Chapter Text
I love dragons. I’ve loved them with every breath in my body for as long as I’ve lived. Although that hasn’t been very long, I know nonetheless that my love for dragons goes far deeper than time or experience. I don’t need to be old to know that.
I was once Tamsin Ekols, then Tamsin Callas, then Green Lady Tamsin Callas-Puck, and finally, a Martyr. But now I am Tatharen Leilugnorthor Callas, daughter of who was once my daughter, I could never raise, named by the Queen of the Elves at the moment of my birth, my sacred, private name Leilugnorthor meaning freest of the dragonriders. Rather, free dragonrider.
I am 7 years old, almost eight. My sister Amathel was once Tylluan Puck, who was Tamsin’s husband. It is normal for souls to travel in groups, and change roles in each others lives. Although I love Amathel very much, it is only as a sister. Tamsin was Tylluan’s wife, not Tatharen to Amathel. We were different people now, we had different faces, different lives, new names and were born under different stars.
I sound old in my head, those looking in wonder how my brain handles it. I truly don’t know, I let my mommy handle all that hard information. I love her very much, my maahmi. Tamsin loved her too. When Sekhulla told Tamsin that she could be born as Lehlil’s daughter with Evaine, she wept tears of starlight in the realm of the Greenie afterlife.
Riptide was perplexed. I was not his bonded any longer, although we shared a love which could never go away. Starfire and Amathel had the same somewhat awkward relationship as me and Riptide. I do not remember everything that happened as Tamsin, I do not see through the veils of time like a fairy or an elf. I am not yet enlightened as they are.
Knowing who we are does not mean the others do. My mother hasn’t even guessed who I was, and Amathel doesn’t know she was my husband. She is too young still, in her mind, as it was supposed to be. As it is supposed to be.
The Elves have built a civilization to rival the gods north of the Draconian. That desert has turned into a realm of graceful temples, gardens, and Nile palace-houses that are as effervescent as the people living in them. Bridges have been built, between our two peaceful races, literally and metaphorically. I am one of the last of this generation to speak English fluently, most now speak the graceful Woodelven dialect, because the Elves of their new Egypt considered it most fitting. They spoke a myriad of other languages and dialects all related to each other, the system so convoluted only people like my grandmother Zamoora even cared to figure it out.
Of course the Elves knew about their languages, culture, history. They chose not to tell us too much, however, for copyright reasons for whatever that means. They laughed whenever somebody asked what copyright meant. Those sneaky bastards knew things we didn’t, but as they were supposedly all-knowing I didn’t mind them keeping their secrets; they’d tell us if we needed to know.
It unnerved Riptide, to look into my mind, or speak with me mentally, which required a certain amount of spiritual intimacy between the conversation-goers. He knew who I was, he knew who Amathel had been. He felt our spirits, as the fairies had, who also knew. He was so lonely, even though he and Artemisia had taken to acting like a bonded pair. They had both lost a bonded, so they’d developed a keenly aware and loving working relationship.
I would never be replaced in his heart, though. Rather, Tamsin would never. Amathel, bless her courageous heart, would never understand why I didn’t talk to Riptide much.
It made me sad too.