Jealousy – state – envy, suspicion of unfaithfulness; desire to control, command, and limit
River-mother, great God-King, beauty blue -
we bring to you a child and plea,
“Release him from the bonds of jealousy.”
Harvest-watcher, great God-King, shimmering gold -
we bring to you stone and plea,
“Remake the Gate shorn by sorrow.”
In the river glowing with time,
ink flows and spreads and turns to blood,
words to flesh.
The Boy dies and dies again.
The world moves on.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Hope – feelings – desire, expectation, want; trust, promise, anticipation
Althea was the daughter of Adilene and the Clarene, but she was given form by the Firebird – and so, she took his colors and form and donned his cloak, and from her birth in flames served her father as messenger and confidant.
She could see no farther than the fire of her father – that screaming, crying bird that longed for connection. She could not see the star that had fallen when she was born, nor could she feel her heart – the one that she had been born without, as no Red Court or fire-bearer can wear a heart of flesh – beating alongside that of the star.
But the star could see her.
(The star could feel, every day, the heart that beat with hers and ached and sang in her chest.)
Althea was strong and stunning and a fire all her own, but she did not see past the bowl she held for each heart that gave itself to the Red Court, to the Firebird. She could not see past the sacrifice and blood. There was nothing more for her. There were only the hearts and only the fire. She had known nothing else, and if she at times pondered over the hollow in her chest – for she had opened herself up to find nothing there – she did not long dwell on it.
But the star felt those doubts like she felt the fire of her twin, and she walked the world in search of her until blood flowed from her feet and blossomed into chrysanthemum beneath her. She plucked five of each color that became, and she walked on until she came to that Red temple where Althea lay, holding that bowl of hearts, resting and hollow.
The guards at the door barred her entrance and demanded her name.
“I speak with the sound of bells and with my voice bring forth death to contentedness; I am Lilibell, hand of the Dierne, speaker of Fear* and twin to the woman inside. You will not bar me entrance.”
The guards could not refuse a twin, and so shifted to let her pass, blood trailing along the stone and turning to garnet as she walked forth.
Lilibell came to that great, opulent room where Althea lay, and she did not knock but entered as if it were her right, and she saw the other half of herself sitting with a bowl in her hands, and her hearts were still at once.
Althea did not know the woman standing before her, but she felt for the first time the hollow in her chest filling.
“I am here to take you from this place,” Lilibell said, and she dropped each chrysanthemum into the bowl of hearts, and they did not burn.
Althea felt for the first time the beating of a heart, and she tossed the bowl from her and stood and embraced her twin and murmured adoration after adoration and prayer after prayer, for she had never known the love she had been born without, but now that she had seen it she could not let it go.
“Never mind what I said before, I don’t want any less anymore,” she cried. She tossed from her the colors of her father and took on a cloak of her own red and took the color of her sister to her eyes so they glowed black and fled from that home that had been so, so hollow.
But it was the first time she had known the beating of a heart, and she did not know what to do with it. They walked across the world, but her hands burned and coals fell as tears from her eyes and her hair was colorless and she so rarely smiled. She frightened those she met and clashed with those that reached for her. “She is like Mallory,” people whispered. “She does not smile. She thinks herself above us.”
And when she dared to reach for another, they would recoil with burns on their skin.
“Give it time, you will see; the world has room for you,” Lilibell begged. But even her sister and her heart could not convince her to stay, and she longed for the silence of her hollow home and the heat of burning hearts, and she returned once again to that Red temple.
Lilibell came again, but Althea could not forget how the world turned to ash beneath her feet and she could not bear to leave the safe warm rooms of her home again. Lilibell sat at the door of the temple and felt each pulse of want and sorrow that Althea had, and she waited, but Althea did not come. She contented herself with the duties her father gave and dared only to touch those whose skin she knew she would not burn.
Lilibell could stand no more the sorrow that her sister denied feeling, and she left the temple and took to the River to find the mother who could drown all feeling and birth something new from the waters of her body. But the Ophelia had a price, and she held forth one dripping hand for Lilibell’s heart.
“You may keep your sister’s heart in your breast, but you must give yours to me and let it become one with the River of Time,” the Ophelia said. And with that power all stars possess, Lilibell reached into her chest and tore her heart from herself and let it drown in the River Ophelia to be one with time.
