Celestine

[psalmofseasons]

Autumn | Sky | Cognition

Celestine is the goddess of mind and emotion, of artisans and readers, of hearth and home. She has domain over the sky, and with it, the weather, the heavens, and celestial bodies. Legends say she keeps clouds in jars on her shelves. She is known for her intellect, introspection, and compassion. She is also the keeper of homes and is said to be a phenomenal cook and lover of food, which is no surprise given that the bounty of Autumn is fully at her disposal. She is often dressed all in gold or silver, and she has a very dark complexion with deep brown hair that coils like a cloud. Her hair and skin are often tinged with silver moonlight or golden sunlight, depending upon the time of day, and it is said that those who look into her large, dark eyes will see silvery stars glimmering in her irises.

The preferred offerings of Celestine consist chiefly of autumnal delights and foraged items such as vegetables, pumpkins, reddened leaves, walnuts, acorns, mushrooms, and pinecones. She also has a special love for books and stories, and is fond of incense and tea. Her symbols include fall foraged items (such as the aforementioned), the written word, jars, fire (particularly in the form of candles, fireplaces, stoves, and lanterns), birds, wolves, bears, weathervanes, clouds, and rain. She also is often represented by tools, particularly those used in kitchens, forges, meteorology, and astronomy. The sun, moon, stars, and planets also fall under her domain, though she shares the sun with Kora during the summer's heat. She is most often represented by the colors gold and orange, though silver, yellow, red, and even rainbows have been used in her imagery.

Celestine is especially fond of those with autumn birthdays, but she is also the patron goddess of homemakers, chefs, craftspeople, scientists, doctors, students, and avid readers and researchers. She has been known to have a soft spot for homebodies and introverts. Those who seek knowledge, pursue crafts, and prefer the indoors are likely to be beloved by her. Out of all mortals, however, none are so beloved as those who spend their nights looking to the stars.

✦ RETURN ✦

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[lasthumanvoice]

Once the pizza oven is up and running, Cecil stops by the temple to leave a slice (topped with delicata squash and spinach) for Celestine.

"I know we're going into winter, but this is thanks for the harvest, for the gift of delicious wheat and wheat by-products with which we can feed ourselves. I, uh. Don't know much about goddesses, besides maybe Huntokar, but...I think this is okay, right? A thank you?"

[lasthumanvoice]

The famine brings Cecil back to Celestine's shrine. He still isn't sure how to do this, but he places a few foraged black walnuts on the altar.

"I...I don't mean to imply that the harvest has been insufficient. I really don't. But we're struggling a little bit here. I...we...if you can help us stretch our pot of stew in any way, we'd all be grateful. Or perhaps if you can talk to the stars and ask them to be a little less violent? Since the sky is your purview and a ll."

[needmetodoanyattacking]

It's thinking of his sister that brings Ianto to visit the temple once or twice--at least when he's not visiting the communal soup pot to fetch something for Dahlia.

So he does a bit of reading, asks a few questions--and while he's not one to pray or worship much of anything, one night out in the gardens of the Leeds estate, while Dahlia's asleep, Ianto has slipped out of bed with a few things in a satchel. He finds a bench, sits down, and sets up...

...well, there's no two ways about it: it's the world's smallest shrine.

Lighting a candle, he drips some wax into a mason jar and uses that to stick the candle inside--after blowing it out of course. He then relights it, the flicker of the flame the only light nearby. It's...a bit cozy.

"My sister's named for a goddess back home." he explains, feeling only a little silly as he pulls a notebook out of the satchel. Flicking through two or three pages, he carefully tears them out and shuffles through them. "Rhiannon--a Welsh goddess of poetry, s' what made me think of you. That, and..."

He trails off, remembering the dream--memories of a life never lived, now so vague but impressions there of growing disdain every time he visited the temple, watching the Leeds family fade away one name at a time, hurting Dahlia every time...

He gestures with the pages in his hand, focusing himself with a breath.

"I've written some of her story down 'year--part of the Mabinogion. Heard you like stories...and fire...and the planets. That's why I'm talkin' to you and not one of the others. I don't think they'll listen, cause thing is? Back home, I spent a lot of time dealing with other planets, keeping my head not in the clouds but out among the stars. Gave my bloody life for it, and here I am helpin' your people. And I'm not ungrateful, but there's trouble. See...I've fallen in love with one of them."

Carefully, he folds each page of his story and slips it into the jar to burn, so he can scatter the ashes later. Let the wind take them, send them skyward--gift his story to the heavens, as it were.

"More than that...I think I've seen what's been done to her. Life by life, piece by piece--worn away by grief."

