Ophia's Sister-Soul

Parting the Veils: Book One

Introduction by Sanyori Mon-Sequestra

The sum of our dreams can be strung into a prop circle, casting our life journeys in the light of a stage production. Within such a play, we may see aspects of the plot that eluded us while we were identified with our respective roles. How many times have I witnessed this? The audience yells at the speaker on the stage, trying to awaken him or her to some crucial fact, despite knowing that such commotion can never alter the story’s trajectory. 

The spectators can't help themselves.

I hope you’ll forgive me for all this dramatist’s jargon. I was—am—a man of the stage, and I speak as my nature and training lean. And I’ve been conditioned by my tenure as a Sophryne, a Wakeful Dreamer. There are times—particularly during historical moments of great unrest, tension, and change—when the dreams of a multitude coincide, creating an even larger, overarching narrative. 

I call that narrative living theater. Many others refer to it as myth.

And perhaps because I'm accustomed to blurring the distinctions between "dream" and "reality," I've been asked to narrate (as concisely as possible) my people’s most beloved myth: "The Twin Souls and the Parting of the Veils."

Within the context of this tale, the lines between dreams and reality are sometimes in stark contrast and sometimes scarcely discernible. On occasion, I daresay, they even seem to trade places. I've heard this is often a characteristic of twins. Who could resist the temptation to at least try it, to explore—to borrow a phrase from Colleen Addison's world—"how the other half lives"?

For art and dreams are life's twin blessings.

Those not native to my home world of Ophia, who share Colleen's points of reference more intimately than mine, might feel that some information about my people, the Shaini, and the origins of our most revered teachers, the Sophryne, might be in order.

Ah, but I ought rather try and catch a golden mahseer with my bare hands, were I currently possessed of fleshy hands, than try to satisfy this demand. You see, little history survives from our earliest ages. Only the most nebulous clues, clothed in symbolism, are preserved in oral traditions. That's because time itself was (is) malleable. Many possible paths were explored. Each of these, in turn, thrust roots into their own “pasts” and “futures.”

During those earliest epochs, the Shaini tangibly felt and participated in Sorsajna, the fire of Creation. Later, when we no longer felt Sorsajna in the pit of our being, our Speakers, the Sophryne, were obliged to find more demonstrable ways to evoke its essence. They had to almost confound and beguile the minds of their kindred in the hopes of awakening them to old inner knowledge.

They reminded us of magical inner movements we felt divorced from in waking. This was the birth of art and drama—and language itself—arising alongside the dreaming life of humankind. Primitive peoples, like the Oskwai tribes you'll hear about, could gesture towards objects in their physical world. But for those more intangible feelings of possibility, magic, and wonder that dreams awaken in us, words were needed.

How else could that wonder be shared when it couldn't be related to anything in one’s surroundings?

And so we early humans tried to convey what we'd experienced in our sleep-time excursions using sounds, gestures, and pantomime. Once upon a time, we'd inhabited a living dream. Then, suddenly, we were Ophia-bound, entrenched in material bodies, and subjected to the laws of Space and Time. We clothed ourselves in flesh as Ophia clothed itself in ground.

And now we had to survive, to pluck Her fruits to sustain ourselves. Might humankind (Shaini or Oskwai) forget that the world's manifest beauty was a reflection, albeit a fractured one, of luminous Sorsajna, from which all existence flows? Could we retain the memory of our origins? These questions led to the birth of all the Sophryne arts, which reminded us of that boundless and nameless realm from which we emerged.

Thus, you’ll find little “hard history” here. We can only approach any version of truth by chasing the wind trails of our most venerated myths. But it’s empowering, methinks, to recall that we all participate in Creation. From the raw stuff of life, we bring forth forms that can be seen, heard, felt, smelt, and tasted. And sometimes, to our eternal enrichment, souls clothe themselves and walk among us to remind us of the dimensions from which we are (seemingly) sundered. The twins I spoke of were—are—two of the most renowned.

Such beings are naturally drawn to Sophrynism, to Wakeful Dreaming, a practice that straddles the lines between life and death, here and hereafter, time and eternity. Powerful Sophrynes can work such an effect upon the minds and souls of those with whom they come into contact that the recipients begin to break through the barriers of the world they know. They begin to perceive and respond to other realms of being. Such epiphanies can also penetrate the sense of separation that we often experience with one another.