“As you wished, your sister shall be free,” the Ophelia said, and she snapped her soaked fingers and from the halls of the Red Court was heard a great cry, and Lilibell felt her remaining heart burst into flame as her sister was transformed from faery maiden to wild horse – a unicorn, all aflame. She cried to the Ophelia and asked what she had done, but the River was silent and unspeaking.
Lilibell ran to where her heart led, but Althea ran ahead and ahead. But flame did not burn in her wake but flowers of all colors – red, gold, and white; blue, yellow, and black. Lilibell ran past them all and begged her sister to stop, but Althea was wild and reared up and resisted any bonds, and the more Lilibell held tight the harder Althea fought.
There was no bridle or saddle for her, but still Lilibell tugged at her mane and demanded she be still. Althea fought until she could aim her horn at her sister and pierce her breast and take with her the last heart Lilibell had, but as she reared forward roses and poppies burst forth between them and Althea fell into herself – no longer a wild unicorn but herself entirely, naked and bloody with hair like crimson and eyes like death and skin like the moon. Roses and poppies and chrysanthemum burst under her body and curled around her sister – shocked and panting but unharmed – and there they lay until Althea rose and said:
“I am free.”
Lilibell looked then and feared that perhaps freedom meant she would no longer be Althea’s, perhaps freedom meant abandonment, but Althea lifted her sister into her arms and walked with sand leaking from her feet into the world – her touch still burning but her heart uncaring for those that could not hold her.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Grace – elegance – favor, honor, doing credit to; virtue given to a mortal from a god
Before the casting out of Fear* and the sundering of the Firebird, there were many great households in the West. Dahlia’s was one of the few to survive the fires and violence that washed over the world, and any household Fear* had favored was wiped out entirely.
Grace was from such a house, but she was wily and cunning and had escaped the exiles and slaughter. She was born to a woman of sharp wit and a woman of strong body, and she had studied under them well before moving on her own. Many men had assumed her quiet, considering nature made her weak. Many men were not alive.
She could be man or woman or all or neither, and she could be adult or child or eternal teen, and she could look a queen or look a beggar or look plain. When she met Dahlia, the spirit skipping on the waves, she was as glowing as the sand and let her dark rosy hair fall into the ocean.
Dahlia was fond immediately.
“What is your name?” she called, running over the white foam to stand alongside the woman. Grace inclined her head and gave a name that was most certainly not her name, and though Dahlia knew it was so she did not care, and she urged the girl to stay with her for a short time and enjoy the sun and the salt and the waves. The sun set too soon, and Grace confessed she had no place to rest for the night, and so Dahlia took her home.
When she woke the next morning, Grace was gone – as was all the silver in the house.
Dahlia could do nothing but laugh.
It was a year before she saw Grace again, and though Grace was different – honey hair and dressed in sharp suits – she knew the woman immediately. She greeted her on the street and bid her have lunch and talk, and Grace agreed readily. There was no mention of their past meeting nor of the missing silver, and again Dahlia invited her into her home, and again the next morning Grace was gone – as was all the gold.
Dahlia would not wait for a chance meeting again. She walked the streets and walked the world until she found a small home in the woods, close to a spring, surrounded by vicious, venomous flowers and thorns, and there she found Grace – different yet again, with her hair pulled back from her face and strong arms buried in the dirt as she planted.
When Grace saw her, she leaned back on her feet and met the ocean spirit’s eyes evenly, without smile or frown. Dahlia could barely contain her laughter, and her smile split her face, and she danced to where the flowers tried to bite and asked again for the girl’s name.
“Grace was what was given to me,” she answered, her eyes still solid and plain.
Dahlia laughed. “Is Grace what you shall give to me?”
Grace did not know what to make of that, of the laughter and smiles and flirtation, but she stood and welcomed Dahlia into her home and cleaned and prepared food and hosted as she could. Dahlia did not ask about the other names or other faces or the gold and silver. She ate, and talked, and laughed, and when the sun set she waved goodbye and ran home on warm winds.
She returned again and again, and Grace hosted again and again, until finally Grace could stand it no longer and said, “I do not have your silver or gold.”
“I am not here for my silver or gold,” Dahlia said.
Grace did not know what to make of that.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Your company.”
Grace most certainly didn’t know what to make of that. Each day Dahlia returned she wore a different face, and she prepared different food, but Dahlia only left at sunset or when Grace bid her to. She did not know what to do. Dahlia was not frightened or repulsed or surprised.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked at lunch, a year after it had began.
