We had all walked too far from ourselves, end ended up children lost in the woods. A hand grabbed all of us at once, and it was the Being called Wesdeacon, pulling us toward each other. His home is empty now, but his art still covers the walls. The tracks of his passed steps have been smoothed over by rain, but the earth remembers. Above us now, vigilant constellations shift. The arms of trees flourish and curl, and form Wesdeacon’s banner. They don’t care much that he’s not here, nor they seem to make a distinction between any of his incarnations when he was. He reminds us of what he learned; that the stories have always been false. There are no prophecies or destinies, and there never were any chosen ones. The dark will rush in at us sideways, and poison the rain, and set the fire to our homes. And when it does, it will find us already outside, not waiting for a chosen one, but having each chosen ourselves, and each other. This is our pact with Wesdeacon. Heart of fire, hands of stone. NADIN CHOUNY, THE 1899th YEAR OF GARAS
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