June 6

[Darkling Light]

Council is done; the outcome heavy handed. I am stricken. The Weaving Women stood their ground and the traditional clans will become nothing more than so many leaves scattered in a vast and endless forest. It rises from my heart to the center of heartbreak. I am unable to swallow it down, consumed by a sense of tragedy that is without measure. I am my ancestor’s myth, out paced by a loom. Is that even possible? Having sat in the councils of seven worlds I now find myself desolate, breathless, no longer germane, thought dramatic and foolish. I don’t know of a moment in my peoples’ history where an elder was simply dismissed because their words weren’t the words the solicitor wanted to hear. Many Old Ones sat in council too. I wonder how many of them are shaken, robbed of their reason to live: relevance.

The spirit of convenience. I think about him, and his brother, the spirit of arrogance. They have always been around, lurking, looking for a host or two, knowing that was all it would take. We were the last out of the cauldron; we saw ourselves as the best and the brightest. And yet, in the blink of an eye, those spirits have brought our wisdom, thought beyond comparison, to its knees. Wool. The greatest prophets among us never saw it coming.  If I hadn’t borne it witness I would believe it a joke and laugh. But its not a joke, an entire people has been duped by it, and the cultivated grasses that sustain the imprisoned sheep and their shepherd. Once thought iconic and immediate, my people have become deludable, trading the blood of magicians for that of farmers. In a few short years the elders and the old clans will be gone. Perhaps we will hide in the hearts of a handful, evident in a wayfarer from the Unborn, Gobetween. And yet she holds my greatest fear. Why would someone travel 6000 years into the dreamtime of her ancestors if any trace of her people still existed in her world? Were anything left alive, even in secret, she would have had no need to risk such a perilous journey. Dancing Grass comforts me as I quietly weep, as though grieving were even appropriate. The embers of the Old Way have grown cold, transmuted into nothing more than ash. No tears will be shed for its demise. After all, there is nothing noble about the savage, and nothing believable in a myth.




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