“You are Grace,” Dahlia had answered, stuffing salad inelegantly into her mouth.
Grace could not restrain a glare. “But do you know who I have been?”
“Does it matter?” Dahlia asked, unperturbed. She saw Grace, sitting still before her, and paused. “Does it matter to you?”
Grace sat, and she saw the woman before her, and she thought.
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“If it ever does,” Dahlia said easily, “I am here to listen.” She laughed. “I have already listened to so many of your words, and I would listen to them all again.”
Grace decided then, laying in her bed that night and surrounded by her vicious, venomous flowers, that Dahlia was worth the risk. When Dahlia came the next day, she was greeted not by all the masks Grace wore, but by a woman with too many wings and too many eyes and too many scars, and there in the middle of the kitchen she saw Grace for what she truly was.
“I may wear any mask I wish, but it takes bravery I do not possess to be seen as I am,” Grace said. “But with you, I am brave. And if you are beside me, I will go forth into the world as I am and give you grace.”
Dahlia held out her hand, unwilling to say no.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Grief – sorrow – deep sadness or distress; painful affliction, often of the heart
Dahlia was born at the wailing meeting of the River Ophelia and the ocean. Her skin was the color of mountains meeting sandy shores and her eyes the blue of sky and sea, and she washed upon the shore fully grown. Her hair was as dark as her mother’s, but rarely did she wear it as low as she had the day she was born.
When she woke and stepped into the world, she was met with swooning and sighs and soft touches, and she adored them. She adored the stores that fawned over her, and she adored the birds that sang to her, and always she had a woman at her side. And though she fell in love easily, and her home was large and full of comfort, she knew the sea would always be that which she loved most. When the city became too much and she could not bear the touch of anyone, the sea would comfort her as none could.
For within the sea was Corliss.
When Dahlia was young and favored ships, riding them and bringing them wind and fortune, she had traveled all the seas of all the worlds and found, far to the West past even her home, an island full of women and women alone. There were fruits and flowers and beautiful stone, and the sea brought in good weather and always it seemed a haven. She tripped onto the island and waved to the residents there, and they rejoiced in her presence (for she brought color to a once too-bright world).
She would travel to and fro from her home on the coast to the island, keeping all who she knew company and spreading love and bittersweet flavors through the world, and it seemed she would be content like that. But one day she was walking about the island and she peered up at the tower that rose in the middle of the island – a masterpiece of stone and art and flowers – and saw a bundle of fine yellow hair tumble down from the window.
“Who lives up there?” she asked one of her companions. The woman tipped her hat up to better see the tower and sighed.
“A woman who is never happy – Corliss.”
Dahlia asked all the women on the island why Corliss was unhappy, but they did not know. Some said that she had lost a great love; others said she was born from the bottom of the sea, a place where only sadness dwelt; still others sniffed and tilted their noses and refused to speak of Corliss at all. Each answer left Dahlia wanting, and so she found the entrance of the tower and knocked for admittance.
The voice that spoke was like the waves on a rocky shore, and Dahlia felt her back shiver. She opened the door, and there sat Corliss – her hair falling like a waterfall out the window, her eyes on the sea, and all about her strewn books and letters and ink.
Her voice was soft and rough and slow when she spoke, but Dahlia at that moment loved her like she loved the sun against the waves and the creatures of the sea. She asked to stay, to be allowed to live for a short time with Corliss, and the girl agreed, her voice still that quiet sound.
It was many days and many weeks, and Corliss sometimes spoke so softly Dahlia could not hear her, but she came to know that Corliss was not sad or woeful. She stared often at the sea and sighed many times a day, but one only had to sit with the woman and listen or ask a question to learn that she was content.
Corliss, in time, as the moon rose and set again and again, came to love Dahlia as the woman loved her, and there came a day when she spent as often watching Dahlia as she did the sea, and she thought the two of them the same indeed.
They had a year together, a summer where the sun was especially hot against the stone, and then Dahlia felt a sharp tug in her gut. Her house on the coast had been neglected too long, and she feared what may have happened, and so she kissed Corliss and fled along the winds of the sea to where her house lay – safe, content, but full of more children than before.
Her time away had cause some upset, but her return soothed the pain and the house flourished even more. She spent days with the children and weeks with her lovers and months trimming the trees and tending the gardens, and by the end of the year there were shooting ranges and bustling kitchens and toddling toddlers and all was well.
