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watchtower_rebirthThere are few simpler pleasures in the world than basking in the warmth of the sunlight. Given how dark and stormy the world has been lately - how full of turmoil and doubt, with things that were and things that are at war with one another - it’s this simple pleasure that Diana Prince chooses to focus on as she stands by the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. She breathes in deeply, holds her breath, and then exhales. So much seems to have changed lately. A mosaic of memories and moments shift in and out of her mind as she tries to sort through what was, what is, and what was never. It seems more difficult than it ought to. Even when she used her golden lasso of truth on herself, none of it truly rang false.
But what does it mean? Diana isn’t sure. She knows she’s the daughter of Hippolyta, moulded from the clay of Themyscira, given life and gifts by her patrons from the Olympian pantheon. She knows that she has been an avatar of Truth and the embodiment of War. She has been a princess, a spy, an ambassador, a daughter, a friend, a leader, a partner, and, among so many other roles, a sister. Yet, each one of those roles, each one of those things that made her who she was, lately they had felt all disjointed.
It isn’t a feeling Diana much cares for. Diana who had always been centered and sure. Diana who had always known what the truth was. It was that same Diana who now struggles to see past the lies which cloud her clarity.
There were, of course, some things that were absolutely clear. Clark was dead. The Clark who had been a large part of her life, anyhow. She was no longer War. She cared more now for Steve Trevor than she would have previously admitted. She needed her sister.
It was this last thing that had brought Diana to Central Park. She had extended an invitation to Donna Troy, to her sister, to meet, to catch up, to reconnect. They were sisters. Family. For too long, they had been separated by one thing or another. Diana was determined to not let that continue.
Diana opens her eyes, her lips curving in a warm, welcoming smile. She is all too aware that people mill about her, taking pictures, watching her, wondering why she was here, who she was to meet. She hears the murmurs of the crowd, she sees the people waving, and she waves back, returning the warmth they so willingly extend towards her. To those who approach her, Diana makes friendly conversation, drawing them in as though they are old, cherished acquaintances. To those who asks, Diana poses for a picture or gave an autograph. She loves this - talking to people, interacting them, getting to know them. It fills her with an immense amount of joy. It;s never about the adulation, about the way they look at her with a sense of worship in their eyes. It’s about connecting with the world around her - connecting in the way that she hopes she can with her sister. Her eyes gently sweep the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who she so sorely missed today. Donna will be here soon, she knows. Diana is, as always, terribly early.
But what does it mean? Diana isn’t sure. She knows she’s the daughter of Hippolyta, moulded from the clay of Themyscira, given life and gifts by her patrons from the Olympian pantheon. She knows that she has been an avatar of Truth and the embodiment of War. She has been a princess, a spy, an ambassador, a daughter, a friend, a leader, a partner, and, among so many other roles, a sister. Yet, each one of those roles, each one of those things that made her who she was, lately they had felt all disjointed.
It isn’t a feeling Diana much cares for. Diana who had always been centered and sure. Diana who had always known what the truth was. It was that same Diana who now struggles to see past the lies which cloud her clarity.
There were, of course, some things that were absolutely clear. Clark was dead. The Clark who had been a large part of her life, anyhow. She was no longer War. She cared more now for Steve Trevor than she would have previously admitted. She needed her sister.
It was this last thing that had brought Diana to Central Park. She had extended an invitation to Donna Troy, to her sister, to meet, to catch up, to reconnect. They were sisters. Family. For too long, they had been separated by one thing or another. Diana was determined to not let that continue.
Diana opens her eyes, her lips curving in a warm, welcoming smile. She is all too aware that people mill about her, taking pictures, watching her, wondering why she was here, who she was to meet. She hears the murmurs of the crowd, she sees the people waving, and she waves back, returning the warmth they so willingly extend towards her. To those who approach her, Diana makes friendly conversation, drawing them in as though they are old, cherished acquaintances. To those who asks, Diana poses for a picture or gave an autograph. She loves this - talking to people, interacting them, getting to know them. It fills her with an immense amount of joy. It;s never about the adulation, about the way they look at her with a sense of worship in their eyes. It’s about connecting with the world around her - connecting in the way that she hopes she can with her sister. Her eyes gently sweep the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman who she so sorely missed today. Donna will be here soon, she knows. Diana is, as always, terribly early.
