Featherkin [Original Work]

Chapter 16

For as long as I can remember, the Prophet has always been reclusive.

Aside from the times he would appear and speak either his mind or rain fury down upon those High Seers who would dare show disrespect in his face, he has always resided alone. The branches of High Nest upon and within which so many reside are many, but the higher branches have remained mostly untouched. It is at the very height of the tree, in a basin created by intertwined branches, that the Prophet makes his home. A place of pure serenity, where energy pools together and one feels as if speaking or making any sound at all feels most inappropriate. The world quiets in such a place.

In the center of the basin, there is a second tree. With her pale bark and soft petal pink foliage, she has always been regarded to be somewhat sacred. Her roots so entangled within the branches of High Nest, it's long been forgotten how such a secondary tree came to be here. Even from the exterior of High Nest, she is near impossible to see unless you know the way to this place. It is here the Prophet calls home, by a pool of pale green water at her roots where the branches have twisted. Paper charms decorate the tree, as her leaves fall gently upon the basin and it's pool, and yet the Prophet is unmoving beside the water, seated upon the ground. His hands rest on his knees, wings relaxed behind him, face covered as ever by the strange wooden mask I have never seen him without. He looks at peace here, undisturbed by my arrival as I approach after landing upon the edge of the basin. It is when I stand across the pool from him that he speaks.

"Sit, Erevos."

I obey, sitting upon the ground beside the pool, and adopting a similar posture to his own. My own hands rest within my lap, the only difference in the way we sit. Even for my own mentors to talk to me in such a way, I likely would not follow unless I wished to. The Prophet is different. He older even than Jei, who has lived through several sets of guardians and even knew mentors before the current ones. Some have said in the past that he has lived through half, if not all, of the different guardians. I myself cannot even fathom the amount of time that must be, with our current Silvyr nearly the 50th. Fifty sets of immortals... I would not be surprised to find out one day he's been stricken moon-sick the entire time.

Even so, he appears calm and strong opposite me, not a waver in his presence. His head lifts slightly, as if to stare me in the eyes through the mask.

"Have you any glimpse of why I called you here?"

"None, Prophet."

"Then let us behold the beginning, shall we?"

The pool's waters between us goes eerily still. Leaves that fall upon its surface simply sit there, not floating but more... hovering. The Prophet's voice is low and rhythmic.

"A thousand skies of blood-soaked time, a sun and moon yet intertwined. As the stars rise to mark, two souls split, birth of four hearts. Bright gold yet pale silver, dawn and dusk, rise above the fall for fight they must."

The Guardian Hymn. A vague story of how we came to be, and of how the first of them created our world. It is long and winding, the words and rhythm tugging at the heart and soul, making wings itch for flight into the safe skies. It has enough of an impact that it is only recited once a year, and yet I can recall the lyrics near perfectly. So well that I can tell the Prophet is skipping many passages, combining only the thoughts he wants me to keep in mind.

"You called me to speak of Vostya."

"I called you to speak of dawn and dusk, Erevos. The dawn is bright and strong, and the dusk is yet pale and shivering. It is time efforts are made to restore the faltering sons."

"What would you have me do? Frey and Votur have given him peace. They've been teaching him to read, to write, to be his own. I can't teach him how to flock any more than they, and such a task now seems in the needs and instincts of a harpy hatchling named Innas. I do not even have his wings to aid flight. I can only offer my presence."