A seemingly insurmountable gulf divided the sisters' respective worlds. They needed to experience, in their blessed, fragile bodies, that more pervasive separation I spoke of. Both worlds had lost their sense of magic, and our heroines, Colleen Addison and Esperidi Mon-Sequana, healers at heart for all eternity, instinctively looked for ways to patch the resulting rift. That search carried them through the heart of their mutual bereavement.

In the line of Ophia's tapestry, into which Esperidi became a vital thread, the Sophryne arts were perfected out of necessity. I know because I lived during that cruel and repressive era. It was perilous for any of us to speak our minds. We writhed within a spider's web, our every movement, word, and emotion sending tremors through its strands. To criticize the ruling body with even a whisper... One might as well trumpet protests to a lynch mob.

Such was life under the Cordonne and its Weaving.

Imagine the living conditions of the thousands of Shaini inhabiting Ophia during that age. I, Sanyori, spent my formative years beneath the Weaving's eyes. I knew my community’s quiet desperation. Our security came at too steep a price. But who among us would dare raise voices of dissent? The Weaving would expose us. Even plotting rebellion would alert the Cordonne. One could not even get aroused by the prospect of freedom.

What recourse had we?

Ah, but the Weaving, the chief instrument of the Cordonne’s control, was still a physical construct within a physical world. It could never reach its fingers into the dreaming dimension. And so it was there that we learned to awaken, congregate, and communicate freely.

We who escaped Old Ophia during its last days, its decaying days, planned our emancipation while we slept. Shadowy omens and premonitions illuminated our way, foreshadowing possible perils and treasures. Abandoning the social compass, we oriented ourselves around inner whispers and nudges. They helped us to regain our bearings when we'd lost sight of all shores.

That's how we came to etch the essential structure of this Sentient Library, where I now inscribe these words and struggle not to feel overwhelmed by the responsibility bequeathed upon me. I must remind myself that a living myth is created by all who partake in it. This relieves some of the burden. It soothes my stage jitters, so to speak.

Some participants in the drama, like Colleen, prefer to relate aspects of their stories in their own ways. Colleen preserves her voice in a physical journal much as I do this more ethereal tome. Sometimes, she speaks in the present tense. Sometimes, she considers her life in hindsight. In either case, the denizens of countless worlds can now understand—and, in some ways, participate in—her journey.

Such magic still astounds me.

But what about those who might be considered our adversaries? Surely, Jain-Toh, Karia, Konatep, and Tumoset, among others, would abhor seeing their deeds so exposed? 

Keep in mind that a being's perspective can be profoundly transformed on this side of the Partition, particularly after they've come into contact with the larger entities of which they are a part. The drama we call "Parting the Veils" touched upon many worlds, altering their mental landscape and changing their historical trajectory. This could not have been achieved without every participant's contributions, even if their positions seemed destructive in the limiting field of time.

Do not forget that contrast is often our greatest teacher within these mortal worlds.

Those reading this testimony with at least a partial knowledge of its underlying myth may grow restless at this juncture. "Yes: We know what the twins achieved in the end. They forged a pathway between the worlds, allowing each to recapture its sense of possibility and wonder. But what did they actually do?"

With that question, the road grows nebulous indeed. How does one recount the travels of two heroines who walked as much in their dreams as in waking? How does one do justice to the supporting cast—again, forgive my theater training—when many of them aspired towards the same thing?

Despite such daunting challenges, I've done my best to limn the journey of Esperidi Mon-Sequana and Colleen Addison and the forgotten art that united them, finally—at least, for long enough to alter the destinies of their respective worlds.

It isn't always comfortable reading. For many beings on both sides of the Partition, existence had grown unmistakably dark. Both worlds were purged in fire, floods, cyclones, and upheavals, whether one might interpret these in psychological or physical terms. And in the depths of their suffering, each world began to long, more and more, for the other.

Sarpienta’s fangs! If I persist like this, I'll likely be out of breath before I begin! But perhaps you can better understand my attachment to this story’s emotional sweep if you consider—and as you'll discover—that I participated in some of its unfolding events. By which I mean I lived them in a physical body.

Remember, always, that the distance between the worlds is, to awakened eyes, akin to the distance between our twins: no more than the breadth of a thought. Or, as my teacher once said, "Naught but a wisp of gossamer gown."

Soon, it will be time for others to speak. But first, to prove my dramatist’s salt, I must paint the opening scene for my audience. Imagine our troupe of actors—participants in the most ambitious stage drama we’ve yet attempted—not yet born but quite alive. To do this, you must, of course, suspend disbelief. If the very thought conjures up resistance and denial, know you are not alone! All of us have weathered this. How many times have we cried, in the face of physicality’s sorrows, “Never again!”? And yet here we are—again. Sitting cross-legged on an ethereal plain of lustrous wheatgrass, caressed by a breeze, facing each other in a circle pow-wow.

