(time jump transition ends)
March. It’s a month of warming hope dampened by late winter storms. It’s a month of conception and second thoughts. Gentlemen come as other gentlemen go. Ladies rise as other ladies fall.
While, Sidereal—a man of distant hopes and far-flung fanaticism—is neither a lady nor a gentleman. He’s a wizard of blood poetry. Time capitulates to his pressure with a counter spin, when he does stories tell. Sounds, regenerative and pauses, impregnating.
All courtiers freeze, and begin unraveling. Every thought, every memory, every beat of their organs, returning to the start of all things. Every posture, recreated. Every cell growing back toward taut, agile firmness.
Yes, even the elderly queen is aroused to erectness. She, too, to a form not seen since her youthful promise dancing beside the throne of her mighty father. Her mighty father who did end his term against the hilt of her dagger. The waltz of regicide. The heritage of the aristocracy. It always trickles down the road. It always pours in the valley.
Sidereal, now unacknowledged ruler of the entire court, teases his fancy-dress dolls back and forth by blowing each one a soft buss. A buss so warm and sweet, filled with endless pithy phrases, tantalizing and tripping each body from birth to old age to death and back that the quivers and the quakes radiate from the golden halls, over the towering gates, and decimate every living being for miles and miles.