips to the ten, and carries backwards through them: "They put too much on you, a responsibility, a debt--or you've picked up your own. Maybe you did your best, but you've fumbled it, lied and stolen on your way here."
He finally plucks back the five of spades, flipping it straight in his fingers, and he doesn't have to press it, but he's tired of being scrutinized for having the gall to come out of his house and help. "You've left in dishonor. You want them now that you're here, but you were pushing them away when you disappeared."
He might as well be reading himself from a few years ago--but that's what this place is like. Everything is double edged, and you cut yourself as much as anyone else.