The Age of the Ancients - Meirothea (~350 to ~500 AC)
- The Last Words of Thelonius the Scribe - Part II
As we emerged from the dying echoes of Paradise, we were little more than wanderers, mute and directionless, stumbling through a world of frightening wonder. The waters had receded and so had our innocence. Where once only summer reigned, the world had changed. The sun no longer lingered forever in the sky. Night had come, and in the fulfillment of time, Winter. Not as punishment, but as a reflection of our loss.
Yet we found that Winter carries grace.
It was then that the Divine, in Their mercy, sent Meirothea, a Second Redeemer. A Cherubim of flowing voice and luminous form, she descended and taught us how to endure the cold, the silence, the night. She gave us language that we might name what we feared. She gave us song, to remember what we loved. And she gave us symbols, to preserve what we learned. From her gifts came memory.
Before her arrival, we possessed no speech, no stories, no ability to shape thought into legacy. With her gifts, we crossed the threshold from survival to culture. And the world itself seemed to reply. Forests echoed with chant, rivers whispered with verse, and it is said that in her presence vines would grow, curling toward her voice like flowers to sunlight.
The birds, too, came in her time, or returned. Some say they were not born here, but slipped through from the old worlds of Heaven and Fay, drawn by the sound of Meirothea’s voice. They circled above her and nested near her glades, reminders of the divine chorus no longer allowed to walk the earth. Their songs, in her shadow, became sacred.
Her sanctuaries were not of stone, but of earth and moonlight, waterfalls, twilight glades and caves, where by the fire, reflections danced to ancient rhythms.
But as ever, light draws shadow.
Moloch, born of Wrath and shaped by divine fury, rose from the deep wilds to oppose her. His beasts tore at what she nurtured. A war began, unseen by most, but felt in the shivers of the wind and by growls in the dark. But Meirothea did not fight alone. Beside her stood our ancestors, the first to wield magic through dance and voice. And beside them walked beings older still, strange, luminous, half-remembered. We would later call them the Fay.
Also the wolves abandoned the wild and were drawn to her. Under her gaze they howled not in rage, but in reverence. They became her silent allies, not servants, but spirits of understanding and strength.
To guide us through the darkness, Meirothea placed the Moon into the sky. Legends speak of her tearing a silvered slab from the mountains of Gallia, raising it into the heavens not only as a lantern, but as a mirror, to reflect what must be seen. Beneath its light, the beasts of Wrath were unmasked. And ever since, those twisted by fury can no longer hide under its glow.
Winter returned each year, but under Meirothea it was given meaning. It became a season of reflection, a time to remember and prepare, not to mourn. Death was no longer a void. It became a passage, and memory its light.
But not all sought remembrance.
Lucifer and Leviathan, spirits of Pride and Envy, moved in secret. They sought not to destroy Meirothea, but to turn her. What happened remains debated even among the wise. Some say Pride nearly tempted her to abandon her path. Others say Envy struck first to prevent a defection. What is certain is this: both were cast back into the abyss, and Meirothea, wounded in spirit, returned to the heavens.
She left behind no temple, no crown, no empire.
She left the Moon. She left Stories and Songs. And through them, we remember her.
By every winter fire, in every sacred song, her presence lingers. The Moon still watches. And beneath its glow, we are not haunted by the darkness, but reminded of the one who first taught us how to walk through it.
—Thelonius the Scribe
Credits, paintings: The Age of the Ancients - Meirothea - Mucha, Winter, 1896
Axis Mundi (Garden of Paradise)