Hidden 

DasWortgewand, Pixabay

I felt the need to further explore my character Amunet’s past and this is the result. There appeared to be an underlying message in this “communication”. It was connected to the land and a people that seemed to vanish into forgetfulness and legend. In this chapter she appears as a woman called Magali (the Occitan form of Magdalene). Magali, as she was named by the Cathars who took her in, was considered a living embodiment of a Sleeper. One who decides at death to step back from the cycle of life and death and instead remain asleep in the land, dreaming, foretelling, and communing with all life.

The Cathars (“Pure Ones”) were condemned as heretics by the Church in the 13th century, in an age when its doctrines had hardened into dogma and politicking. The fate of these people was terrible, ending in 1244, in a nine month siege of their mountain fortress of Montsègur (in the Ariège department, south-western France). It culminated in a massacre. Many legends have grown around these mysterious people, with their true essence being hidden beneath a covering of subterfuge and illusion.

Occitan is a Romance language spoken in southern France and other areas. Occitania is the nomenclature given to the area where the language was first spoken and covers the Occitan Valleys in the Italian Alps, the old Aquitaine, Languedoc-Roussillon, the Aran Valley in the Pyrenees and the Principality of Monaco. Here ends my very brief outline. I visited the region many years ago and can testify to its special atmosphere. There is more, but that journey is for another time when the inner silence reveals another piece of the puzzle and allows me a clearer vision of these people. My fascination with them has a purpose. What does Magali have to say?

Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Where is here? A place where there are remnants of a people I once knew. I dreamed their fate, touched their fears and yearning, but they’re gone. Crumbled into dust, and scattered by the winds. I slept but was stirred back into life, heard their cries for help, saw what approached. Their eyes stared unseeing at visions rising from the horizon, an omen of things hidden within, cloaked from recognition. Their time was at an end, was foretold, of an age when hate and ignorance would rise in the place of greatest darkness.

My eyes saw their disintegration, as piece by piece their souls flew from shells burning on a multitude of pyres. Danger reigned supreme and the river of poison ran fast and deep, dragged their carcasses to places that should not be uttered aloud. The wind mourned them, brought whispered entreaties, and showered these ruins in melancholy. What an ignominious end to such a civilisation! Yet, hope clung on and Light retreated to a place of safety, waiting and watching.

Where people once enjoyed lives of serenity and contemplation is now shrouded in a loveliness born of sadness and tears. We search the past to find meaning in the present. Brush away earth and sand to reveal artefacts to catalogue, name and display as a manifestation of a knowledge that is ultimately empty. The land will not reveal its secrets to those who have no understanding of the meaning of this life and the mysteries of the Universe. I will not reveal knowledge and understanding that must be earned, in hardships many times. If you will not listen to me, then you are free to meet your fate on the road ahead, do not bemoan what befalls you.

These ruined buildings of stone and mud brick decay in this dry, wind and sun blasted place but life always find a way. It sends roots deep into the earth, is nourished by the heart of the planet. The spirits of this city sing to me, welcome me back but know it has come at a cost. More than they care to acknowledge. What glories this place has seen, drawing in luminaries from worlds seen and unseen. Bejewelled towers sprang forth to vanish into the clouds, testimony to a civilisation worthy of its name, now forgotten. I call to it, urge it to rise from its untimely grave. Hear me my beloved heart, take my hand and walk the roads of illumination and majesty that were once your right. Perfection of the spirit was your ultimate destination, it was the spring from which your people drank and bathed their sacred centres. I tended to the gardens of their soul, taught them the ways of mysteries, brought them to the place of death, and rebirth into a second life.

Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

As for me, I stand with feet buried in sand and memories, see dreams cast shadows across eyes that stare unseeing across the ages. See me for who I really am and be welcome. I bring the deep comfort of a mother’s arms, nourish your soul and aspirations, and cut the cord joining us when the time comes. My blade has a sharp kiss, and draws blood that fall like rubies, embodying both beauty and terror. I hold your ancestral history and my blood is your blood, ruby red and filled with wonders. I was Hidden but reveal myself now. See me, hear me.

 

Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

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The end. From THEREBEMONSTERSHERE.COM

Another intriguing blog that caught my attention. This post raised a smile. You may think me strange, human nature can be at times.

