[Written in response to a weekly prompt from Writeblr Retreat.]
"We call it the Bole," Rah said, a crisp smile upon his lips as he pointed up at the constellation. Tacitus tilted his head to the side as he followed Rah's hand, his blue eyes held captive by the stars.
"What does it mean?" Tacitus murmured.
"It's a tree. Some may call it the tree of life." Rah raised both of his hands, tracing invisible strands between the stars. "See how it branches?"
"Now, follow the stars down to the roots. They could be planted all the way down here in the earth, for how far they reach." Rah lowered his hands and turned to Tacitus. His violet eyes searched the taller man's face for a moment -- just long enough for Tacitus to notice the warming of his cheeks.
"The Bole is sturdy, unwavering. A protector in the simplest terms. A nurturing force that has weathered every storm, that has provided for smaller living things the whole of its life."
Not unlike you, Tacitus, he failed to add aloud.
"I turn to it often, I'll admit. When I feel regret about where I've come from; when I feel doubt about where I'm going." Rah drew a card -- the Bole -- from his deck, and handed it to Tacitus almost shyly.
Tacitus bit his tongue, concern of some variety knitting his eyebrows together. His eyes were soft, gentle like spring rain, and Rah wanted nothing more than to cup Tacitus's jaw in his hand and caress his scarred cheek.
"What's wrong?" Rah asked.
"It's just..." Tacitus hummed a little to himself, examining the card Rah had given him. "There are other places you can turn, aren't there?"
"Of course there are." He nudged Tacitus's side with his elbow -- not hard enough to jab him, just enough to reassure him he was there. "And now I have you to turn to as well, don't I?"
Tacitus blushed and Rah suppressed a chuckle.
"But back to the lesson. The Bole represents many things, but it is still only just that -- a representation. One of the most important things to remember about astromancy is that the future cannot truly be foretold. The stars and the cards both merely serve as suggestions, and the mortal mind is nothing if not suggestible."
"Then when you turn to the Bole, you are turning to yourself?" Tacitus asked.
"Aye. To myself, but also to other constant forces in my life. To people I know I can rely upon; people who have earned my trust."
Tacitus blushed harder, deliberately avoiding Rah's gaze by focusing on the card he still held.
"The art is very pretty," Tacitus stammered, holding the card back out to Rah. Rah plucked it from his hand, his fingers just barely brushing against Tacitus's palm.
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