Snow had fallen, snow on snow

[Christine Daye]

Outside, the snow gives the streets an eerie air. Silent and calm, sleeping.

Christine listens intently to her friend, a faint, agitated humming coming from behind her closed lips.

"...yes... yes... it might be nothing... "

She doesn't know who she is trying to reassure, herself or Helen.

I will not yield my claim!

Her voice is kept calm, by an effort of will.

"...this ties in with some of my own... research... recently... "

The thought of it makes her smile, and the tension in her shoulders eases.

"...I will be investigating further... in coming months... but... don't be afraid... you are not alone in this... "

[annabelle]

Helen looks at Christine with confusion.
"Not alone in this?...This what Christine?"

She looks around with frustration trying to calm herself down and failing. Her voice angry, dangerously low.
"All these secrets, everybody has secrets! And you know? That's perfectly fine! However, if I have any involvement...is brutal to leave me high and dry. It's brutal!"

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

"I am sorry Christine...I am not angry at you. I just...I just...have a lot bottled in. Please let me know what you can share, that's fine. It's pure luck that you might know what's going on, thank god I asked. My curiosity is killing me. And you know what killed the cat..."

She stares at the snow with a frown of grief. Thinking that her first instinctive thought was to go and knock at his door, talk to him about her worries. Just be there, back to what is familiar. But she couldn't do that, she didn't want to see what might be behind the door. No she couldn't.

A sob escapes her out of nowhere and she violently supresses it. She turns her face away and lays on the pure white snow.

She looks Christine with a tired smile from the snowy floor.

"Let's make snow angels and tell me what you can really share." and she starts moving her arms and legs with closed eyes.

[Christine Daye]

Christine bites her lower lip, worriedly.

"I am not hiding things to spite or harm you," she tries to reassure Helen. "I would not do that... it is too cruel... it is just... some things I know are not mine to tell..."

With a sigh, she lies down on the snow next to Helen, thinking hard.

"...I can tell you the history... of Vortigern and his Seers, for that is history... and many people know... though not all... I... I can tell you that there are other Kindred at Court who have had dreams like yours... more... they have actively sought out and found visions of... past events... such as the one you dreamed of... and they are continuing to do so... I can tell you that something is happening to bring so many Seers together in this area... and to awaken the Sight in so many... but I cannot tell you what... for no one seems to know... "

Another sigh.

"I myself have never had prophetic dreams... or visions of any type... as far as I can remember... though Lunaris seemed convinced that I have the talent... somewhere..."

Her expression is dubious.

"...it is something that I am investigating further... with some help... and I shall see what occurs... if it is something that you want to investigate further... then I can help you... smooth the way... talk to some people... is that what you would like?"

[annabelle]

Helen listens carefully, she keeps moving her limbs with closed eyes like a little child. One that’ve seen too much and it just want to go back to when life was simple.

“I believe you have a talent…I sensed it in your music.”

She sighs.
“I am so confused…I don’t know where to go first, what to investigate first, what issue to solve first” a sound of frustration escapes her and she takes two deep breaths to relax.

“It seems to be something that others are on top of. I will leave you with your investigation and if you need my assistance or there is something more you can share with me, I’ll be around.”

She stops moving her limbs, feeling the cool wet snow making her clothes heavy.

“I had a discussion some days ago with another of your clan and it messed up my head in many ways. A discussion about reincarnation. I told him about this dream and he explained to me that memories like that might possibly indicate you have a part of their soul in you. I highly doubt it though, I had a discussion with another and they eliminated that possibility, thank Gods.

The Orthodox religion doesn’t have any reference to something like that but…Plato spoke about this. Up until now I perceived it as a metaphor…Or not…we are undead after all and recently we had an encounter with a Demon…so I suppose this world is a strange place…stranger than us and beyond us.

Do you know the myth of Er?”

[Christine Daye]

"I am only starting to learn of souls... and of Seers... and there is so much to learn! ...it is quite bewildering... and I am but a simple musician..."

A breath of a sigh.

"....there is the phenomenon of resonance... in music... when I sing with my harp in the same room as me... even though I do not physically touch the strings... the sound of my voice will set them to vibrating, and they will hum with the same notes that I am singing... but I am not my harp... and my harp is not me... there is no physical connection...

