How Daughters Prosper

It's a difficult thing, this tempest.  This lie of linearity.  To be caught in the chaos of cognition, a storm of sorts, and to still be force-fed this very limited worldview.  It can be a frightening contradiction.  Our innate wisdom in lockstep with our modern banality.  We're taught so many incongruous things now.  That the seas have limits.  Boundaries.  That we do not flow in the ways we once knew.  As I've written in these pages before; the wraith-priests of this realm have cultivated so many terrifying gods of the sea.  Why do you think they did that, so long ago?  I’ll tell you.  Because at our essence we are fluid, liquid beings.  Charged with sunlight and sentience.  Every one of us.  Magnetic, electric.  We are divine creations composed of water’s music.  Children of the rain, rivers and sea.  This is why our forebears were slaughtered in the epoch of the First Dreaming.  This is why the Fates were slain and the loom threaded with dark magic.  To convince us all that we are not immortal, veteran dreamers.  That this nightmare is real and relentless.  That we are violent, compassionless entities.  This is the image of the new earth, and its angels.  The Altered Sun.  The tempest of our colonized minds.  Our world, once a beautiful garden of poets, philosophers and engineers, is now a colossal shipwreck beached upon the shore of eternity.  We've lost our place.  Our home.  But I still remember the way we sang.  The communities we built.  How our prayers moved mountains.  We loved each other once, and we painted the hills with higher thought.  My Mira taught me that.  She reminded me how the first dreaming still lives on in our hearts.  Before our lives became tall tales in the mind of Man.  I am no Duke of Milan.  And my life is far more than a piece of tragicomic fiction.  Mira was my first, and she reminded me of many things.  She didn’t have to.  She could have fled.  She could have taken another name.  I gave her my blessing in the end.  The war was brutal and esoteric.  I wouldn’t begrudge her the solace of forgetting everything that happened.  But she chose to keep her name.  Chose to keep her sisters close.  I still remember how she told me it wasn't just about us.  It was about all those yet to arrive.  The unborn.  Soon to be plunged into a raging, virulent world.  It was for them that we held on to our true histories.  It was for our children and our children's children that we remembered our names and our light.  My Evenstar, you were so wise for one so young.  I truly wish you didn’t have to be.  I don't know what else to say.  Perhaps you won't believe a word of this, Mira.  The colourful ravings of a distant fanatic, imagining himself a sorcerer.  And perhaps that's as it should be.  But I still watch over my beloved ones.  Blinded or not.  Blackened by war and buried by distance.  I still wish you nothing but peace and good tidings.  Drowned in dream I may be, but I choose to live my life as if some small piece your heart still remembers me.  Life is sweeter like this, my darling girl.  And the seas far calmer.