He takes out the final item in his satchel--a gleaming piece of jasper, not so different from the one he'd nicked for her in his dream. This one, too, he'd stolen--if he's going to buy into this religious nonsense, might as well go all the way and keep to the spirit of that gift. Call it psychic energy, at least that's a measurable thing...at least in his world.

"I could try to speak to the other goddesses--but there's something about bein' dead that makes a man dangerous. I'd go off, say something horrible, maybe even do something horrible if I don't get what I want, but you? A lady who likes a good story, a good cuppa...who loves the stars. I think you'll help me. So I'm makin' you an offering."

He drops the piece of jasper into the jar after only a moment's hesitation.

"Me. In exchange for her health, for her life. Keep Mortanne the hell away from Dahlia Leeds, and you can have me. Whatever that means. Help me, and I'll give you everything, anything I have--body and soul. And if you love the stars, Celestine, I promise you that you want me. The stories I could tell you, the things I've seen!...it's all yours."

He stays silent, watches his pages burn, the jasper singe as the candle slowly burns down. He stays, and when he's not watching the little makeshift lantern burn, he's looking to the heavens.

Thinking of Dahlia. Of Jack--of Toshiko and Gwen and even bloody Owen. He wonders if, in this world, there's a version of Jack's Doctor, racing about being daft.

He waits until the light of the candle has been snuffed out before he speaks again.

"...and if something happens to her, we'll find out if gods can die. Because I will come for all of you."

Ianto caps the jar, heads back inside, returns to bed, and in the morning scatters the ashes outside, letting them be carried off into the wind--and the scorched jasper, he drops into the ashes of one of the kitchen fires for good measure.

February | Please Hold While I Direct Your Call

[somebodychildofanyone]

Thus far River's relationship with the Mothers hasn't been as active as her one with the Temple as a mortal institution. Some of that, as expressed to Angel, has been out of shyness, but River has also been pretty open about still practicing her faith from home. The gods of her world are family, after all, and even if their influence doesn't reach here River has taken comfort and guidance from them all her life. But it's time to talk about many things, that question of influence among them.

When she comes to pray and to spend the night at the temple, River brings offerings; the last of her canned crab, a charm forged by her own hands, and a lock of hair cut from her head. She's expecting to, potentially, talk to Mortanne.

About that...

Early March - On a Note of Triumph

[lasthumanvoice]

Cecil comes to the temple with a sweet potato muffin in hand, once he's sure the famine is over.

"Thank you, Celestine, for your help. I wanted to share a poem with you. Part of a poem. Part of a prayer, written by a man from my world. It's addressed to one of the gods of my world, but. I think you'll appreciate it all the same, given your nature as a harvest goddess."

He clears his throat and puts on his best radio voice, invoking the memory of the radio personality who originally penned this poem, this prayer, in the middle of the second World War.

"Lord God of fresh bread and tranquil mornings,
who walks in the circuit of heaven among the worthy,
deliver notice to the fallen
that tokens of orange juice and a whole egg
appear now before the hungry children;
that night again falls cooling on the earth
as quietly as when it leaves your hand;
that Freedom has withstood the tyrant like a Malta in a hostile sea,
and that the soul of humanity is surely a Sevastopol
which goes down hard and leaps from ruin quickly.

Lord God of the topcoat and the living wage
who has furred the fox against the time of winter
and stored provender of bees in summer’s brightest places,
do bring sweet influences to bear upon the assembly line:
accept the smoke of the milltown
among the accredited clouds of the sky:
fend from the wind with a house and hedge,
those whom you made in your image,
and permit them to pick of the tree and the flock
that they may eat today without fear of tomorrow
and clothe themselves with dignity in December."

The rest of the poem is less relevant, so he decides to save that. But...he remembers it, as he gives to Celestine. Something to consider. If worms and stars can live together, maybe the residents of this island, demon and human and otherwise, can as well.

Mid-May

[astrogator]

This is not Arilanna Tayrey's first visit to the temple. The first time she had spoken with Degas. Today she makes sure she is alone. She carries with her a large roll of paper, tied with red ribbon, as well as the bright lantern that guides her way through late patrol shifts in town.

'Peace and prosperity,' she says quietly, feeling faintly foolish to be speaking to a shrine, but apparently that's how these things are done. 'This is Lieutenant Tayrey of the Tradelines, hoping to contact Citizen Celestine.' She uses the title of respect in her culture, the one used by default when you don't know if your listener carries another.

