Long ago, long before any of us were born, the Far South was ruled by a tyrant named Imras, king of the Dramites. And king Imras had as many wives as he had toes. Every time one of his wives displeased him, he killed her and raided another village, saving only one woman. When his armies reached the village of Illus, a beautiful young woman named Meadna rushed towards him and begged him to spare the lives of her people. He accepted on one condition: that she would be faithful to him. And Meadna of Illus promised that she would never tell him a lie. Satisfied, king Imras spared the lives of the villagers and together with Meadna he returned to his castle.
As they rode on horseback in the midday sun, Meadna was smiling, lost in thought, but never looking at him. So he asked of Meadna: "Tell me, and remember your promise, is there someone you love more than me?"
Janus has hailed the year,
With skies both cold and clear,
And February’s an icy king,
And Mars has called to spring.
But April wears her flowing bright green gown,
And in her hair a periwinkle crown,
She dances in the snow, the rain and hail,
And sings when sun and cloudless skies prevail.
We had a home once.
In all the vastness of the known multiverse, we had a home, one singular pocket of existence in which every factor was conducive to the formation of my people. A place where we grew, loved, created and thrived. My people were considered great builders, the finest in all creation. We built structures, on scales barely imaginable, from dwellings which towered above and beyond any natural feature on any number of the worlds we discovered, to the most minute adaptations in the smallest of organsims which populated those worlds. Our mastery was absolute, and so we travelled, always seeking further frontiers to explore and to improve, to make more like our home.
As we travelled, our home grew more distant, and my people began to grow weary of creation. Our home, that place of light, love and laughter became a place where we fought and destroyed, tearing down the creations of others to further the goals of oneself. It is the way of conflict that it escalates, and each advancement requires further expenditure of power in order to overcome the enemy. For my people, that advancement, or more specifically, the power expended to obtain it, spelt doom.
We were not as alone in the stars as we thought. Truly, we had known for millennia of the many and varied forms of life which populated innumerable worlds across the breadth of creation, but ever were they of lesser stature than ourselves, such that many of our people at first viewed them as something to be improved upon and taught, moulded into something greater. In more evil times, some viewed these beings as potential tools and weapons, mere collateral damage in the what became the war among the stars.
We did not know, nor even conceive that there were beings active in the cosmos with power that matched our own, let alone exceed it. Not until it was too late.
Drawn by our reckless use of power like moths to a flame, they fell upon our home out of the void, scattering my people across the stars. The lights of our world dimmed, what little laughter there was left, died. The hammers stopped ringing in the forges, the wars ceased and creation halted. Our home was lost to us. We were exiled.
I found myself on a new world, and harboured the survivors of my family, all the while dwelling in uneasy peace with some few others of my kind, who themselves took residence in other regions on the same world. With only small touches of power, we aided the extant creatures of this world, granting them knowledge and culture. My family took residence in the great forested mountains, and the diminutive peoples which dwell there called us the Ri-Foraoirse, the Forest Lords. They served us, as they would, though we asked of them nothing. When the Sidhe arrived, themselves seeking to escape a something which threatened their home, we agreed to shelter them and asked of them no price.
Deep in the woodlands, we began to build something like home, but as it was in the beginning, that wholesome light-filled place of music and life. Hidden away, to safeguard our creation from any and all outside threats, we shared our new home with the Leathe and the Sidhe and all was well. Even the revelation of the sickness which dwelt in the core of every Sidhe was something which could be solved, with the creation of the Gealai Aisling, a safe place for the Sidhe to go when they grew weary of existence.
Then word reached us that our enemy had found us and that my estranged kin were being hunted and killed for their power, which while only used in small touches as required, over millennia had accumulated. Deep in the forest, we will be safe for a time, but all know that our time is short and this time there will be no escape.
I am a dreamer, an artist, a king and a father. I am known as Mor'Righ-Glas to the Leathe. I lost my home and soon I fear, I will lose my life.
I am an exile.