Two watched from a veil between worlds …

Facets of phantom figures frozen on the dance floor … the ghosts
of a
memory vanished …

A whirling ambassador, a wandering faerie … Others … All
intertwined
in a weave of dying light …

A weave spun by a lovely, dark lady in stasis – though her hair
would
shift in hue from blue, to red, to another and another …

Ecstasy and agony was the tale her eyes told … Her posture, one
of
torment and delight … Glowing without, burning within …

And this is what had been, at one time …
In the moment of now they were shadows, and something more present
transpired …

Three at the bar, conversing and enjoying drink … Others moving
to
and fro upon the dance floor, skirting about and amidst the music,
smoke and shadows unseen …

Two watched from a veil between worlds … Two as one …

"Many threads find their stitch in time, here," said one in a
neutral
tone …

*I would spin this yarn again … *, spoke the other, with a voice
like
a chill Autumn wind chasing down leaves in a dark wood …

The first replied with something of a sneer in his tone,
"You've spun
yourself into knots, and snared in a web. That course has been set.
It is not our choice. We would do well to remain removed."
Then, in
a softer tone, "Besides, you are never far when you are
absent."

*Yes … *, intoned the second … * … and another aspect
emerges on a
distant path, bringing the journey round … *

"Indeed," said the first. "But that is another matter.
Let us
attend here, veiled, and see what comes."

Both were silent for a moment, watching the three at the bar. Then,
the second spoke again:

*I could use a drink … *
"You don't need to drink."
*No, but I could use one … *

***********************************

The rider approached the clutch of huts at a deliberate, steady
pace. He sat up straight in the saddle, slowly swaying in rhythm to
the stride of his dappled grey steed as they moved down the valley.
The brim of his black hat was pulled low, shading his eyes from the
morning sun. His long, black duster billowed in the morning breeze.
He held the bridle in one pale hand. The other rested on his hip
alongside one of a pair of fine, hand-tooled leather holsters that
hung from his belt. Each holster held cold menace.

Down in the village, Jennifer noticed the blacksmith looking over her
shoulder at something in the distance … and she noticed that he
didn't like what he saw.


Poe