But she thought of Corliss, her eyes ever on the sea, and she was full of longing, and she bid her house again goodbye with promises to return.
When she stepped to the ocean that day, the winds stirred roughly and she had ill grasp as she ran across the waves, but still she arrived to the island. She was met not with the clockwork efforts of the residents, though, but with mournful sobs, and as her feet touched the land she felt a great shudder overtake her.
“Why do you cry?” she asked, going to each woman, but none could speak through the wailing. She felt her chest tighten and her eyes sting, and she raced across the island for someone who could speak, and it was then that she found Corliss.
Corliss, surrounded by more sobbing, her body submerged in the water with only her head above, eyes closed in peace and death. Dahlia could not, for a moment, move, her eyes fixed upon the body of her lover as it floated in the sea. Corliss was pale and thin and dulled, and Dahlia sobbed as she fell into the water beside her and lifted Corliss’ head onto her lap.
Yet with that Corliss sighed out a great breath and opened her eyes, and her hands came about Dahlia’s hands. Dahlia wept harder, though for joy or sorrow she did not know. She begged for the story of what had happened.
“Without you I withered,” Corliss said, her voice even quieter than before. “I wanted so much of you, so much that you could not give, and I wasted away without you.”
Dahlia sobbed harder and held to Corliss, but already the girl was fading again.
“I was a fool,” Corliss said, as if to the sea. “I know now if only I had asked, you would have given what I wanted. If only I had asked, you would have taken me away.” Her paper thin hands brushed against Dahlia’s, as if to comfort.
“I am sorry for not knowing,” Dahlia said.
“I am sorry for not asking,” Corliss said, and then her eyes did close in death and her body turned slowly to foam, bleeding away into the ocean and turning it sweet and soft while the tears of all the women – of Dahlia especially – turned it salty.
The grief was strong and painful, but it faded in time, and life moved on, and Dahlia’s household was strong and blessed. But still sometimes she felt an ache and would go to the ocean and sit or stand upon the waves, and she would feel Corliss and could hold her in her arms again.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Fall – downward – descending rapidly and freely without control; uncontrollable collapsing
It was not so strange for stars to fall.
Stars were destined to dwell in the sky. But eternity is so often boring. And when the world below flourishes and grows and moves with a thousand various gears, all so intricate and neat and bursting brief, there is temptation. A want as sweet as untasted honey and fruit and wine and skin against skin.
Most stars could not stand the shifting, dying world below and withered away however – for even the warped time of Faery was not the halls of the stars. Yet the halls of the sky were, so very often, closed and timeless. Even though some danced too close to the world, and even though some could no longer hold tight to their sisters in the sky, the stars did all they could to keep each other from falling.
Fear* – known then as Pallis, the youngest of the stars to come bursting forth – was already bored with the slow shifting endlessness. Gazing down each day at the world as it spun and whirled, as it creaked and clattered, he felt a burning wholly separate from the starfire of his body. He would race across the sky following lives of mortals he favored. He would dance as the faeries danced. He would croon and leap at the joys of the world and weep with sorrow at its sadness.
For many eons, such was enough for Pallis, and for many eons his attentions went unnoticed. But the stars watched all, not just the worlds, and soon eyes turned to him as he raced and danced and leapt, and the stars turned to flickering frowns and watched more. They saw his excitement and endless passion, and they grew worried. It had been eons. Surely, he must have tired of the worlds below; there was eternity to contemplate.
The stars took Pallis and sequestered him away. Though he yelped and wept, they would not let him from the blinding room where he was imprisoned. His body shone in the sky, but none who gazed upon it were content. He was kept for decades upon centuries upon more in a room made of white fire and thorns, but never once did he cease his search for an escape.
Every moment of every day of every year, he pressed and pulled and begged the room to open. For when it did, he would flee and fly as swiftly as he could to the world below, and if his body were to waste away then so be it - at least the cruelty of the stars would no more be laid upon him.
And it was that he found the one weakness, the one place without starfire or thorn and stuck one finger - then a hand - then another - in and yanked the room apart. The halls of the stars pounded with alarms as his feet pounded across them, and he dodged each bright hand that attempted to latch onto him and pull him back into the prison. He ran farther and farther until the sky stretched narrow and he jumped, unafraid, knowing the fall was before him, the world was before him -
-as was another star. Mircea was quiet, uncaring for the long-planned conspiracies of the other stars, but that day was not a quiet day, nor one kind to one so quiet. Mircea would no longer be the slow drifting star in the sky he had been, for Pallis had already jumped, eagerly hurtling downward. Mircea could see, but not move from the path, and the two collided with such a force that the hall of the sky ripped and the world below shook.