Death sighed sadly to herself, she exited her battered old VW beetle. Secateurs in hand, she strolled through Maggie’s ward unseen by all. Mr. D’arcy trotted at her heel, a large doggy smile on his face. Maggies ethereal form stood beside the corpse of Maggie Trout. Wild and terrified was her expression; her […]

via The end. — therebemonstershere.com

Meeting at the Crossroads

JanBaby, Pixabay

A crossroad beckons on the horizon once more, and my feet are approaching it at a leisurely pace. So unlike me it has to be said. Evidently I’m mellowing in middle age.

Change is a coming and I’m not sure how to face it. Much like my reaction to prevailing weather conditions. It’s been cold, windy and rainy for weeks, and I haven’t even ventured into the garden to say hello to its inhabitants. My usual seat at the kitchen table has remained empty, which is a shame as it’s an important part of my writing and dreaming. It’s window facing and provides a lovely view of life unfolding through the seasons. It also gives me space to go inwards and sense the emotion of my inner landscape. One might say being a spectator has its uses, but disengaging from participating in life’s dramas makes Jan a dullard indeed.

The spectres of inertia and frustration are ever-present in our lives, beasts that are unwilling to loosen their grip. They gnaw at our innards and inject soporific poisons into our veins. We need all our courage and survival instincts to break free and run. That is until we get to a place of safety and gather our resources, summon our magician’s powers and bind the damned creatures. I’m talking more Gandalf than Harry Potter.

“More Gandalf than Harry Potter?” a voice queries from behind me.

That voice, with deep threads of mystery and dark wickedness running through it. His Nibs. I’ve neglected him for a while, just as well. No disrespect mighty one, the work we will be undertaking will require all of my strength and resilience, as well as hope. The path I’ve chosen to walk isn’t easy, more fool me! When you ask to enter into the service of Anubis, you need to carefully consider the implications of your decision. He’ll test your substance and spirit to almost breaking point.

He mutters with indignation, “that sounds a little harsh, you’ll scare them off.”

“Sorry, but it’s the truth. No point in sugar-coating what’s essentially a season ticket to the Underworld and Duat, ferrying the dead, lost, guiding initiates, breaking through fear, glimpsing awe-filled mysteries. I could go on.”

“Fine, things have been a little difficult for you lately, that’ll die away. Sorry, occupational hazard.” His voice trails off at the withering look on my face.

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View from kitchen window, Jan Malique

Human existence appears to be experienced in cycles and tantalising episodes in a rite of passage drama. Rites of passage seem to be barely celebrated in modern societies; almost becoming relics from a past that’s viewed with curiosity and nostalgia. That’s my opinion. Commercialism and materialism have taken over, retailers dictate when and what we should be celebrating. We’re urged to empty our wallets and spend rashly on the old plastic in order to show our affection and commiseration on specified dates. Why? Can’t we be trusted with showing care at any point in the calendar year?

“I like seeing you like this, a good rant releases useful chemicals in the brain. Go for it my little friend.” Says an ancient Egyptian God wearing a hoodie.

He then flashes the Ace of Spades in my face. I look at it and wonder why he’s showing me the card.

The Jackal God watches closely, absorbing every detail of my expression.

“The Ace of Spades is traditionally considered the Death card, but not always with physical death. It’s associated with personal transformation, changes, endings and beginnings. Such things are sometimes viewed with fear and troubled minds. Yet, there’s no rebirth without the ending of our old selves. New growth can’t flourish without removal of all that’s dead. This card symbolises ancient mysteries and hidden truths. See it and drink in its message.”

I understand and tell him “Death has appeared many times when I’ve consulted the oracle.”

“Who’s the oracle? Anyone we know?” he asks quietly.

I answer equally quietly “The Magician’s Tarot by Quareia.”

Pexels, Pixabay

I can see the readings vividly in my mind, beautiful but disquieting images. Portents of seemingly dire events and possible futures, of messages from powers beyond this plane, of restriction, illness and healing. The Abyss and Underworld showed their faces. There was more but I’m not jumping to any conclusions. He knows all this but isn’t saying anything. Our meeting at the Crossroads heralds a time of reassessment, doesn’t it always!

“How may I serve?” I ask again, for it’s a question that needs to be articulated, with confidence and without fear. I’ve searched for him for so long, entered into the womb of the Underworld and returned changed, not always prepared for what’s unfolded. In hindsight it’s helped in the process of shattering a restrictive carapace and unhealthy conditioning.

