L E V I A T H A N S E A : TESTING

One day, one night, one moment
My dreams could be Tomorrow.
One step, one fall, one falter,
East or West,
Over Earth or by Ocean:
One way to be my journey,
This way could be my Book of Days.

l go l, mo thuras,
An bealach fada romham.
oche go hoche, mo thuras,
Na scalta na mbeidh a choch'.

Sing sweetly dearest night, and you will find your disciples worshipping at the many altars contructed solely for this use; lift your breathy voice to the wind, exhale into the breezes, and communicate your blessings upon this world which we inhabit. The stars, your many handmaidens, weep with the coming of the dawn, for each morning you are exiled from your Kingdom, from your Throne, only to find the populace singing your praises once more at nightfall. What then, dear night sky, do you do during the garish sunlight of the day? Do you frolick within the heavens, dancing amongst the moons and planets which we cannot see? Do you wait patiently within your bower, whispering to those who would follow in your steps, giving them the courage to spend just another minute, another hour, in the sun? O! To dance in your brilliance is the work of the Gods, which we do not number and no longer name, for the ancient pantheons have fallen to a new order, a single order; but some, within the secreted places of their most sacred hearts, still know and respect the Deities which have come before.

The Weaver, Lady of the most ancient of all religions, stands not forlorn but forgotten; they, the peoples of this Newerth, have raised their voices in respect and homage to some other, some well-known and accursed figure to whom she bears a strident position. Her power has not waned in this intervening time, as so many accursed creatures seem to think. Nay, it has only grown with disuse, compiled in this state until she fairly glows with the inner beauty that her Webs will bring; she stands not alone, but cloaked in the religion she knows and owes her existance to- the Stars. How they accompany her, following and watching their daughter in her every move. Some would refute this existance, this feeling of eternal watchfulness, but she will not; no. She thrills in it, her breast heaving with the knowledge she bears so well; it is her adoring place, and she holds to it. While so many other courses have changed, hers has held true, even in the face of her own exile into the realms of Darkness... but she is not alone. No, she is never alone, so long as there are Stars.

His voice is balm to a shattered mind, and she turns slowly, the grace and beauty in a single motion breathtaking in their simplicity; her eyes are soft and ethereal, bearing wisdom so many could never hope to possess. Indeed, she is the Daughter of the Stars, long forgotten and now resurrected in the face of disaster. Beauty, sheer beauty; and she speaks with the lilted notes of an ancient language, a dialect forgotten and left in dispair. Her words are heavily inflected and rolling, her tongue passing over ivory teeth to combine language and tones into the spoken word.

So long as there are stars, Anarchy, I am never lonely; and there are always stars.

She smiles, not brightly, but vaguely in her reverie; her eyes are still fixated upon the night sky, and she names the constellations silently, her lips moving in complex syllables. She does not know the true names for them, but instead bears the ancient names of the Valar, to which she will always hold. She turns away, and speak again, yet lower, yet more refined.

I am Vairë. It is my pleasure.

And she is silent.

V a i r ë
I AM THE WEAVER OF STORIED WEBS