Polaris

The black dragon roars,

the hooded cult chants,

and a grotesque demon arises from their efforts.

A blinding flash of white light,

as the enigmatic detective

blows down the basement door

with a surge of his divine aura.

His left hand, gloved in white, corrects his messy blonde hair

and his right, adjusts his gray tie

to maintain his authoritative figure

despite his boyish face.

His white overcoat,

a modicum too large,

shimmers with heavenly command.

His wary green eyes

continuously darting

from demon to dragon to cultists.

His right hand then drifts from his tie

to the silver rapier at his side

and his left pulls out his badge.

The demon charges,

it’s form not constant

but fluid with the shadows of

the basement chamber.

Rapier drawn and glowing white,

the detective pierces a circle into the floor

at the exact moment

the demon lunges,

landing in the trap.

A silver hand of goop reaches out and pulls

the monster back down,

a return to its torment.

The cultists panic!

Daggers are thrown,

swords are drawn,

spells are cast.

But it’s nothing

the detective, slightly smug in his demeanor now,

has never handled before.

With an elbow to the gut,

the final cultist drops.

The detective glances up at

the black dragon,

the orchestrator

of the last several months

of his tireless work.

With an expression akin to a smirk,

the dragon erupts

through ceiling after ceiling

and soars into the night sky.

It opens its mouth,

preparing to launch a beam filled with death

but is interrupted by a lance of light,

flung from a star shining bright.

The dragon falls back into the basement.

And the detective sighs,

his work done.

He reaches out into the night

and observes the star-filled sky

that had been beautifully shining

above the basement the entire time.

He then turns and begins to exit the way he entered,

preparing himself for his beloved apple cider,

for surely even the

Polaris among mortals

deserves a treat after work.

But he stops.

He turns to the child with a sincere smile and

holds out his gloved hand.

The child observes the star,

wondering if she should accept his offer.

She then turns her neck up and looks at the night sky.

In mere moments, she looks down again,

down at the dusty novel,

ready to take his hand yet again,

for the stars above her are obscured

by the clouds of debris

of yet another war.