Prelude to the Chronicles of Rosalia Janus Hawthorne

From the Chronicles of Rosalia Janus Hawthorne

Abfyle delete. Install Alwyneugenics 44/2×77/3-9-2×4

Pythagorean Theorem 3; Quantum field 11

All true journey is return

It was a voice both human and beyond human, needing neither time nor mass to cede it. authority. Outside the boundaries of the 11/2 polar axii it swept through the origins of the origins of the universe until it found the last child sleeping: Rose Hawthorne (8.0.8.06/4.5.2-8 to the power of 2). A prophecy that had destroyed itself and the child wound in threads of fate within it. And the voice was rich and wise and said little; calling her gently from the rivers of eternity where language slid through the crevices of memory; and all the child could do was turn; restless and unassailable in her fortress of pain. And as that great voice, almost without effort, waited, time stalled at the centre of galaxies and planets gathered to the vortex of its resonance. As the child, once foretold in the hissing leaves of song, remained entrapped in her broken spells and the implacable stone walls of her past. Time stopped, it was no longer relevant to Rose who played beyond the shores of consciousness where the terror of the past and present lived, and she pitted her will in endless games against the ice lynx in a unmapped cartography. A secret menagerie in her mind.

Only music could web through that splintered soul and only music would, perhaps, if Rosalia chose, have been given license to bind her, though loosely and with love to another space in time, another world, another set of choices. To bind

with love, so that worlds might move again and energy returns from entropy. And the voice, both tortoise shelled and ginger in tone, applied all its formidable tonal maps to granting Rose a wish. The wish of her heart. Eight seconds of absolute silence. A choice to be made in the lair of green eyes and alien cats; and an infinite set of possibilities.

Rosalia Janus Hawthorne defied such a gift s and slept, threading on the loom of her own making another pattern. No longer a toy, she tested choices like a drowning child retches water and then tastes air. Breathe air and breathe again. As the past retreated and left all the detritus of broken shells and rotting carcasses of mauled birds and the memories of another life, other lives. Somewhere a bird called, inadvertently, unpermitted without provocation it gave voice to the genesis of itself and the child turned toward it. The voice slid back from her, further and further, gently, it knew it was no longer require, that its presence could serve no purpose. A balance had been precariously restored and the voice almost sighed for in its way it had loved the courage of the child who once been a woman, peerless in beauty and truth; and whose sufferings were beyond the telling in any world. It new something of how she would awaken, although only a little, for it knew her well and from the alchemy of her past it intuited that she would rise again with no guilt for the past of any of her lives in any worlds and nothing of forgiveness. Like a sword forged beyond the stars, without distemper, Rosalia Hawthorne would wield a justice regardless of intent or consequence and she would flame purple as she did. Nor would she lack compassion; for that gift she had of old, almost inbred in her cells, but in this life she would use it wisely. And that alone was foreseeable, as for the rest the ancient Voice would have to wait as would many. Many others.


From the Chronicles of Rosalia Janus Hawthorne

Abfyle delete. Install Alwyneugenics 44/2×77/3-9-2×4

Pythagorean Theorem 3; Quantum field 11

All true journey is return

It was a voice both human and beyond human, needing neither time nor mass to cede it authority. Outside the boundaries of the 11/2 polar axii it swept through the origins of the origins of the universe until it found the last child sleeping: Rose Hawthorne (8.0.8.06/4.5.2-8 to the power of 2). A prophecy that had destroyed itself and the child wound in threads of fate within it. And the voice was rich and wise and said little; calling her gently from the rivers of eternity where language slid through the crevices of memory; and all the child could do was turn; restless and unassailable in her fortress of pain. And as that great voice, almost without effort, waited, time stalled at the centre of galaxies and planets gathered to the vortex of its resonance. As the child, once foretold in the hissing leaves of song, remained entrapped in her broken spells and the implacable stone walls of her past. Time stopped, it was no longer relevant to Rose who played beyond the shores of consciousness where the terror of the past and present lived, and she pitted her will in endless games against the ice lynx in a unmapped cartography. A secret menagerie in her mind.

Only music could web through that splintered soul and only music would, perhaps, if Rosalia chose, have been given license to bind her, though loosely and with love to another space in time, another world, another set of choices.

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