Her footsteps whisper
As she grabs the source of light in her hands
Her eyes are fierce arrows
Puncturing every soul
As she shushes everyone to Be Quiet.
Her black curls aglow, a crown of inconsistency
A helmet of beauty, frothing and stretching from the light and shadows
I can't look away.
"Do you have his gift?" Her fingers beacon to me.
I unravel my stare and drop the gift in her waiting hand.
She hands me the light that flickers my sight, my Light, as she says, "Come on, hurry before he wakes up."
I feel the warmth of light against my cheeks, faint but still there, as I follow her, because of course I do.