She followed the Seven, Guardians of the Lore into the innermost depths of the sanctum. Torches glowed with a preternatural brilliance. Here was housed their most sacred lore, memories emanating from an era when neither Light nor Darkness existed in that Universe. A time when the Omniscience held a germ of all that was to be in their thoughts. So did life and death unfold. They showed her the way, then the Holy of Holies emerged from thoughts and soundless voices. Thus was she shown the beginnings of her people, of her kin. The images played out before her, of a time and place not of their world:
He hovered, still as a breathless day. Hidden, a shimmering vision of star-filled darkness. From out of mystery does he come, called by her yearning, compelled by his hunger. She circles the places of power, utters words archaic. The Old Ones answer, resolve to gather one held dear. Thus comes a messenger, one of the strongest, one most beloved. Pure is her song, weaving fates of worlds, ushering in beginning, ushering in ending.
Beat do wings of midnight and silver, in shapeshifter’s guise and shaman’s cloak. One, two, three, four. The rhythm plays without end, spellbinding, holding in thrall. Feral is his gaze, intent is his heartbeat. One, two, three, four. The rhythm plays without end. Time has no domain in places between places, worlds not of the here and the now. Again she circles, uttering words of welcome, in a tongue archaic, in emotions blazing. Mated were they in times forgotten, embracing eternally and powers incandescent. Such was love and tragedy too. Love lost and thwarted, tears are shed of salt and crimson blood. One, two, three, four. The rhythm plays without end. So beat his wings.
Eyes behold eyes, wordless whispers flowing and promises of revelations coming. Compelling is his hunger, called by her yearning. Soon, so soon is his descent. Soon, so soon is his transformation. Naked is he in glory, eyes of obsidian void, skin of silken shield. Soon, so soon enfolds his cloak of feather, shapeshifter’s guise and shaman’s cloak. She approaches, clad in opalescence, yearning unending, lips of ruby and eyes of gold. Thus begins their dance, of passion eternal, of remembrance made real. Mated were they in times forgotten, embracing eternally and powers incandescent. Arms reach out and enfold, lips meet and tears of salt fall.
The Old Ones speak, utter words archaic. Gathered are they most beloved, of mysteries hidden, symbols most sacred. Light and Dark uniting. Heaven and Earth rejoicing.
She turned to face the Seven, with eyes of gold rimmed by obsidian void, with wings of midnight and silver. One, two, three, four. The rhythm plays without end. Time has no domain in places between places, worlds not of the here and the now. Thus is she enlightened.