Mircea fell with that same speed, and faster and faster they fell, entwined, Mircea giving off such great light that Pallis had to shield his eyes and his own light became dimmer and dimmer until he was a shadow, a dark tail to Mircea’s falling star, until finally the two fell into what was once a forest, their fire and force sending every tree to flame and dust, entwined and awakening no longer as stars but boys.
And so -
two stars fell in the West.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Faith – trust – confidence in or about; experience typically articulated through belief
Two Stars fell – and the first cast the second forth, ever to wander and never to love.
Fear* was the second Star to fall, and he became the most beloved of the gods in the West. But before he became the Dierne and poured forth diamonds from his fists, he was the Hidden Boy, the boy buried in the River Ophelia by his brother Jealousy*. Before he became the Dierne and walked with the fire of the sacred Bird, he was the Wanderer, cast out of the West and cursed to walk the worlds alone and away from love.
Fear* walked farther from his home each day, but he did not forget – the sharp hills to the north where dragons lay; the River sweet and fierce; the forest his lover had set alight with fire that did not warm. He told every soul he met of the wondrous land that would one day be his own, and none believed him. For there were stories of a land beyond the Gate, a land ruled by a fist full of diamonds and cruel hot eyes and Jealousy. For there were stories of souls cast out and alone for daring to ask after love or kindness.
“It exists,” Fear* said. “I have seen it. It was a land that was my own. It is my home.”
“Give it up,” each soul said. “It is gone. What is broken cannot be undone.”
Fear* did not listen. Though he wept and screamed, he did not give up. He walked until his feet bled and his body would not move. He sang the songs until his voice was rough and would not speak. He prayed until his lips were bloody and would no longer say. He fell and he dreamt in the land of glass and fire, and all who passed him would mutter – “Oh, how sadly he lies; he has died from sorrow…”
In his dreams, there existed the West as it was – wet and green and endless, the River Ophelia singing and drowning, the Orchard full of fruit. The sound of horse hooves came to him and left him and came again, thunder following their wake, and he reached up with weak arms for the world that had been his own.
I have seen it, he thought. I have known this place. It is my own.
Horse hooves came and left and came again, and the thunder in their wake grew so loud and raucous he could do nothing but wake to dark skies and the darkest cherry horse he had seen rearing up over him, and he knew then -
I have known that place. It is my own.
With sure fingers, he lifted himself onto the horse and bade the wind and stars to light his way, and as he rode with thunder at his feet he called to all that would listen that the West would be open again, love would come again to that world, and he was retribution and righteousness and the Gate would open before him as proof.
Fear* felt then all the power that had been stolen from him since he had touched the world, and starfire took his hair and heart to burning heights, and as he raced the world to the West he seemed more shadow and light than boy or man.
“I am Fear, beloved of the gods!” he cried, and the Gate opened to the thunderous fall of the cherry horse, and Fear* was again in the lands of the West – but no sweet River ran fiercely, no Orchard bore heavy fruits, and all around him was the shrieking cry of the Firebird as he pleaded to skies and sun for Fear* to return to him.
“I am Fear, beloved of the gods, here to make right the world and steal all hearts won through Jealousy!” he cried, and the shrieking silenced and the world woke to starfire.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Epiphany – illuminating discovery – a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something; also a spirit of books
Book Keepers did not have names, but numbers. 003, the Book Keeper of greenery. 204, the Book Keeper of drugs and most especially psychotropics. 007, the Book Keeper of – well.
5169814 was a Book Keeper that had not yet found her place. 5169813 oversaw forgotten grammatical rules. 5169815 looked after new coding languages. 5169814, however, felt no call to specialization. She read and read and read, but nothing would hold her longer than the turning of a final page.
It was not so strange to wander for a decade or a century or an age, but time wandered and still 5169814 did not find her home. The other Book Keepers began to mutter. Her face began to flush with shame. Her eyes no longer stayed fast to the stories. Her concentration was no longer stone.