"...perhaps the dream indicates that you have part of their soul... or perhaps it means that at the time of your dream your soul was resonating with the same note that theirs did in the past... and that is how you became momentarily in tune... but then... what do I know? ...just a musician..."

She hums to herself quietly.

...hail thou ever blessed morn... hail redemption's happy dawn...

"...more things in Heaven and Earth..."

Christine brightens at the prospect of a story.

"No, I don't! Will you tell it to me?"

[annabelle]

Just a musician right…

Helen chuckles internally but doesn’t show it to Christine. Quite frankly, she preferred not to know certain kind of information. Information that could harm if one was able to steal the knowledge from her mind.

Her amber eyes turned to liquid honey. Remembering her mother Irene who was a great storyteller and this one was her favourite tale. It took her some minutes to start the story. She needed to remember, memories she had forgotten because they were surrounded by the dead.

“So Plato wrote the story of Er or Ἠρός who was a soldier. You see…he died in battle but then he woke up some days later and he revealed what happens in the afterlife. In fact, the judges send him back for the sole purpose of sharing his experience.

So Er saw judges, who were selecting the pure souls from the corrupted. The pure souls were floating like feathers in the sky whereas the corrupted were heading to the underground where screams of despair echoed painfully.
He had to travel for some days and he reached a place with shaft surrounded by a brilliant rainbow. Its light was something he couldn’t describe to anyone mortal, a holy light, one that cannot be explained or perceived by the restrictions of our minds. This shaft was the cosmical Spindle rotating in the knees of Lady Necessity or Need, or Ανάγκη. Lady Necessity had three daughters, the Moirai. Clotho of the present, Lachesis of the past and Atropos of the Future.
You might ask why the past, future and present were the daughters of need. And that is a good question. You see…for Plato and many other philosophers, need is the force that drives everything in this world. Before Eros, came need and the universe is rotating on her knees.

So what did this Spindle did. Apparently, this entity was….let’s say the device that held everything and the dead were queuing to select their next life. They had a choice which is interesting if you think about, if you think that the life you are living was your choice and all the suffering that came with it. For example, Er saw a man, whose soul was pure, choosing a life of a dictator who was going to eat his own children. He knew! He knew that his next life will be horrendous even if he had the memories of his virtuous life previously.

When the choice was done, the souls were travelling to the river of Lethe and each soul forgot everything.
My mother was using it as a metaphor of how our choices will impact our afterlife. She always said that any kindness or crime will follow us even after our death and we should think before acting kindly or committing crimes. Maybe Plato meant it as a metaphor, maybe he really believed in the reincarnation. I don’t know, but it’s intriguing nether the less.”

[Christine Daye]

Christine is fascinated by this tale, listening intently, with all her attention bent on Helen.

"...oh... how wonderful! ...to have such a soul... such knowledge of what is to come..."

She thinks for long, long moments, watching the snowflakes dance idly in the gentle breeze.

"... I cannot remember any stories of the afterlife... well... aside from the traditions of Catholicism, and heaven and hell..."

She smiles to herself.

"...I am not even sure if I have a soul... as a changeling child... for my people... the Tuatha de Dannan... it is said of them that they were angels who stood aside when Lucifer rebelled... too bad for Heaven... too good for Hell... exiled to this mortal realm with life beyond imagining... yet no hope for salvation or redemption... only a slow diminishing as the memory of man fades..."

A frown. This obviously upsets her more than she wants to let on.

"...but for my people... a good life and a good death meant more than what came after... Cúchulain himself, the great hero of Ulster, son of Lugh of the Long Arm and Fae-blooded... he chose to take up arms on the day when it was omened that any young man who took up arms for the first time on that day would have a brief life, but a glorious one. For it was more important to him that though he would die while still in his youth, his name would live on forever and his glory would never be surpassed. And so it came to be...

"... there are other stories... that if you wish to know who will be married in the next year, go to the church gates at midnight on Beltaine... and you will see the shades of those to wed... or... on Samhain... those about to die..."

She shudders, and absently crosses herself.