Think of this as a mental meeting place. Imagine spiders weaving their homes and then allowing their webs to enmesh.  From this commingling of personal realities, a ritual ensues, a kind of opening ceremony wherein each player in the planned drama announces their presence and intention. Love has bound us through countless lifetimes. Now, we gather so that one, the entity known as Sydwyn, can receive counsel from the rest, for she alone must grow to adulthood—without our presence to console her—in a world that will often baffle and terrify her.

With the timbre of a devotional chant, the woman’s sister-soul introduces herself. “In the language of my people-to-be, the Shaini of Ophia, ‘Erawen’ refers to the motions of the spirit. It evokes Raven, a being as wild and capricious as the winds.  

“I will share a world with Sydwyn only briefly—and under another name. But when I depart, I will do my utmost to communicate with her across the Partition. My Sophryne training will help me fulfill this promise. May the bond we rekindle prove durable enough to bridge the worlds!”

Erawen-Esperidi is as keen as her namesake bird, and the knotted hair grazing her shoulders befits Raven’s ebony wings. Anticipating a life to come in sun-kissed climes, her ethereal body is swarthy and slight. As with the others—all save Sydwyn-Colleen, the woman who will be our lone ambassador to Earth—Erawen’s slightly reptilian eyes and sharp ears identify her as Shaini. 

Sajna, whose name signifies fire’s essence, is next to speak. She is a scarlet-haired bludgeon of a Shaini maiden with azure eyes. Casting a sly, sidewise glance towards the others present, she says, “I cannot share a world with Sydwyn, nor would I ever want to—not the world that she intends! Where do I even begin reciting its litany of ills? Oh, it’s an abode of flesh-eating diseases, a malign place where the human mind and Earth’s soul seldom make common cause. Befouling land, air, and sea... These are the most common occupations. The sexes forget their harmony; individuals forget their identities. If and when they resolve such questions, they only find them renewed in mid-life.

“Nay! For madness of the magnitude of Earth’s humanity, one’s only options, methinks, are debauchery, lechery, and savagery. One must either be numb or drowned in sensation!”

Most of us just smile and exchange knowing looks. Sajna is prone to such displays of mock cynicism when she feels daunted—and she is not easily daunted. At any rate, she soon sobers and surrenders to the solemnity of the occasion. Closing her eyes and inhaling slowly, she declares her fidelity: 

“In the being of Ashangtu Lanore, I will ensure that Sydwyn never wholly forgets who she is or where she has come from. Whenever our dream paths cross, leastways.” 

“I’ll remind her that the difficulties of physical life are like a dream where you fall and almost hit the bottom of the chasm before you realize that gravity is just a belief and you can quite easily fly,” Erawen adds.

Then, guided by the needs of the moment and our powerful mental rapport, we chorus our support for Sydwyn—“We will never stop trying to reach you!”—and consider this so deeply that the landscape hums to the notes of our inner resolution.

Acturius speaks with my voice and being. “Have you thought of a name?”  

“Colleen,” Sydwyn says. Then, as if this needs clarifying, she adds: “I’m not ready to jump back into a lifetime as a man.”  

“And you know your parents?”  

“I do.” She makes this slow admission with at least a partial awareness of how challenging the road she’s chosen may prove. “The Addison family will support me in their way, though they won’t understand me or my path.  I will use this as an incentive to break away from tradition and all that is sanctified and find my own truth.”

“A worthy aspiration!” effuses Sajna, whose heart and feet have trampled upon every holy effigy on Earth and Ophia.    

“But if you intend to be a healer,” Jormada, the snake handler, says, “you must do more than grow comfortable in your own skin. You must translate your soul’s comprehension into symbols and expressions that the people can understand.”

“We’ll have strong motivations this time,” Erawen says on her sister’s behalf, “circumstances that will splinter our personal worlds and open us to those other dimensions. These are the ruptures that Sydwyn and I have planned together.”

“And you’ll forget so much of what seems clear to you now,” I add. This remark reminds us all of many lifetimes during which we’d truly and deeply forgotten. 

“Those lifetimes are difficult to think back on, even now,” Sydwyn acknowledges. “But we must embrace all of this. It is like stepping back from a canvas—I was a painter once, you remember? You step back to gauge a portrait’s balance. You feel the aesthetic whole and then start to discriminate—maybe a little green coloration for visual interest here; perhaps sharpen the shadows or heighten the light there. Like our various lifetimes, it doesn’t evolve in a straight line.” 