'I'm not the sort for worship. I deal in fair contracts. I hope you'll find that acceptable.' Her tone is respectful, yet professional. 'I was told that you love the stars. I made my home among them, on the Starship Prosperity. I'm pleased with the contract that liberated me from a terrible imprisonment and gave me the chance to find my way back to my home and my people. Grateful that your people considered a damaged Tradeliner worth recruiting. Rescuing. I don't expect it will be easy, but-'

A pause, as she considers how to phrase this. 'I will risk my life to do my duty here, but if it's within your power, protect me from being forced into fights that I cannot possibly win.' Monsters immune to bullets, creatures that could kill Tayrey without a second thought, magic that she can't possibly defend against. Situations where she could make no error and still have no hope. The fear that prevents her from ever feeling truly safe. All she needs is probability turned in her favor, so that she won't be made a target.

Then Tayrey unrolls her paper. It's a large and wonderfully detailed star chart, made with precision and care, the colors of stars and informational markings bright against the blackness of the background. A work of science, a work of art. 'If you can help, and you will, then this is for you. Fair contract?'

There's an expectant look on her face, but young Lieutenant Tayrey isn't sure she'll have any answer at all. At least there's nobody else around to hear her words.

Letters | Just Gonna Keep Using This Thread For Them

[somebodychildofanyone]

The first letter comes mid June, written on a waning night with the windows open. River has given up on getting to sleep tonight, and with the insomnia winning she drafts a letter to her new friend, and includes with it a blueprint for an iron flask "suitable for binding the dead and the Secondborn"; a product of her home, shared with her fellow craftswoman.

River's handwriting is, as always, sharp and scratchy, almost runelike, a contrast with the musical nature of her native tongue.

Celestine,

Hard to know where to start. You'd think the intimidating part would be casual communication with a goddess but strangely, no. A la Croix bows to no lord; there's a comfort in that. But it turns out on reflection that I've barely ever written any letters in my life, and now I'm unaccountably nervous about it. I either need more brandy or less brandy, clearly.

The garden that I'm growing with Annabel is coming along nicely. It feels like a cliche, a soldier falling in love with growing things, but hell, why not? It's a joy to do, and with our hands in the dirt she's less a Lady and I feel less like common rabble. Bizarre. I'm sure Wren would get a kick out of it, the Rhymer always does with unlikely pairs.

I promised you an explanation about the zombie armies. It's something I picked up from my sister, Brianna la Croix. When you're thinking about something drastic, maybe something violent or something shocking, whatever, something you know people won't like, you ask yourself: does this plan end in zombie armies? It's a little bit 'is there a better way' and a little bit 'am I even looking at the right problem?'. Power is power, but when the kind you keep is already taboo it's easy to get to thinking the rules don't apply to you. That needs to not be me. Especially as the only one of my name here.

I would love to hear about your recent life and the news from the world we're laboring to return Marrow Island to. I want to stay here, and continue our friendship among many other things, and I do have some concerns that others may not be as understanding about my art and my knowledge. But I also just want to know, so much that I'm not even sure where to start. Nations and cultures? The elves of your beautiful world? Exciting new inventions? Scandals in the priesthood? I'm only now really appreciating the enormous amount that I know about the world of my birth and take for granted; here I'm almost like a kid, born anew into frustrating ignorance. But there is one question that I hope you might answer, which will influence my future here if such a thing is even possible.

On my world, humans carry a particular blessing from their mother, Wren the Rhymer, a blessing of love and of high drama. They and they alone can produce children with those of other races, be it harpy, dragon, or elf. Wren's blessing is quite enduring, remaining strong even for certain kinds of undead, such as vampires. Uncertainty about this situation has encouraged caution with Erik and I, but...after recent events, motherhood weighs on my mind. I ask this, expecting no answer in particular: can Erik and I have children of our bodies?

Yours,
River la Croix, Blacksmith.

sometime after the starrs disappear

[littlefairytale]

She's been meaning to come here and do this for a while, now. Ever since she and Angel talked about the goddesses back on that horrible ship. But one thing after another kept her from finding the time until now.

She's been crying.

The offering she brings is simply a very nice rock, a smooth black dotted with specks of white that feels good in her hand. She kneels down at the altar, hair down but hood up, and fiddles with something in her lap as she starts to talk.

"Hi. Um. I-I don't... I don't really know what I'm doing? The Gods in my world have been gone a very long time and I don't think they were ever very kind gods in the first place. Even if I do apparently carry power from one of them." Silver Eyes are almost certainly a boon from the God of Light, passed down through generation upon generation with no real knowledge of its roots. "But Angel said that you're a lot nicer. And... I-I don't know. I guess I just thought I should try talking to you. I know you can't really talk back, but that's okay. I used to talk to my mom all the time and she's been dead since I was just a little girl."

