A barren, rocky place. A dead chunk of rock beneath the cold gaze of the stars, airless and barren.
But rock is something; rock is resources. Rock is crystalline order waiting for life to make it blossom. And from the top of the frame comes a pair of robotic arms – humanity’s inorganic children, coming down from the stars. Or humanity themselves. Maybe both. Do gleaming steel robots with blazing red eyes hunt down the last of their creators in a firey revolt? Do we pour ourselves out of the squishy goop we were conceived in, finding new life as neural nets in shining steel carapaces? Regardless (and you should ponder that question more deeply if the 10 of Cups is near this in a reading), there may be star-sailing thing that comes after us.
A landscape without actors. Almost. Earth, bare and naked without any other elements. But Saturn’s children have arrived. Was the devouring of their parents peaceful?
Turn it over, turn it around. There is no orientation in the void. Now they’re moving the world. Now they’re about to be crushed by it. Which way did it fall from the deal?
These are no child of your body, whatever they are. A barren womb, a blank-shooting prick. Icy and cold and dead and empty. Just another nameless, numberless place in the sky… what do you want to call it?
Lost in the void without any ground to cling to. A child alone, even abandoned. Who wasn’t there for you? Who aren’t you being there for? What alien solace was/is there to find for that lack of support?
Where is the child you never had?