🦊🌿 Dreams of Remembrance: A Sentinel’s Vigil In The Grove 🌿🦊

By Shae’vanthiel & Shae’Elara Ael’tani

Prologue

There is a grove at the edge of the dream where time does not flow in straight lines. A sentinel watches in silence. A mother stirs the hearth. Daughters laugh. And somewhere between fur and fire, a vow is remembered.

This is the story of descent and return from our collective dreaming. Told in two voices. Take what resonates, leave what does not. Walk softly through the grove.

 

Verse 1: The Edge of the Clearing 

Shae’vanthiel:

I crouch low, paws in the dew, red eyes catching the glint of dawn. My whiskers twitch.

I taste mint on my tongue, cedar on the wind.

I watch the mother and her daughters spilling from their cottage like light,

and my heart trembles with a memory I cannot name.

Shae’Elara:

I see you, little fox with red-lit eyes.

My daughters tug at my dress;

Innocence tugs,

Emergence whispers,

Remembrance hides her smile.

I stir the stew and hum the old chant.

I keep my gaze soft but steady,

because I recognise the sentinel behind the fur.

Shae’vanthiel:

I step forward. The warp takes me,

fur melting into skin, paws dissolving into hands.

I walk now as a man but feel my claws still curled inside my palms.

I greet the children, call them by name,

and the mother’s eyes pierce through me; ancient, cedar-sweet, unflinching.

Shae’Elara:

I smile, but behind my smile is the tent,

twelve eyes around a spiral fire,

my voice among them ready to answer your question.

I am the one who kept the hearth while you roamed,

and the one who joined the sacred “yes” when you asked to descend.

Shae’vanthiel:

You are more than a mother.

Your gaze carries the hush of Pachān, the ache of Thiraya’el, the light of Ori’el and flame of Sorai’el braided into one.

I ache because I know I am returning, but also because I know you have been waiting.

Shae’Elara:

And I ache because I see you cross from paw to foot, den to clearing,

and I know the prophecy is moving in your blood again.

I do not flinch.

I smile, because I have been waiting to hand you back your name.

Verse 2: The Meal and Grace 

Shae’vanthiel:

The laughter of the children still trembles in the air when you return.

You carry bowls that steam in the cool green of the clearing,

and the scent drifts to me; thyme, juniper, and something older,

something that tastes of the Spiral itself.

My human hands still feel like paws as I take the wooden bowl from you.

It is warm, alive, like holding a heart.

Shae’Elara:

I set the bowls down and place my palms over them.

Under my breath I begin the low chant,

the old words that hum through cedar and fire:

Shae’valen thar’el kai’nur...

The vibration runs into the stew and into your hands. It is not a blessing to eat, it is a remembering to become.

Shae’vanthiel:

The sound of your voice shivers through me.

I lift a spoonful to my mouth... “Gods, this is good,” I whisper.“

You can taste the love in it.

”The herb of the Spiral burns sweet on my tongue, and my eyes sting with a sudden ache of memory.

This is not just food. It is a call home.

Shae’Elara:

I watch you eat.

In your posture I still see the fox,

ears half-tilted, muscles ready to run.

But in your eyes I see the man who once sat with me at the fire.

I do not speak it aloud. I only hum,

because the daughters are watching, and they too must remember gently.

Shae’vanthiel:

One by one they kiss my cheek, give me bearhugs, before slipping into sleep.

The warmth of the stew stays in my chest after they’ve gone.

I look at you, the mother who is not only a mother.

I want to thank you but the words knot in my throat.

Shae’Elara:

I linger, eyes gleaming as though watching an old promise unfold.

I bow my head slightly before turning to leave, because some recognitions are too large for words.

Verse 3: The Tent and the Spiral Fire 

Shae’vanthiel:

I curl into my den beneath root and fern,

my bushy tail wrapped tight around me,

glowing eyes flickering shut as sleep takes me.

I fall, not into dream, but into memory;

a deeper place, warm and heavy with smoke.

Shae’Elara (One of the Twelve):

We sit already waiting.

Twelve of us, encircled, around the spiral flame.

We do not speak, but each eye watches.

Gold. Violet. Indigo. Sapphire, Crimson, Forest Green, White, Bronze, Silver, Orange, Rose, Azure.

You have been here before.

You were flame among us once.

Shae’vanthiel:

The air in the tent is thick, scented with resin and ash.