"...so many stories... so much to learn... but reincarnation... there is a bit of comfort in it... to think perhaps that one might have a chance to make amends for one's mistakes... thank you for your tale! Would you have one from me, in return? Though it won't be about souls, I'm afraid."

[annabelle]

The Ventrue is listening quietly. Her mind feeling soothed, the stories distracting softly her troubled mind. The good kind of distraction, not the other kind.

She makes a mental note to hang around with Christine more often and maybe... maybe then she will be able to keep her sanity and humanity somewhat intact. Somewhat...

Thank you Christine, thank you...

She thinks but she doesn't vocalise it.

"Of course I will love a tale! It doesn't have to be about souls, quite frankly I am not even sure souls exist. I have no clue. Please be my guest Christine. I am all ears!"

[Christine Daye]

"...hmmm.... this is one of my favourite stories... though it is quite sad..."

Christine settles herself more comfortably, and her voice takes on a comfortable, story-telling cadence.

"This tale, the tale of the Children of Lir, is known as the second great sorrow of Irish storytelling, and for good reason.

Fadó, fadó, a long, long time ago, or so the story goes, Lir was Lord of the Tuatha de Dannan, the people of the Goddess Danu.

And he had four children, a daughter, the oldest, called Fionnuala, her brother and twin Aodhán, and two younger brothers, also twins, called Fiachra and Conn.

Alas for Lir, for his wife Aoibh had died bearing the two younger twins, so he raised his children alone.

But time passes, as it always does, and Lir fell in love once more, with a woman called Aoife. And where his wife Aoibh had been fair and a creature of light and calm, as beautiful as the sun on a meadow of flowers, Aoife was dark, and as fierce and wild and passionate as the night.

So Lir took Aoife to wife, and she was a good wife to him for a time, and a good mother to his children, for there was no doubt in her mind that she would soon bear him children, and they would be first in his affections.

But time passed, as it always does, and Aoife remained childless. And some in the courts whispered that she had trafficked with demons in her youth and they had made her barren. And Aoife saw the love Lir had for his children, and her heart turned black with jealousy inside her.

But she knew she could not kill them, for the very stones of the Earth would cry out for vengeance if she did.

So, on the day that Lir was away, hunting wild boar in the forests, she called for her chariot to be made ready, and took the children to the shores of Lough Derravaragh, high and cold in the mountains.

And at Lough Derravaragh, she tricked them into the waters, and calling on the ancient gods, she cursed them, stripping away their true forms and binding them into the shape of swans.

This then was the curse she put upon them, that for thrice three hundred years they would remain as swans. For the first three hundred, they would be bound to Lough Derravaragh, for the second, the Straits of Moyle, between Eireann and what is now called Scotland, and for the third, to the waters of Inish Glora. And they would only be freed when the bell of the New God rang out across the waters, and a woman of the south would take a man of the north in marriage.

And Aoife laughed in joy, saying "now, Lir will love only me!"

But the largest swan spoke then, with the voice of Fionnuala, for though their forms were taken from them, no power could take away their souls, or their voices. And Fionnuala said "No, he will hate you for this."

But Aoife replied: "I am all he has left. And he will never know, for there are none to tell him. I will not, and you are bound to this place for the next three hundred years."

And so she gathered the reins of her chariot, and drove away.

Now Aoife's charioteer, Daire, had accompanied them to the lake, but had fallen into a swoon at the sight of the transformation, for it is well known that no mortal man could witness such a thing and keep his wits. But Daire had the blood of the Tuatha de Dannan in his veins, and when he woke from his swoon, he wept at the plight of the children.

But Fionnuala bade him to dry his tears, and find her father Lir and bring him to this place. And she warned him to be careful, for Aoife would surely kill him if she knew he lived and was yet sane.

And so Daire ran without ceasing, until he found Lir, and had told the whole sorry tale. And Lir and his companions came to Lough Derravaragh, and saw the truth of Daire's tale, and Lir wept.

With a hard heart, Lir returned to his home, to find Aoife there with torn clothes and hair, weeping for the loss of the children. But his heart was unmoved by this, for he knew the truth.