It was a night when shame had coated her body, a day when her companions had been especially loud in their mutterings that she snuck into the Library. She read book after book in silence and solitude, but still no book rang to her, still her concentration would not stay. She grew frantic. She tossed books to walls and ran through the library, hoping and hoping and hoping, her fingertips touching each book as she ran, and then –
She saw them. Words, endless words, danced about her brain and twirled and burst aflame, and she saw them – each connection, each touch, so fleeting and unexpected but utterly shattering. Every connection lit inside her.
She was whole.
In the morning, when 00031 came to open the library, he shrieked with fright at the sight of 5169814 – but she was no longer a number and no more among the ranks of those who had misunderstood her, but Epiphany. Epiphany, a spirit of books and chance, her touch in every library and mind to be or have been, her flashes of wonder and connection in each breath and blink.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Eternity – a state – everlasting, perpetuity; infinite, unending, timelessness
The Boy was supposed to rule forever.
There were many ‘supposed to’s in his life. He was supposed to have been the constant lover of the Firebird. He was supposed to have resided forever with the Stars. He was supposed to have been the most beautiful of all mortals and more. He was supposed to be the most beloved of all gods and souls. He was supposed to be the Crowned King for eternity.
Time did not deem it fit to be.
Time gazed upon the acts of the jealous Boy-King. Time watched as the Boy burned lovers who would not bow to him. Time watched as he waved each day for another sacrifice. Time watched as the Boy touched all he could greedily and turned it to ash.
Time conspired.
Time whispered to his Sisters. “He has grown cruel,” Time whispered. “He has grown mean,” Time murmured. “He knows nothing of Love,” Time hissed. And the Boy’s Sisters listened, for they too had seen the acts their Brother had done. From his hands poured all the jewels of the world, and from his eyes came all the hate and despair that could be.
“There is another,” Time whispered. “The boy none of you wanted, that none could see. the Dierne has outshone him, but no longer.”
the Dierne sat on his throne and poured forth all riches and burned out all hearts.
His Sisters ran from the field and river, on hoof and foot, running to where Time led, past the gate and into the world of color and light and pain, and there they found him – brother and son to the Dierne, cast out of the world with no home or hearth. And Time whispered to him and brought them together, and he gave his hands and heart over to the Girl-Gods of the West.
the Dierne saw his son and cast all manner of pain and pressure upon the boy.
But Time grated on the Dierne and Time invigorated the boy. The Girl-Gods gifted the boy with all manner of weapon, and he met the Boy Before Stars again and again.
Time waited.
But the Dierne was a god and the boy was only a boy, and he fell to the blows and hurt given to him, falling into the arms of the Ophelia. Fear overcame them then as they watched the life pour from him and watched the Boy Before Stars burn all life and love under his hands. But the Ophelia was the River of Time, and she drowned the young boy until life had stilled in his chest and the whole of Time and more flooded through his body, and he had died but was not dead. He rose anew and faced the Boy-King, who Time had finally sunk Ker fangs into.
It is said the day that the Boy-King fell the world was dark, and for five days after it was as dark as the sky.
But on the sixth day the newly crowned boy opened his eyes and Time began to spin. Time which could not touch the world of the Boy Before Stars whipped and flapped about and spun the world to Ker will. And Time turned to the newly crowned boy and bid him forever be Unnamed but for the name of his father, the Dierne, and to take each name his father had worn as his own – for there was nothing left of the first boy and left in his place was a man touched by time and sorrow and love, a man who could hold each emotion in himself; the second Dierne.
[IMPORTANT NOTE: this is not the canon mythos! If you like the story, that is awesome, and thank you! But the canon!mythos is different, as is the fall of the first Dierne.]
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Disaster – sudden event – calamity, misfortune, affliction; causing great damage or loss
Mallory was born of stone. She was the least favored of all of Lyra’s children, having fallen at the River Ophelia when she was born and the sadness of the river turning her hair blue before her mother scooped her away. The River changed all She touched, rarely for good. When Mallory opened her eyes and met her mother’s gaze, it was that she had grown into a woman already and in that moment any connection between the two snapped apart.
Mallory was, in such a way, considered lonely. It did not help that whatever she touched – skin or rock or plant – would wither and decay under her fingers, and so every creature and plant shied from her. She did not touch anyone or thing and instead sat silently by the River, watching the water flow.
She considered the loneliness she was said to bear, and eons of thought and consideration she found she was not lonely. She was settled near the River and sure of herself, and with that knowing she journeyed out into the world.