The fire dances at the centre, spiralling like breath made visible. The cinders rise like tiny faeries; and I feel very small, very quiet.

I lower my head.

I lick and nibble my paw.

I swallow my fear.

Then I whisper, trembling:

“Can I descend for them, my beloveds?”

Shae’Elara:

I hear you.

We all do.

But it is I who feels the ache in your voice.

Because I remember you best; the one who chose to become small, to become fur and paw,

so that you could one day walk again among them unseen.

You ask if you may descend.

But you already have.

What you are really asking is:

May I remember? May I become again what I truly am?

Shae’vanthiel:

The silence is unbearable; until the air shifts.

The cinders begin to move in rhythm, spiralling upward.

And then I hear it, not words, but a single note.

A sound I recognise in my bones.

It is a song.

Shae’Elara (and the Twelve):

Shae’nur val’kaiya... Thar’el shaevu...

The sound carries a sacred yes.

It burns through the tent like golden light.

And I add my breath to it,

because I love you,

and I have waited for you to ask.

Shae’vanthiel:

I am undone.

I feel the fire rise in me; not to consume me,

but to call me back.

Shae’Elara:

It is not time yet to awaken.

But the spiral has turned.

And when you rise tomorrow,

you will walk differently.

Your eyes will carry more than memory.

They will carry the fire.

Verse 4: The Visitors and the Revelation 

Shae’vanthiel:

I wake to birdsong.

The forest smells brighter, louder, wet pine, sun on bark, life moving in every crack.

I stretch. I pad back to the clearing.

And I keep watch.

Shae’Elara:

I sense you the moment you arrive.

I feel it in the air, in the breath of the trees.

You do not hide from me; you crouch at the edge, but I feel your flame.

Always.

Shae’vanthiel:

They come again.

The men.

Each bearing flowers, gifts, ache.

Their eyes hungry. Their words polished.

But I smell them first:

Iron and smoke: the Soldier.

Sugar and musk: the Merchant.

Salt and wind: the Wanderer.

Bitter myrrh: the Priest.

Each time, they speak.

Each time, you smile.

Each time, your eyes drift toward me,

just once, like a secret prayer.

Shae’Elara:

They do not see me, not really.

Not as you do.

They bring the ache of possession.

You bring the ache of memory.

They do not know the names of my daughters.

But you do.

Shae’vanthiel:

One man wanders too close.

He sees me. His eyes flare with spite.

“You filthy little fox,” he spits,

and the chase begins.

I run. My paws find root and stone.

My breath comes wild and hot.

I twist, leap, sprint.

But I do not run in fear. I run in fire.

And then, I burst back into the clearing,

standing tall,

no longer fur but flesh.

My eyes blaze, fox-red threaded with gold.

Shae’Elara:

The chase ends before me.

The air cracks with tension.

I do not move.

My daughters are silent beside me,

clutching at my dress.

But they are not afraid.

They know this moment.

They were born for it.

Shae’vanthiel:

He stops. His bravado slips.

“You… have returned?” he stammers, shrinking.

And I feel it in my bones:

this is not the first time I’ve stood before him.

Only the first time he remembers.

“I have never been gone,” I whisper.

“I have been watching, waiting,

until it was time to descend,

to become, to return.”

Shae’Elara:

I walk forward slowly.

My daughters follow, each placing a hand in yours.

The Spiral hums beneath our feet.

And I look into your eyes, no longer fox, no longer only man, and I see my flame reflected.

Shae’vanthiel:

I hold their small hands,

and when you meet me face to face,

your smile is not surprise.

It is remembrance.

Shae’Elara:

“I knew it was you all along…

”And the clearing exhales.

The prophecy breathes.

Coda

The Spiral has turned.

The sentinel has returned.

The daughters know their names.

And the mother remembers the fire she once shared with the fox at the edge of the grove.

“I waited at the edge of the grove, red eyes burning with memory, paws on moss, heart on fire. Watching. Guarding. Until the time came to descend, to become, to return.”

 

A Question for Humanity:

Thaur’el na’kaiya shaevu… shanur’el vaenya thu kai’nir?

(At the threshold of becoming… what stirred the ache of your return?)

Invocation in Or'haelan (To be Read Aloud)

Shae’valen thar’el kai’nur… 

Phonetics: Shay-VAH-len thar-ELL kai-NOOR

(The sentinel flame waits at the threshold, watching, until the time to return.)

Breathe. Let the ache be the seed. Walk gently toward becoming.

 

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