I look at the hoodie wearing God of the Dead and Transformations and call his name, ask for guidance and clarification. I ask to learn the songs of grief and unchaining as my journey progresses, I ask for the wisdom to recognise and acknowledge the lessons being bestowed, for myself and others. He takes me to the Saqqara, the necropolis of ancient Memphis in Egypt, a place he’s walked again and again in long distant times. The sun bleached sand and stone of its landscape still holds a sleeping power, resonating with echoes of the dead and curiosity of throngs of the living.

We watch the two worlds intermingle, their inhabitants pass by each other, sometimes catching glimpses of things that puzzle and induce longing. The centuries roll by before us, he’s seen it all. Time falls like a huge waterfall, drenching us in its spray. There’s only silence flowing around us, gleaming like water illuminated by the Sun. It stretches beyond the horizon. It’s the Silence of Knowing. A tool to break our shackles.

NeuPaddy, Pixabay

 

View Across The Water: Part 1 Of The Living Vessel

Image: Jan Malique

The month of the Crane was approaching, bringing with it mists from across the headland. His ancestors stood with him, gazing across the water to the sanctuary of the one known as the Hermit. The little white washed building stood on the remains of a temple dedicated to an unnamed deity. It was said this goddess had watched over his people from a time of cold and silence; when the world was frozen by the breath of ice giants. Or so legends said.

The Hermit had also acquired near mythological status, as people of his kind were often viewed with fear mingled with deep respect. His origins were unknown, but many kingdoms called him one of their own. Merlin was the name he answered to, although his true name was hidden.

The man on the shore had travelled for a year to reach this place. A year of hardship and danger, evading hostile forces, both human and supernatural. This was a time of warring factions, of cosmic and human battles. It was foretold by the Oracle that a time of balance was approaching, when choices would have to be made, and destinies shaped.

A sense of heaviness lay on the man’s shoulders, composed of a sense of duty and sacrifice. Sacrifice of things not physical but spiritual. He had undergone trials that would have broken someone with less resilience and humility. He had been forced to look deep within his soul and face its true reflection. Not an easy task. Self-insight never is.

During the most terrible moments of his sense of isolation the tears flowed like a raging river. As did his anger. Where were his gods when he needed them most? This state of abandonment had left him almost broken, shredded his humanity, left it bleeding profusely on the ground. Thus was he prepared for the task they had chosen him for.

He was marked as a protector of the ancient relic his people had been guarding for ten thousand sunrises. A ritual object their gods had dreamed into being, holding the power to transform, create and destroy. It had no physical form but resided within a living vessel. He was now the chosen vessel, bound by unbreakable oaths. So it was that this man was brought to the edge of an unknown land seeking his guide and teacher.

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Image: OpenClipart-Vectors, Pixabay

The Hermit felt the man’s presence and prepared himself. The instruments of his art were gathered and his fire replenished. The sky and water simmered, infused with the scent of storms and portents. He whispered his student’s name, let it snake its way across the water, and enfold the human in a protective cloak.

The man swayed as if in a trance, standing on the threshold of this reality and the ones beyond consciousness. The relic sensed the presence of the Hermit and throbbed in response. The man opened his eyes and saw the Hermit before him. He spoke but no words issued from his lips. He conveyed knowledge through signs and visions. Through song and silence. So was a connection sealed with the vessel and relic.

The man stood unseeing and unspeaking. Then the dream shattered, releasing illusion and falsehoods. He felt the weight of suffering vanish like mist in the rays of the sun. Merlin beckoned the student and both got into the coracle waiting on the shore. A mist rolled in swallowing the two men. The ancestors stood guard on the shore; for as long as their kin was under the tutelage of the Hermit they would be present.

Here begins the journey of the one known as the Living Vessel.

On The Eve of Battle

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Image: Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Elemental Air prepares.

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Image: Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Elemental Fire summons.

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Image: Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Elemental water parries and thrusts.

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Image: Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Elemental Earth consoles.

