Reflections in a dying star

The past never lets us go. It it persistent and unalterable.

The future – however – is aloof, a stranger. It stands with its back to us, mute and private, refusing to communicate what it knows or sees.

Except to some.

My fears and worries weighing down like a heavy cloak, a mantle of solid and dense material.

I had heard that – in a particular grotto secreted deep in a back-water, leech-infested swamp, in an equally back-water wormhole. Here, so it is said, the waning daystar falls every thirty-eight days, bathing the swap with it’s weak, dying light.

And here I got my answers. Many of which I didn’t want.

Fate is a fickle Mistress. One of which most are at the mercy of. Her cruel jokes within the bounds of our lives ending with one final insult; death.

Of mine, I have seen many different ways, but I don’t wish to find another for some time. Not whilst I carry this child.

With my mind, I reach out, tasting the stench and corruption through the sensor relays aboard my Manticore-class Bomber, my lips twitching, a smile curving the edges. No life signs detected within a fifteen kilometre radius of the ruins of the ancient pre-human keep they claimed as their home.

With that, I leave orbit and return to the entrance wormhole, life and fate await me, but I refuse to bow down to her demands.

I am in charge of my future, not the fickle whims of the Powers.

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