Chapter Text
The world became embellished.
Long before the world had begun, deities watched the universe as it grew. As it would be said, many forms of gods and goddesses formed, taking many names, forms, and being told throughout time.
As she watched the mortals roam, watching the world go by, she found herself to be forgotten in the eyes of the living, but she was always there, watching and waiting for her time. Her brother death being feared and her sister life being loved, she was forgotten. Time passed by slowly, the fates toying with mortal lives. Death came and went, guiding the souls of the dead to the celestial for eternal resting until it was time for reincarnation, only leaving the living with pain, but alongside death, life would follow. With each soul gone from the living, a new one was born, creating the endless cycle that would follow. Mortals would cry at the loss of a loved one but would throw joyous celebrations to welcome the living to the mortal world. It wouldn't be until one young mother, begging for her unborn child's life, that Lady Magic would be remembered.
The Iron Age
Prehistory has always brought many things. Civilization, tools, steel, and writing systems, but it was also plagued by the overlooked facts of pain and suffering in humans. Humans were cruel and unforgiving.
Far across the ocean, in Priene, Greece, located at the base of the escarpment of Mycale, lay a small village of no more than 6,000. A woman lay in straw, beaten and red. Her belly swollen, her wrist scarred from the shackles that bound her to the wooden frame that outlined what could have been a bed. Praying to the gods for salvation, but for only silence in return. Fear, creeping for her time, would be coming to an end if he returned.
Gathering what little strength she has, climbing to her knees with what little strength she has.
“Dear Lady Magic
O Hekate of the Crossroads,
Keeper of keys, torchbearer in the dark—
Hear me, a daughter clothed in silence and bruises,
Who walks not in freedom, but in fear.
By the moon’s pale eye and the whispering wind,
I call to the old magic, older than laws,
Older than vows made in chains and blood.
Let your power wrap round me like mist in the hills.
I have borne his wrath like the earth bears storms—
Without thanks, without end.
He calls it the husband’s right. I call it slow dying.
You who know the hidden paths and the unspoken names,
Guide me through this narrow night.
Loosen the bonds he placed on my limbs and spirit.
Make me unseen to his rage,
Or make me fire, so his hand dares not touch again.
If I must go by foot beneath the stars,
Make the wolves my sisters.
If I must raise a blade, steady my grip.
If I must vanish, carry me on silent wings.
O wise Persephone, who knows the dark and returns,
Teach me to descend and rise again.
O wild Artemis, who belongs to no man,
Show me the way of the huntress, not the prey.
This is not blasphemy,
This is a woman surviving.
By the salt of my tears, by the blood I have hidden,
By every broken vessel inside me—
I pray not for love, but for freedom.
Let magic answer when no one else will.
So may it be.”
With the last word spoken, a mist begins to trickle in. The room becomes cold with shivers running down the spine. A lady time had once forgotten, reawaken with the single prayer…