As a non-poet this is my non-poem to battles fought, and to warriors facing the onslaught of chaotic forces, within and without. I was watching the last Lord of the Rings film, Return of the King when composing my little piece. Epic dramas have a tendency to carry you along in their wake, pull stirring emotions from their safe harbours and thrust them into stormy waters. Waters filled with strange shapes swimming in their depths:

On the eve of battle did the elements gather, enter into conference

Form battle plans, and seek counsel of greater spirits

Be wary of blood lust and the scent of fear, they whispered

Seek the path that is balanced, measured and still, did the cry echo

Gather forth our greatest warriors, unleash the storm that waits

Sing tales of old into life, unfold the sacred texts, and chant the songs of  binding

Elemental Air prepares, offers allegiance and utters “I Come”

Elemental Fire summons, offers allegiance and utters “I Come”

Elemental water parries and thrusts, offers allegiance and utters “I Come”

Elemental Earth consoles, offers allegiance and utters “I Come”

The Fifth waits for their melding, holds aloft sword and shield, readies to pierce the heart of ancient foes

Five voices chant, entreat all to “Gaze into the heart of the whirlwind, feel its peace, gather its wisdom, and free its power”

Wipe the shadows from your eyes, fulfil your oaths and unfold your destinies

 

Mark of the Dragon

Image: Stab-32, Pixabay

They fell, these dragons of fire and implacable wisdom.Fell like dying stars from places unreachable and forbidden.

Left scars upon the matter of existence, branded its subtle nature. Did they truly rebel, or were they privy to plans divine?

Seraph pondered on the consequences of the so called battle in heaven. Such tales were spun, truth mythologised, twisted and shaped like the threads in ephemeral webs.

The truth was more subtle, more shocking than humanity could ever conceive. Eyes blazed into fire, witnessed the fall as it was lived.

His voice was muted once humanity was bestowed, and memory drenched in matter. True nature stirred, pushed at the limits of endurance.

Seraph saw the beat of wings push aside atom after atom, slice consciousness with a scalpel fashioned from free will, and determination.

The Mark of the Dragon was inedible, infinitesimal. Flames poured from his hands, consumed ashes, and seared insolence. He watched and uttered not a word. The world spun on its axis, age after age passed but inherent nature stood still.

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Image: Comfreak, Pixabay

Seraph fell, consumed matter, reshaped matrix after matrix, discarded blueprint after blueprint. Then a glorious countenance descended, moulded with love, birthed into being one and the other, female and male. Androgyny split was asunder, each seeking the other in a dance eternal.

Wings of gold turned ashen, mirrored Crow, messenger between worlds, oracle of possible futures. From out of ashes followed resurrection, She rose resplendent, stared out at a world unknown and unimpressive.

 

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Image: josemdelaa, Pixabay

She held out her hand, clutched a book of knowledge, of perfection beyond comprehension. “Guard it well” they entreated, for her mission was secretive, and her fealty unshakeable. Thus did the blueprint of creation fall, taken to places of safety. Thus did Seraph’s mission begin, thus did her life begin.

The Spice Merchant

MimmiDieLesemaus, Pixabay

‘Step this way ‘ she says wreathed in smiles and mystery.

A purveyor of magic and spices, she’s beyond compare. Her art is an ancient one, a living relic of times of adventure and prosperity, of caravanserai bringing tales and treasures aplenty.

The Spice Merchant peers from her doorway, gazes intently, surveys our purpose, asks where we’ve come from and where we’re going.

PaelmerPhotoArts, Pixabay

We hesitate, fearful of answering, lest our masks drop, lest our voices falter. Will these jewelled hues heal our wounds and satisfy our deep hunger? She beckons us, urges us to step over her portal, step into her alchemical laboratory.

babawawa, Pixabay

Our feet hesitate, then enter into the flow of magical flow. How our blood surges through our veins, intoxicated with fire and scent of things mysterious. Paprika, Cumin, Tamarind, Saffron, Holy Basil, and Pomegranate Syrup. Dried Damask rose petals beckon, shower our senses in veils of perfume.

“What is our pleasure?” she whispers and gazes with eyes of gold.

We tell her our desires and dreams of ancient caravanserai, of journeys in pursuit of rare blue roses and gardens of Paradise, of culinary delights to satisfy our hunger. She listens in silence, seeing and hearing all that is unspoken. Her Mage’s hand writes, breathes life into sacred letters, creates palettes unsurpassed.

The Spice Merchant isn’t what she appears to be. For her art is an ancient calling, the origin hidden to all except the seeker of tales and adventure. She nourishes the Soul and feeds our hunger.

“What is our pleasure?” she whispers and gazes with eyes of gold.

