Alright, you know what?—
“Fine, you want to do this? Let’s fucking do it.” I sit up, swipe the disintegrating, duct-taped box deck off my desk, and dump the heavy, weathered cards into my palm. The skeletons are in various poses and backgrounds, holding swords or cups, wands or pentacles, that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand. I try to remember what Chamberlain said about spreads andinterpretations, but it all feels superficial looking at the cards in my hands.
I shuffle the cards, letting them fall through my hands, feeling where the cardstock catches and where it glides, splitting the deck over and over again until they’ve been sufficiently scrambled, surprised to find the repetitive motions are almost meditative.
The first card I flip over is Death.
Well then.
The next card is the three of Wands, and the final is eight of Swords.
Okay so… Death: change, transition, transformation—moving forward, and leaving the past behind you. The black-robed skeleton on this card stands in a field of wilting flowers, surrounded by a halo of red ink. One hand holds a bouquet of living flowers while the other hand is raised in some bastardized prayer of benediction.
The Three of Wands looks to the future. New opportunities, new paths to take. The skeleton on this card kneels with its palms raised towards a red sun. It’s not praying like in a church. More like… asking for a blessing, for protection, before it ventures into the darkness.
The Eight of Swords features a blindfolded skeleton, pinned into place with eight swords speared through its torso and limbs. Its head is tilted back, trying to see through the fabric covering its sightless eyes. It’s immobilized, helpless against things beyond its control.
Mkay. That’s not ominous at all.
I don’t have the pamphlet that Chamberlain gave me, but I can still imagine her peering over my shoulder, asking “But what does it mean toyou?”.
Death means things are changing, moving on. It’s permission to leave things behind. Paired with the Three of Wands, I getthe sense it’s not just encouraging me to look towards the future as things change, it’s telling me there’s no turning back—that if I want to come out unscathed from whatever the unknown brings, I must be willing to not just accept change, but willingly embrace it. To bend, so I don’t break. Because, as the Eight of Swords implies, I’m not on a path of my own choosing anymore—whatever’s coming is inevitable.
Nope, don’t like that.
I shuffle the deck, shaking my head in complete denial of how eerily relevant that was.
The second spread I pull is Temperance reversed, Three of Wands—hello again, you little shit—and Eight of Cups reversed: disharmony, no turning back, and being confused or stuck.
“Now you’re just fucking with me,” I mutter to the deck, reshuffling the cards, determined not to let some creepy cardstock get to me. My third spread reveals the Five of Cups, Seven of Wands, and Four of Pentacles reversed: feelings of regret and pity over things not going the way you expected, fighting to prove yourself, and being self-protective to a fault out of fear of things being taken away.
“Well that’s just rude.” I gather the cards up and shove them back in the box. While I may not believe in all this woo-woo shit, I’m not dumb enough to keep poking it with a proverbial stick. I don’t bother hiding the deck out of sight since it’s apparently offended by my past attempts to put it out of mind.
After quickly getting dressed, I slip on Ramsey’s sweatshirt and text him that I’m on my way to breakfast. When he joins me at the table I see that flash in his eyes again. It happens a handful of times as we eat, but it’s not until we’re almost finished that I work up the courage to ask.
“Why do your eyes do that?”
He pauses mid-bite, and drops his fork to his plate with a clang. “What?” His voice is measured, but his left hand still twitches on the table, like he wants to cover his ruined eye.
“It’s like you’re looking at me but not seeing me.” He swallows, and his eyes flash again. “There—just like that. What is it?”
“I’m… talking. Mostly arguing. With the dragon. In my head.”
“So, when you’re talking like this, it’s just you. And when your voice gets all growly that’s the dragon, but when your eyes to that thing, that’s you talking to the dragon in your head? Jesus, that sounds complicated.”
He scoffs. “You have no idea.”
“Am I ever actually going to see it—him?”
“Yes,” his dragon answers, eyes flashing again.
“Really?” I ask, the rush of excitement making me giddy. “Wait—let human Ramsey answer that. Please.”
He coughs, but I catch the hint of a smile. “You want tomeetthe fire-breathing dickhead?”
“I think you underestimate how many people thirst over dragons these days.”
“Wait, what?”
