There are those who say that aetoras is a tree, hanging heavy with eternal fruit - the seeds of a dream from which you cannot wake.


They say demons guard it: a moth or a mantis or an owl.

I submit. I give in. I am yours.

The calling of my calling

Llesehir says that he found me first, making my way in mutters through the Eleiutierc. He says he glimpsed me in the tumbling fog on the roof of the world, that I walked past the ruined towers and barren streets of time-lost Llelain and made my home in his heart. He says that my eyes were broken glass, my hands twisted wire, my skin but the stories of a seventh of the stricken libraries. I had the smell of a thing forgotten, he says, like a legend lonely and hungry for remembrance. He tells me that I refused to let go, that I roosted on his tongue so he could speak of nothing else. He tells me that after ten days in the wilderness he returned home, his steps heavier only by the weight of a word.

That is how, clinging like a secret to the silence between his teeth, I came to the Es'mensis.

This is what it's like to see in black and white.

To hunt out the edges of the horizon, cast words from the edge of the world, and sound the depth of the void.

To taste the salty sorrow of Eschalon, cut your teeth on the rock of execution, and breath deep the incoming tide.

To suck in the breath of battlefields, learn the scent of man's last prayer, harvest the hopes of the dying, and tell yourself they could not be saved.

To sift secrets, feel fear, and tremble at an immortal touch.

To suffer. To be blind.

a woman walks a continent, wild water in her eyes,
with a thousand leagues behind her and a thousand up ahead;
for the City never man has seen,
for the vision ever man has dreamed;
for a thousand leagues in search of hope
and a thousand more ahead

this is for one forgotten, light at the end of the world
she lives through loss, a light to the end of the world

golden light of aetoras, the flesh made into word
in a history of histories, and saplings of a world
tree to hang a hanging son and penance open wide to
children flown across the seas toward the setting sun

this is for one forgotten, light at the end of the world

the gloaming man, a light to the end of the world

golden light of aetoras, 

the flesh made into word in a history of histories, and 

saplings of a world tree to hang a hanging son, and 

penance open wide to children flown across the seas 

into the setting sun

The time comes... the weaving of these disparate tales that have been almost more journal than journey.

Silent caves fall apart,
all of this rises above it all