Something in her voice enables us to feel Sydwyn’s inner certitude and realize she has received what she needed from us. By silent consent, the formal portion of our pow-wow reaches its end. She and Erawen separate from the group, but all of us remain within the fluid, numinous landscape to lend our emotional support.

And here I shall sign off for now, consigning myself to an “omniscient narrator” role until more personal commentary might bring clarity. Enjoy this tale as it unfolds. Recognize yourself within its tapestry. If you did not partake in the epic described herein, to some extent or another, on Earth or Ophia, you would not be reading these words.

Sanyori Mon-Sequestra

In the Hereness and Nowness

The Sentient Library

Teacher of Fire

“Why hasn’t Bocuan joined us?” Sajna demanded. “This is unlike him. Indeed, his is often the loudest voice in our councils.”

“Do you mean to say you yet fail to recognize our other guest?” Acturius said. “To be so distracted… Oh, you must be frightened at the prospect of what’s ahead!”

“Never before has there been so much at stake,” Sajna said.

But as if the dramatist’s words clarified the perception for her, she was suddenly aware of gentle lapping; her nostrils filled with moisture and the tang of salt. She smelled fish and kelp. 

A wet boundary appeared just beyond the edge of her firelight. It kissed that edge and receded in an indolent peristaltic motion, like the exertions of a lazy snake. 

The water stretched to the uttermost ends of her northern horizon.

Moved by an obscure impulse, Sajna crept—vaguely aware of the flamboyant man-child following her—and stopped to kneel before the water’s edge. When it surged again, she cupped some and let it trickle through her fingers onto the damp sand.

“Maybe we’ll find better answers to the seeming contradictions this time, brother,” she whispered.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Acturius knuckling his forehead in the ostentatious way he often delighted in. “And now you forget the pact! It’ll be ‘sister’ this time.”

“Ah–yes.” Sajna trailed her fingertips across the water and mused, “I suppose that will simplify some dilemmas and complicate others.”

Rising, she glanced towards the twins, who’d ventured beyond the firelight. Her conflicting emotions made her unintentionally brusque. “What’s keeping them?”

“Well, now, it isn’t easy planning joint bereavement, is it? Especially when—one hopes—it’ll prove sufficient to alter their life paths. It’s easy enough to say, ‘This is the adventure my soul craves.’ But to step into it..?”

“Yes,” Sajna acknowledged. “Sometimes I think they’re both braver than I am. Sometimes, I wish we’d all agreed they could shoulder this task alone. I could use some more rest and reflection.”

For a moment, they regarded the two retreating forms. Then the red-haired woman added, “I almost wish I could think of some way to dissuade them. Almost,” she emphasized, noticing her companion mustering a protest. 

“Well,” Acturius considered, “what they propose is something their respective worlds sorely need. Somebody has to step in and embody the myth. Who else would you suggest?”

Sajna raised an eyebrow. “You, to begin with.”

Acturius waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll play a bridge, a living link between past and present. I’ll serve more as a chronicler than a participant. Those two will be the future.” He slowly shook his head, making even that simple gesture look grandiose, and chuckled. “It is amusing, isn’t it—talking about Time in a place like this?”

“Indeed,” Sajna said. “Mostly, I’ll forget about both of them the moment I’m clothed in flesh. And yet here I stand... and worry.”

“Erawen is going to need your fire,” Acturius said. “Both of them will. Does your will suffice”—he teetered on the edge of a taunting grin—“Red Buffalo?”

“They’ll both need your flair and seasoning,” the other countered, ignoring her friend’s baiting. “Spring means little without autumn’s contrast.” 

Sydwyn thought about her personal stake in her vision of futurity. Or was it the past? She’d seen her likeness graven in stone and carved upon tall wooden poles. Humans called upon her in moments of anguish, confusion, and fear. They marveled at her delicate figure, sharp ears, and long, slim fingers. There were fearful whispers and frowns. But many associated her image with mercy and compassion. She was the goddess who heard the entire world's cries and held forth the healing balm with hands of grace. 

Such was the myth in store for her. Or the myth that had once been.

“This is a Sophryne’s journey we’re embarking upon,” Erawen told her when they reached the firelight’s edge again. “But it’s in a land where there aren’t even Shaini, much less Sophryne.”  