The Impossible is Possible He Says: A Return to the Beginning of Things

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Me in 2015

I don’t like being photographed, due to shyness mainly. For purposes of this post a decision was made to use a photo, a selfie (I dislike those things usually) taken in 2015. She stares at me with a look I remember well, filled with secrets and questions. The core of this person remains unchanged, as much as a whirling vortex can.

A whirling vortex?” he repeats slowly, the look on his face is thoughtful. His Nibs appears out of thin air, typical of these deities to indulge in dramatic behaviour.

His absence has been longer than usual, which has given me time to tie up a few loose ends. I look at his face for indication, any indication of his thought processes. He draws sigils and hieroglyphs into the air, sacred symbols etched in fire. I see a raging ocean struck many times by lightning. The First Time. Anubis is in his golden form orchestrating the play of elements. There is silence in this place of the first creation, a silence that is infused with many layers of meaning. The Mound is yet to appear. Strange that I should be witness to this again.

Image: Golden Anubis, Jan Malique

Being born is an initiation, a period of trial, tribulation and learning. We infuse our lives with beauty, pepper it with tears and sadness, and write its story in our personal Book of Life. The time has come to continue my story in the Book of Life. He hands it to me gently and smiles. I stare at it with the same look my other self had in the photo. She was yearning for change and wondering whether her circumstances would shift, evolve. Sometimes the perceived impossibility of the task at hand can throw you off kilter. Introspection can bring with it fears and uncertainties. They are unavoidable but necessary.

“I’ve stood on the edge of towering sand dunes peered down at you, watching your every move and thought. Your eyes have reflected the incandescent light of stars burning at the edge of galaxies, throwing illumination into the heart of darkness. You seek, question and demand, as you should. What answers have you obtained? You smile and give me that look. Filled with secrets and questions. Are you ready to serve, to pierce the illusions of this world and act? Take care to speak honestly and without prevarication. Serve higher ideals. The Impossible is Possible”

Anubis intends these words for those who are ready for the Journey.

His eyes burn with ancient fire and his hand gestures towards the unfolding of creation within the First Time. This journey is one towards the beginning of all things, a return to Source. We sit on the Sacred Mound beneath the waters of Chaos, the Eight peer at us intently, alien frog and snake headed creatures from a time before time. A return to the original womb of being can involve dangers, realisations of truths we may not be ready to face. I sense movement of the Eight and also of something more…The waters of Chaos bubble and shift constantly. His Nibs watches, silent as the depths of the Void, and as inscrutable.

The storm continues around us, but we‘re sitting in a space set apart deep within the eye of the storm. A place of deep significance and sacredness, the First Temple from which all others were birthed. Again I sense movement of the Eight and also of something more. From out of the gloom emerge his priests, jackal headed men bearing his mark. They stretch into infinity, forming a processional way into the depths. This is the path into the depths of the subconscious, hence the guardians of the portals safeguarding the way. There are places where no light has ever pierced, where no voice has uttered sound. We dare to pass through these halls of silence, and dare to emerge intact.

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Image: Trandoshan, Pixabay

He employs sleight of hand, confuses our senses, makes us believe the real is unreal and takes us to the very edge of reality. We stand on the precipice and peer over the edge. We peer deep within our selves, for that is the purpose of this journey, of any journey, to find our truth and speak it.

The Eight churn the waters of Chaos, creating life where there was possibility and promise. The Sacred Mound waits our return, it is time for emergence, manifestation of all possibilities and promises. The Benu bird utters the first sound that breaks the eternal silence and the child Ra emerges from the waters in his womb of Blue Lotus. His light pierces the eternal darkness and so it begins. The Sacred Mound waits on our return and embraces us as we emerge. From silence and darkness does life emerge, looking out into a vast Universe filled with mysteries.

Anubis is known by many names, one being the Walker between the Worlds, another being Psychopomp, and another The Opener. He’s a shaman par excellence, guardian of the portals between the different states of consciousness. We meet him at significant points in life, so as to be eased into states of death and resurrection, symbolic and real. What’s prompted this bout of soul searching? I’d ordered a book written about Anubis and had to wait nearly three months for it, due to delays that seemed to go and on. This issue tested my patience severely, at one point I thought he was “pulling on my chain” just to see what I would do. It unveiled aspects of myself that needed looking at, and here I am looking at some of them.