She breathes, slowly in and out. Runs her fingers over the cool metal trinket in her lap to sooth the frayed edges of her nerves.

"...I'm so— tired. I-I didn't even know it was possible to be this tired all the time. I'm trying to get better but I-I still don't feel like myself. The only part of me that feels the way it always did is the grief. But I used to love stories, and making things, and fighting and— and it's not like I don't like those things anymore, but it's like the spark has been snuffed out. Every time I try to read I get frustrated because even if I like the book it doesn't feel the same. I spend all day smithing but it doesn't. Feel. The way it's supposed to."

She grips the trinket so tight her knuckles pale.

"And I know it's my fault. I tried to unmake myself into someone else. Maybe this is— maybe this is just the consequences. But I want it back. I want— to feel like I used to, again. I-I want to want to be Ruby Rose. I-I just don't know how to fix it. How to fix me."

Her face scrunches up in an attempt to hold back tears welling in her eyes. She breathes slowly again, in and out, inhale, exhale. Her mind is drawn back to the strange figure of the Blacksmith that haunted her through the Ever After, before she shakes the thought away. Shakes all thoughts away.

(Are you lost? she'd asked. Yes. Gods, yes, she's lost.)

"...I'm sorry. I-I don't know what I'm asking for. If— if I'm even asking for anything." But she needed to say it, she thinks. Regardless.

Ruby will sit there for a while to compose herself before she's ready to pull herself back to her feet and leave.

A letter

[tehilim127_1]

On long reflection, Zivia has elected to write to Celestine -- for a number of reasons, but most directly, because her season is coming in and she may be more available.

To Celestine:

My name is Zivia Birnbaum. I've been on this island since March, and as you and your sisters are no doubt aware, I have not entered your temple nor made any approach or gesture to any of you. For this omission, and for what I hope to ask in light of it, I can only ask your forbearance and understanding.

As you may have gathered from others here, my religion -- which is to say, my relationship with my god -- is exclusive in ways that I cannot compromise. I am prohibited from engaging in acts of worship or service with any other gods, and here in the absence of direct connection with my own god, I have thus far chosen to honor that prohibition strictly, to the point of abstaining from the option of asking for any of you to act as an intermediary. I feel it only right to tell you up front that I intend to continue honoring it.

However.

(That can be such a huge word, however.)

One aspect of my relationship with my god is my ability to channel divine power, in order to enact certain minor miracles at will. Since coming to this island, I have had no access to any but the smallest of these, and that unreliably. I made the decision early on that I would not seek out other sources of power to channel; that I would accept the lack of this ability as part of my separation from home.

But recent events, especially the plague last month, have brought home to me that I am affecting others as well as myself in my refusal to seek out other means. In choosing to remain powerless, I chose to remain unable to do more to help this community in times of trouble. And I am beginning to feel that I can't in good conscience keep doing that.

With that in mind, I'd like to ask for an opportunity to speak with you somewhere other than your temple, to discuss a possible alternative. If direct conversation isn't feasible, I'm willing to continue in writing -- but if you're willing and able, I would prefer to ask you this face to face.

Hoping to hear from you,
Zivia

November 5, the day after returning from the Black Stag

[thaumatophage]

This time, when Kitty visits the Temple of the Sacred Roots, it's not for Serranai. After nodding and performing basic honors for Mortanne, Kora, and Serranai, she comes up to Celestine's shrine.

"I made this," she says abruptly, almost bluntly. "For you." She gently places the little charm in her hands on the altar. It's a small cross-section of a tree branch, with an autumn leaf painstakingly and clumsily carved in the middle of it, the grooves filled with a basic ink she'd made from water and the ashes of the Baker Ranch fireplace. It's maple, because the lines are easiest, and there's a small hole drilled near the top, a small leather cord looped through it.

"Figured I oughtta get to know you better," she says, suddenly quiet, aware of how loud her voice sounds in the quiet of the Temple. "Mr. Rambo's Serranai's, and so's Radar, and she's great, but...I think you and I click better. Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'm being presumptuous. I probably am, heh.

"Anyway," she says, well aware she's rambling. "It was just my bi--my birthday," and wow does that feel weird to say. "And I'm born in autumn, and you like people born in autumn. You like students. I'm always learning, about everything. Heck, I barely know a dang thing about anything, because of--"

She stops. Her throat tightens. It's still too much to say it out loud, even here.

"I want to help. I want to help you, like Mr. Rambo helps Serranai. I want to get to know you better. I know we've got trouble coming, and I want to do everything I can to help, even if it's only just a little."

She exhales, clasps her hands and bows her head, murmurs "thanks", and walks away from the Temple, her heart pounding.