Seven Deadly Sons

Insert 3 : The Crone.

An old crone sits at her desk in the dead of night.

Before her lay a stack of ancient cards. They are for dealing, but not the sort on bets on. Though, she mused, many do. The fire crackles and spits — the wood much to wet when it went on the burning pile — further singing the threadbare carpet adorning the hearth. It does nothing to warm the room. The crone considers it's wooden house, two other rooms (a basement and bedroom — though the crone was never allowed to sleep) where hidden from sight.

It looked like a shed. The crone hates it.

The shack has been here much longer than the crone has, on the fateful, regrettable day when it arrived. The worst day of it's, the crones, long life. Some lives are much too long.

Not that it felt loneliness, because it was now a thing and things did not feel emotions below their stature.

The crone begins to shuffle the cards.

It's chipped nails occasionally catch on the silk, but the thread will never pull.

Throughout it's time here, it has waited for the day it may finally need. It has long schemed for the next Soothsayer to take its place, and the pieces were finally falling into place. So many had given up their talent for future-telling, believed the whispers of their neighbours — telling them the art was fake. Only a fraud! Such mutiny! The crone seethed, it's shuffling faster and faster.

But alas, a fraud is what the crone would receive. It smiled.

The crone regards itself as an it because it could no longer remember if it were a man, woman, angel, serpent or something completely other. It was safer to be an it.

The crone abruptly stopped shuffling.

It felt the card it was looking for, though it could not see the face. This card was the one. It was the present position.

Placing down the deck, gently now, on the polished surface of the table (the first tree the world ever saw, immortalised before the crone. It was the crones proudest possession, though it didn't own the table itself. The shack owned it. The crone wondered absently if it would take it when the crone finally left.) then the crone cut the deck and spread the cards.

Selecting the first of many, the crone placed the card on the silk cloth.

Silk was essential in protecting the cards, keeping whatever truth they may speak confined to the shack.

No one else could know the final and true future. Of the many veins spreading before it, like the roots of a tree, the crone decided which would be the one each living organism would take. Would they die tomorrow? Perhaps ascend a throne tonight? The crone has the job of knowing all and deciding the final path. It was arduous work — entirely constant — and therefore the crone could not afford to linger on emotions. The misery of the souls it forsook washed over the crone, like the embers from the fire did now, disappearing into the darkness behind it. Entirely out of sight and mind.

Except for the next Soothsayer. She mattered.

The crone turned the card over, too on edge to wait and select the other cards first.

It was her.

The High Priestess.

At least, that was the card she currently inhabited. Across the decades many changed their personality cards, but most were not this gem. Through all her toils, she remained the same. It showed the strength of her personality, her wisdom.

The Crone stared at the Priestess.

She often changed, this card, over time. What she blesses with her right hand, the future hand, she reads from her left, her scroll hand. Across her body is a red cloth - to emphasise the coming changes and the powers behind her foresight. She should have the talent to rival the crones own honed skills - once she's fully bloomed, of course.

Though, now that the crone had placed all the other surrounding cards and begun turning them over, something was very wrong. All the surrounding cards were people cards. This certainly would not do. Cracking each knuckle — the crone schemed.

The crone would not let these people scupper the plans again.

The crone schemed and schemed and schemed, contemplating many things at once — from the weather to the universe to a bug flying in the priestess' face. The High Lady would have to come to the crone. But how to make her want it? She needed to come off of her own suspicions, some force other than the powerful Soothsayer must bring her to the shack's door. Entirely of her own volition. The transition would not uphold if the crone pressed its influence.

Love. That would have to play in the scheming. Though, the crone did consider reversing her card. When reversed, The High Priestess becomes extremely shortsighted, her skills at reading tarot essentially revoked. This could be detrimental to the schemes the crone had just schemed. Though, it also made the Priestess much more pliable. Her judgement would be so off-kilter that she might even beg the crone to give her foresight back — this thought made the crone very... thrilled? Was that the term? Maybe happy.

Now the crone had it's plan set before it, it began assessing the surrounding cards. The Fool would certainly cause mischief, as well as The Chariot and The Moon both of which capable of some foresight and hold high sway over The High Priestess card.

Luckily, all three of these new cards were already in the right places. Their cards all remained upright, though this could easily be changed. The Moon, with his whimsical qualities, could easily trick The Priestess. The rendition on his card even shows the ferryman of Death going down a river - a figurehead of a lion leading the way, The Priestess' champion animal. Yet another show of direct intentions for deceit.

As Deaths usual assistant, The Moon remained an influential card and a lethal one. The dark knight worked best when the moon was high, the world swamped by twilight to better hide the trickery of their friendships.

The crone glanced further about the spread, noticing that Death was indeed displayed. In the final outcome position, no less. With a huge sigh of frustration, it went about the process of reversing some of the cards. Tweaking, tinkering the proportions. It brought out a telescope to measure the degrees they had turned before it was satisfied, only slight tilting.

But it left Death unchanged.

The card was extremely tricky to deal with. Reversed, it meant stagnation, being stuck in their past and to narrowly avoid an accident. To bring her protege into harm's way would be much too risky, imagine the accident avoided Death but hit The High Lady smack in the face! Indignation rose.

No, Death certainly could not be reversed. But, to remain upright was equally unsettling for the crone. The risk of illness and death were still likely, but much less certain, and the card could very easily, too easily, convince The High Priestess to change her ways. To go about a new life, become something completely different from what she is now.

But the card also couldn't be entirely removed. Well, it could, the crone considered - but it would come with a potentially much worse consequence. Should it alter the condition of the card - hurt it in any way, the whole deck could replace itself. This had happened before.

So, the crone schemed a whole new plan for Death. If she could not remove, it would inject the card so far into the background that the shadows would lay claim to the person embodying the tarot.

An enemy beyond repair.

For that to work, the crone would need only do one thing. It smiled.

Betrayal.

Of the highest order.

The cackles of the old crone could be heard for miles and miles under a moonshining sky, the dead of knight heard it's echoes. Though, the wheels of a chariot continued to turn and the howling of wolves did not break at the interruption. Bones creaked as the Crone stood, considering it's deck again. The other five cards would have to be left till morning to consider - when their position was clearer. Currently, the card crossing it's protege remained reversed and blind. The world would sleep another night, well.

In a heap, the crone fell. It landed unceremoniously and lifelessly, but its blood continued to flow. Now, it relaxed, thoughts close tonight.