“Teaching inner knowledge to a populace that’s in danger of wiping itself out,” Sydwyn said, “and it seems the clock is ticking, and the chances of averting disaster are slim…”

“We’re about to clothe ourselves in the camouflage once more,” Erawen said, “just as we, as practicing Sophrynes, once learned to throw it off.”  

“How confident are you that we’ll prevail this time?”

Erawen shrugged. "Only a part of who we are can ever be physically expressed. Whatever personalities we clothe ourselves in, we will sense our greater nature to some extent. But our personal leeway is as unbounded as our imagination. In some lifetimes, we clearly apprehended the source of life. Others passed from birth to death in utter ignorance. Their days were shadowed.”

Then, overcome by emotion, she stepped forward and embraced Sydwyn. “I will find a way to reach you!”

“You always do, sister-soul,” the other returned.

Then they laughed in harmony when they heard Sajna call out, “Don’t forget to dance and get intoxicated--and make love!”

But Erawen’s laughter was clipped, and she hugged her heart. Sydwyn was beginning to fade.

Sajna glanced over her shoulder and saw that Acturius was already gone. “It looks like our beloved playwright has woken up.” 

Erawen pulled away from the space Sydwyn had occupied and faced Sajna. “I’d say it’s time we did, too.  I want to get deep into my meditations this day. I must soon journey across the Partition and be there for the birth!”

“Hers or yours?” Sajna asked, her laughter dancing like a lick of flame. “Fortune favors you this time: You don’t have to choose!”

This remark, however, made Erawen recall the other part of the bargain she and Sydwyn had sealed. We’ve already chosen, she thought. She felt a momentary, frigid gust that made her long for her sister, who sometimes called her the south wind. 

Without another word, she faded from the dream-moot.

Sajna, noticing Erawen’s form dissolving, moved towards the fire circle. She paused to smile fondly at the bearded man still kneeling in the sand: the last remaining participant aside from herself, at least in human form. Bocuan’s ocean hair had dampened Jormada’s knees.

“Any parting words of inspiration?” Sajna said, with a timbre of teasing sparkle.

In all likelihood, the two would not become lovers in their Ophian expressions to come, but they’d consummated their bond many times in the “past.” Some of the sweeter memories of those sojourns prompted Sajna to watch the logs feeding the flames--or being consumed by them, depending upon one’s point of view.

“Remember the serpent,” Jormada said. He made a slow, thrusting gesture with his hands. It reminded Sajna of the insight she’d received while watching Bocuan lap the shore.

“There’s no escaping its rhythm,” he said. “If you adopt a body, you learn to dance its dance. Chewing. Digesting. Swallowing. Taking two steps forward and one step back at each stage of your journey. A leap of faith followed by a partial retreat to process where you’ve landed. And let’s not forget sex.”

“You know I seldom can,” Sajna said, flicking her tongue between her teeth, imitating the serpent he described. 

“But for you and Erawen, this time around,” Jormada said, “that motion is also the secret of your joint power.” He repeated the serpentine hand gesture. “She is the gathering coil. You are the surge, the spring.”

Sajna allowed herself some open flirtation: The indulgence blunted some of the edges of her fear. “Well, sir,” she said, “If we can master the serpentine motion between us, what do we need you for?”

“Well, you’ll need something to slither over, won’t you?” He repaid her with a lascivious smile. “Unless--” He pointed back to where Bocuan still lay in peaceful resplendence--“you want to be a water moccasin. Or unless you’re curious how far you might get, wriggling in the void.” 

He mused over the image for a moment. “I might enjoy witnessing such a spectacle, actually.”

Sajna leered back at him. “I think you enjoy watching me move, whatever the context. Remember how transparent our minds are to one another in this place. Don’t embarrass yourself trying to deny it.”

“Saucy and ribald to the end,” Jormada said. “Or the beginning, I guess we ought to say. Are you certain you’ll not consider being born in Helwen Hive? There’s still time.”

“Their ways have grown too predictable for my blood,” Sanja said. “A planned orgy never carries the heat of one that catches its participants unaware.”

“And yet…given the circumstances you’ve chosen, you’ll likely be celibate for the greater portion of your life this time around.”

“That’s a big part of it,” she acknowledged, shuddering at the prospect. “My people will know the honey and nectar of Ophia, only to feel it snatched away. And I’ll know the depths of my passion but find no outlet or object. All this, in the hopes that once I find my focus…”

The man shook his head slowly. “May the pillars of both worlds tremble upon that day!”

