The Witch and the Fool
I loved once.
It sounds absurd to say all these ages and worlds later, but
it is true nonetheless. It might be absurd, but I’ll say it again and my heart
shall rejoice in it. I loved once.
His name was Isad, a slave of some lord whose name has
disappeared into some deep cavern in my ancient mind. They called my Isad a
fool, and it is true that his mind was not sharp, but he made up for it in
spades with heart. The kind of heart that the divine surely meant for all men,
but only remained true in those without designs for power.
That was my first world, when the divine birthed me unto
existence. The process was painful and bloody like any other birth, but I
assure you that I sprang forth more from the loins of the cold, unforgiving
earth than from any woman’s womb. For I am Matris, daughter of the Green, witch
sister of the eternals and mother of the Dragon’s breath.
As if my birthing ripped the last of the power of the Green
from that place, a bitter drought gripped the land. Skeletal trees stood barren
of leaves and fruit. Rivers dried, crops failed and lush, fertile farms gave
way to dust. Like the land, the hearts of man dried of love and pumped
vengeance into willing veins.
Of course the fruits of that malice spawned my only true love,
and for that, I give thanks. For love – even love doomed from the
start – mends even the most scarred soul. It’s a salve for the wounds
of loss, the lingering sores from encounters with the Dark and the ache of
countless years.
Let me say it
again.
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