Three times he challenged her, asking "have you changed my children into swans?" Twice she denied it, so on the third time he made her place her hand on the blade of his sword. And at her third denial, the blade turned red as blood, and all knew her to be a liar.

This then was the judgement Lir placed upon Aoife, that she too should have her true form stripped from her, and she should be cast out. And so she was transformed into a demon of the air, and flew away, never to be seen again.

And so Lir moved his entire court to the shores of Lough Derravaragh, to be close to his children, and it became a place of great learning and beauty, and kings from all around the world came to visit, to hear the children sing.

But time passes, as it always does, and the first three hundred years came to an end. And so the children of Lir bade farewell to him and flew to the Straits of Moyle.

It is well known that the waters of Moyle are perilous, with the wind sweeping down from the north. In the summer, it is bitter, in the winter, unendurable, lashed by storms. One such storm raged when the children arrived, and quickly it separated them. It was Fionnuala who found a spire of rock, lashed by the sea, where she could shelter and rest. Ceaselessly, while the storm raged around her, she sang, calling out for her brothers.

Aodhán was the first to find her, and she tucked him under her right wing. Then Fiachra, and she tucked him under her left wing. And still she sang, and still the sea raged, and still there was no sign of Conn, the youngest.

Aftter nine days and nights, the storm eased, and Conn finally found his sister and brothers, and Fionnuala tucked him under her breast. And so, like that, they sheltered through the long days and nights of the second three hundred years.

And time passes, as it always does, and the second three hundred years ended, and the children of Lir flew to Inish Glora. And as they flew across the land of Eireann, they were amazed and saddened at the changes they could see. Where there were once the proud raths of their people, only grassy hills remained, and the very forests and lakes seemed smaller.

Inish Glora bears the brunt of the storms that sweep in from the Western Ocean, and it is wild and fierce beyond all imagining, but there is a beauty in it. And so the children made their home on the shores of the island.

And time passes, as it always does, and it happenned that a hermit came to live on Inish Glora. He was a good and kind man, and he was very happy to see the swans, and spoke to them like children, and shared with them his meagre provisions. He was a holy man, much respected by the people of the mainland, and many came to him for advice, and to help him build a small church, by the water's edge.

And one evening, the liquid sounds of a bell rang out across the water. And Fionnuala looked to her brothers, and they knew that the end of their curse was at hand.

So they went to the hermit, and spoke to him, and he was surprised, and called upon the Lord Almighty to banish them, if they were demons. But they remained, and he taught them of the New God, and they sang for him. And surely the stories of their song spread throughout the land.

Now, it so happened that at that time, the princess of Munster, in the south, was pledged to wed the king of Connaught, in the north, and he promised her anything that her heart should desire as a gift. So of course, she asked for the swans, and with a heavy heart, the king sent men to capture the swans and bring them to him.

But no sooner had one of the men laid a finger on the swans, there was a blinding flash, and the Children of Lir regained their true form, though they were old and wizened beyond imagining. And the men at arms fled, though the hermit did not, and he took them in his arms and bore them into the church.

And Fionnuala spoke to the hermit: "We are old, my friend, and I fear we have outlived our time. These requests I make of you, that when you bury us, you bury us standing up, in the manner of our people, and that you place Aodhán at my right shoulder, and Fiachra at my left, and Conn in front of me, for so it was I sheltered them upon the Straits of Moyle. And I also ask that you bless us in the eyes of your new god, for ours are long gone and forgotten, and no one should go godless into death."

And so it was done as Fionnuala requested, and the hermit placed a stone upon their grave bearing the inscription 'The Children of Lir. Beloved. Betrayed. Saved' "

[annabelle]

“Aoife or Hera” Helen says with a smile without humour.

“I’ve never heard that tale Christine, wonderful one! It demonstrates the power and consequences of jealously. Such a pitiful feeling isn’t it? Aoife, oh Aoife! Fool Aoife!” she says dramatically to the sky and laughs wickedly.

“Transforming into a demon, such a terrible fate…or is it?” she shrugs her shoulders with a pout. “Don’t know.”

“We also have another tale in Greek mythology that has many similarities with this one, do you want to hear it? It’s the tale of Hera.”