Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens

The hero stands at a crossroads, between two cards: The Devil and Temperance.

She has stood before Justice, staring into the mirror of truth. She has hung in the void of The Hanged Man, her world turned upside down in search of understanding. She has surrendered to Death, letting it strip away what could no longer remain. And yet, even now, the storm rages on within her. The knowledge that one was too unconscious to understand the harm he inflicted, while an another acted with full intent, coils within her like a hot iron serpent. It is here, in this space of anger and sorrow, that she lingers.

Temperance watches her struggle, standing just beyond the veil, offering not comfort but challenge.

Beneath her feet, The Devil lurks in shadow, whispering temptations to stay bound to the pain rather than transmute it. The hero wonders now: is she on a quest or in a crucible? Is she forging herself anew, or merely being scorched by her own flames?

Temperance is not about passivity, nor about surrendering to fate, it is the great alchemist, teaching the art of blending fire and water, sorrow and wisdom. It asks not for blind acceptance but for transformation. Temperance, seen as the alchemist of souls, is the stillness between the storm and the calm, the unseen hand that balances all things.

Yet, how does one transmute pain into something golden when the wound is still fresh?

The hero knows that whatever is happening is unfolding in the deep, in the unconscious, beyond the reach of ego or will. And yet, she is still angry. She still feels wronged, still feels like the loser in a story where there should have been justice.

Temperance’s answer does not come in thunder or divine decree. It comes in a whisper, in the gentle hands of this messenger who stands at the river’s edge, one foot on land and one in water, pouring from one chalice into another. The hero watches as the liquid flows, seamless, effortless. The blending of elements, the fusion of pain into wisdom, suffering into understanding. Temperance does not erase the past, nor does she demand forgetfulness. She is the guardian of transformation, teaching that to heal is not to discard, but to integrate.

The hero’s resistance is strong. It is easier to stay within the vestigial of a wound, to believe the tale that she is broken and will remain so.

In Orkney, the land of omens and tides, justice has never been swift. It moves like the sea, carving its truth into the stone over lifetimes. She knows this, but still, how does one hold to hope when standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss?

The Supernatural Jack-in-the-Box waits in Elysium, promising revelations yet unseen. But first, the hero must ask: Will she dare to meet Temperance? Not to conquer it, not to bypass it, but to understand it.

Where Temperance offers balance, patience, and the slow work of alchemy, The Devil is the weight of resentment, the chain of fury, the seductive whisper that says, “They wronged you, so you are right to burn.”

It is easier, after all, to remain in chains when the anger feels justified. When the hero has been wronged both by carelessness and cruelty, The Devil does not appear as some monstrous figure but as a voice that makes perfect sense:

“They do not deserve forgiveness. Hold onto this. Let it define you. Let it fuel you. If you let go, who will you be without the fire?”

The Devil thrives on stagnation, on addiction to a singular narrative. He is the keeper of prisons disguised as comforts the certainty of victimhood, the righteousness of wrath, the illusion that to release is to lose.

The Supernatural Jack-in-the-Box in Elysium still waits. If she winds the handle, if she chooses to step beyond The Devil’s chains, what will emerge?

A revelation, a transformation.

But The Devil whispers again: “Or perhaps just another illusion. Wouldn’t it be safer to stay?”

The hero must decide.
Will she remain in the prison that pain built?
Or will she break the chain, knowing that freedom comes with uncertainty?

She is not yet the Awenyddion, not yet the inspired bard who can weave her suffering into prophecy and song. She is still a student of this path, still raw, still uncertain.

Will she reclaim her soul, or will The Devil claim it for her?

Elke T.B. Stevens 09/02/25