She was brought to me. At 22 she held a kind of charming, graceful confidence that was meant to propose a more sophisticated version of her character that ended up a compellingly inverse display of its intent. I was captivated. Coming off the tail of a recent romantic failure, well, let’s not say failure, but at least hindrance to getting full grasp of the gift of her, or, rather, the ability to declare such a grasp. She didn’t care or even make mention of my shortfall, she just stuck, and she stuck, and she stuck, right by me, beyond my hard guard of heart, beyond my masks for fear and hesitant pain, she knew. She knew way before me, she had the vision that originated us. I only saw the crescent; but Skarlit saw the whole of the moon. Angel to my intrepid demons, instrument to my song, the deliverance of an ideal I had previously only hoped to realize, an ideal to whom all others before and after would be compared and pale.
And how on earth could I lose her, let her be lost or fail her grace, you must ask. Pure and complicated stupidity, density; the better masks of shortcomings, fear, undeserving man’s complex… over and over lamenting her absence with only the feeblest attempts to make known to her that which had not been known… that she was the one… the one that got away, or so I thought. The universe, God, providence all work in the most “magical” way sometimes. It is no mystery why the Celtic devotion to the ethereal, the mystic, the poetic profundity of spiritual love is at the center of our millennea of searching and finding soul twins, anam Cara, for we are the ones branded in eternity by the fulfillment of that purpose of existence. She knew that. And so did I. But I would have to break myself, and regrettably test the stamp of centuries and calculated mystical love that joined us in order to crack myself open and break through to the acquired obsolete gristle and dreck that if I didn’t would always hold me short of loving her to rightful capacity. It’s a haunting roll of dice, throw of runes and gamble this soul of mine chose to push us into, the meaning of which will come to pass and be revealed.
As I have always trusted her better leading of our souls to union, the greater purpose, the infinity of our hearts’ song, anything short of owning my ability to grab hold of her and carry and nurture her, and us, and be the man she is made for and deserves would ever be an intolerable disgrace to the God that made us for one another. She has always known that man, whereas I had yet to find him in me and only by the call, and needful demand of her essence to bring me to be that which she knew I would be. Skarlit is the trigger to the Godshot that has guided me to a comprehension of love, honor, integrity and honesty that I could never have otherwise known. And the light of her eyes, her smile that cracks open the sky, her laugh that shores up the convivial deficit in any room, her tears that bring our angels to weep and her hold that would assure this weary man of his true purpose in her are only the beginning of what Skarlit is for Albion. She is a law. She is my law.