The world was not settled and sure enough for her, however.
She caught the eye of many a soul, but she had no want to be with any of them. She rebuffed each pass and advance, and the more subtle the approach the more blunt her rejection. The world did not understand, and they muttered about her under their breath.
She spoke little and often engaged in only the conversations that suited her. She would leave rooms and words without warning or note, and she would state plainly all that she thought. The world did not understand, and their mutters grew to louder gossip.
She flitted from room to room and group to group and person to person, and her flitting caused shrieks of anger and offense. But she did not apologize, she did not excuse her actions, for there was nothing to excuse. She was settled and sure and had no need for games composed of glances or delicate words. The world did not understand, and they could no longer stand the sight of her.
She ran from the threats and violence and anger, and she ran through the Cities and the Forests and the hills and earth and soil, across glass lakes and venomous grasses, ran and touched every being living or dead with her hands and let them wilt under her touch – for she was settled and sure but the world was not, and the world needed to decay under her fingers. She ran until her blood stained roads into the world and she had touched every atom she could hold, and then she flung herself into the River Ophelia where she had been born.
Mallory was the least favored of all the children of Lyra. Mallory was a calamity of the west, bringing decay and death to the world. Mallory went to the River and waited, and waits still, to move in the world again.
[For the Pagan Blog Project; two posts per letter every Friday. Join in here.]
Desire – a longing – craving, want, yearning; a wish/Delight – pleasure – enjoyment, joy, rejoice; relish or treat
She had drowned in a thousand rivers by the time she met Lyra. Her hair was dark and full of seaweed and she had donned a thousand masks (one for each river), and she was sure that Lyra – who glowed like the night sky and ran like the wind in a storm – would not notice her.
Lyra was, after all, the child of fire and stone, and Ophelia was King of cold and wet. There was no future to be found but longing.
Still, the Ophelia would rise each day from the depth of Her river and watch as Lyra and her hounds and troops – faery and mortal men – raced through the forests and chased and hunted merrily, their laughter and barking and cries illuminating every corner of every forest with their wild chase. Lyra would leap on fleet feet over the river each day, and each day she landed safely on the other bank.
the Ophelia had stolen less brazen souls than Lyra’s for tempting Her waters, but She could not bring Herself – through all Her longing and passion and flowing need – to catch Lyra as she lept and drag her under the waves. So She contented Herself with watching, quietly, and ensuring safe passage for Lyra and her men. (Most of her men, at least. the Ophelia was still a river, and She still drowned those who did not pay Her proper respect.)
It was noon when it happened.
The sound of the hounds, their yelping and barks, signaled the beginning of the hunt, and the Ophelia stirred from the depths and rose from the river like a wave, hovering and forming into dark strands of hair and pale, water-soaked skin. The hounds jumped as they did, and then Lyra’s men, each hooting and cawing in, and then Lyra – running on swift legs and armed well for the hunt – prepared the jump over the river.
She jumped too early, and her feet did not catch the far bank but her body slid into the water, and the waves rushed in and wove and held her down and down, farther until the sun was forgotten.
And the Ophelia felt her then, held in the darkness of the waves and near the rocks and sand and souls of the water – all the longing Lyra had felt, all the fire that she had kept in her bones each day she had ran across the river, her eyes always catching the Ophelia but thinking, ‘No, certainly not, for She is a God and I am only little’, and the Ophelia felt that burning run into Her own cold arms and set Her skin all a-bubble, and with a torrent and a rush She flung Lyra from the waves and onto the shore.
Lyra coughed and spluttered and held to the ground and what life was left, but even after breath had returned to her she did not leave the bank. She sat, hands digging into the mud and grass, and then after what was an age or perhaps just a day or an hour turned to the god of sorrow and met Her gaze.
“Why did you not drown me?” she demanded, though the answer was in her lungs and her flesh and her half-stolen breath.
the Ophelia did not speak but instead rose from the river and rose to the bank and walked to the place where Lyra lay.
“I did,” She said at last, and Her voice was the darkest waters and the coldest ice and the sound of a river meeting rock. “But you still have life.”
The hounds came then, yipping and waiting, and Lyra left with only a glance back at the God, but every day when the sun was hot and high in the sky she would return to the bank and the Ophelia would step from the depths and there was half-breaths and gasps and the sound of water against rock.