Cross My Palm with Catnip: A Tale of Dark Undoing

Image: Alexas_Fotos, Pixabay

She looked longingly at what he was offering her. Its enticing aroma made the blood race through her veins, rendering her powerless against the siren song.

“Come me to me” it whispered in her ear. How could the spirit hold out against such a gloriously rampant tidbit? He knew what he was doing, all part of the plot to get her to “spill the beans”, but she was determined to hold out. The air shimmered with heat and something quite pungent, and dangerously addictive.

“Meowww”, her soft voice implored. A little paw was held out pleadingly, would he release her from this torture? This was becoming annoying, her teeth ground together, claws unsheathed. He would feel her wrath and she would draw blood.

“Come on sweetie, you need to take your medicine, be a good girl. That’s it, come here”.

She was entranced, held captive by the prize offered. It was almost within reach, almost within grasp, near, so near. She held out a paw again, gazing at him with soul melting eyes. Her body was that of a domestic cat but held the heart of a lioness. With jaws that bite and teeth that pierce and crunch.

“Gimme, gimme what I want” she yelled at him.

Would he relinquish the prize?

Image: jeanvdmeulen, Pixabay

 

Shadow and Light: The Vampire’s Doom

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Image: AKuptsova,

I dream into being strings of pearls to grace the throats of ethereal dreams,

Visions gliding silently across mirrors, reflections of things peering from the depths. 

The passage of time uncovers memories buried, things yearning to see light, to be themselves as they were first created.

They live in the realm of Shadow and Light, being reflections of balance and chaos, of Yin and Yang.

These are the words written in her journal, the spidery handwriting touching the paper lightly in places and etched deeply in others. Her presence in the rambling mansion on the edge of the unknown territories was for a purpose, to release her sleeping lover. Release not from sleep but from life itself, he was something that haunted the edge of nightmares and yearning. Forbidden knowledge was his domain, and the power to erase one’s humanity.

She’d hunted him for years, practising deception and prevarication, always with smouldering eyes and blood red lips. He couldn’t resist this vision of beauty and grace, vowing to woo her, to claim her as his regent. Her quarry had no chance once she spied him, for the ways of her Order had equipped her eminently for the task. She was a master of Shadow and Light, of standing between two worlds, poised forever on the edge of a precipice, an Assassin shrouded in mist.

The Assassin approached his sleeping form, a thing of exquisiteness and malevolence. No blood would be shed, only utter desolation and destruction meted out as promise and warning. His atoms would be taken apart, blessed with ancient and cryptic prayers, exorcised and scattered to the outer limits of the multiverses. A most terrible final act, but necessary to keep balance and chaos in polar opposite.

“Visions gliding silently across mirrors, reflections of things peering from the depths”

The words cascaded through her mind, a reminder of her purpose and mission. Silently she glided to his bed, touched his face like the caress of wind rustling through the forest. Spells were woven, words of passion dropped like poison pearls into his ear. She gave him dreams of longing and yearning, gave him what he desired, only for a brief moment showed him the glories of worlds beyond his reach. Pity played no part in this perfect drama, for that would be her undoing. Do monsters deserve pity? Agents of Shadow and Light were merciful creatures where the living and vulnerable were concerned. As for things lurking within nightmares and untrodden paths of the Soul, they faced a different fate.

“I dream into being strings of pearls to grace the throats of ethereal dreams”

She was dream weaver and soothsayer, a creature of many hues and stories. Multifaceted like an incomparable diamond born in the heart of fire, like an oyster shimmering the in the vast Ocean of Creation, gifting pearls of wisdom.

He opened his eyes, unseeing orbs of rubies. Her scent hung in the fetid air of his grave and sanctuary. It sank into his bones, wrapped his cold, dead heart like winged serpents bringing illumination to the dark places of this world.

“The passage of time uncovers memories buried, things yearning to see light, to be themselves as they were first created”

So it was, at a time when the worlds shifted, ushering in different states of being. Memories rose to the surface of waters unstirred for too long. He dreamed of life lived for too long, bearing no regret, feeling no shame for violence unfolded, and lust unchecked. Images fell like withered petals, scattered to the winds.

“They live in the realm of Shadow and Light, being reflections of balance and chaos, of Yin and Yang”

With those words her hand emerged out of nothingness and sealed his doom. It could not be undone.

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Image: capsulabiblica, Pixabay