This time, there was nothing suggestive about the way Sajna smiled at him, only deep fondness cultivated over countless lifetimes. “I am saddened that our paths aren’t liable to cross this time.”

Jormada shrugged. “Yes…well, there are always dreams.”

“Dreams,” she mused. “Yes. I intend to become a more proficient Wakeful Dreamer now than ever I achieved before.”

Her stare sharpened, suddenly galvanized by comprehension. “That’s one of the main purposes of all this deprivation, isn’t it? It’ll be an impetus. For the rest of the land as well. When constantly surrounded by opulence, comfort, and privilege, dreams can seem frivolous. But when you’re bereft of all that and cannot even know when you might feel the very ground bucking beneath your feet like a herd of maddened horses--or an enraged serpent,” she added for her friend’s benefit, “well, then you ignore dream guidance at your peril.”

The squatting man appraised her in silence and nodded as if he’d surmounted an essential crest of doubt. “I think you’ll do well, Sajna. Consider: Bocuan has probably lapped this dream shore three-score times since you and I began talking, and not once have you thought about your fear.”

She stiffened and cast him a look of mock exasperation. “And so you see fit to remind me of it, eh?”

Then she glanced back at the space the twins had occupied. “Even more rests upon their shoulders. We’re all going to forget so much, but if they cannot recall anything at all…”

“It all unravels,” the man acknowledged. “But don’t you derive a certain thrill from such gambles?”

“I have,” Sajna admitted. “But I long for something different this time. We’ve all been acquainted with a sense of futility. Some of us have even drowned in it. This time, I want victory--no ambiguity.”

She let Jormada see, in her eyes, the fire for which she’d been renowned in other places and ages. “Not just for the survival of both worlds, but so I may know it for myself.”

“Clear a space for us, sister,” the man said. “For what we intend to build together, many old altars must first be razed and a ton of rubble removed.”

But he was not blind to her underlying distress, and after a moment, he added, “Be at ease, my friend. Our worst outcome will be to fall short of what we dream to accomplish and then try again in a new body and time. Sarpienta does not bemoan any layer of skin he sheds.”

“Only you could make becoming a snake sound more appealing by the moment,” Sajna said. “But you’re right: I have to focus.” She nodded towards the place Erawen had vacated. “She and I will be entering Ophia within a few years of each other, and she looked much more…prepared than me.” 

Much more resolved, she added to herself. 

Of course, “Time” had no meaning in this dimension. Her use of the concept was a lingering vestige from her last incarnation. However, her and Erawen’s joint intention was very crucial, regardless of hours or years.

I do best when I’m thrown into the fray, Sajna reminded herself. If I can but match her courage for that first leap, the rest I’ll rise to when it confronts me.

“Blessings of Sorsajna go with you, Jormada,” she said, suddenly somber. “The family you have agreed to be born into…Ah! You might be the bravest of all of us–or the one most blissfully ignorant of peril.”

The man merely shrugged–a movement that reminded her of shifting mountains. “I see no other way. Someone must erode that foul edifice from the inside. Besides--” He nodded again towards the watermark. “I’ve agreed to no greater sacrifice than what Bocuan will eventually embrace.

“In fact, none of these comparisons signify. All of us have a difficult road, and none of us would choose otherwise.” He laughed. “We’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so.”

Noticing he’d begun relinquishing his hold upon the dream moot, Sajna sought to convey her complex gratitude. “Farewell, my brother…son…mother…lover.” Her voice betrayed the emotional ambiguities entwined with some of thse remembered lifetimes. “I would embrace you, but I fear that might sap my resolve.”

So let us dance this dance again, she thought, once he’d departed, though she knew she wouldn’t be jumping into the fray immediately. An earthly drama needed to play itself out first. But her inner eyes were fixed upon Erawen, superimposing the leagues and hardships they’d chosen to undertake together in Ophia once the woman’s earthly sojourn was complete.

Remember that you’ll be learning a few steps from me this time. Try not to judge me overmuch if I occasionally step on your toes. You ought to know by now that fire is seldom a gentle teacher.

Now, Sajna wished Acturius was still there. She longed for the affected soliloquy he often offered upon such occasions. In lieu of his presence, she could only conjure his image, face it towards the space that the twins had vacated, and spread her own arms wide. Then she intoned the words in his stead:

"Oh, passion, vitality, energy that moves the worlds in their orbits…I go where you call me! I'm ready to be clothed in new flesh and surrounded by unfamiliar hills and valleys. I'm prepared to look upon the stars as if for the first time and rejoice in learning anew what was always known!

“I am ready to live again!”