WARNING: MAY BE RATED R!!! This story deals with life and the birth of new life. Sex is unavoidable. But it is never done in an inappropriate style, more concentrating on emotions and nature.

Disclaimer: I do not own Will, Lyra, the plot of HDM, etc. Nor do I own terms from Jan Siegel's works (read bio), though they seem to come more from ancient languages and myths than from her own mind.

Attention: As of 10/23/03, the fist three chapters have been revised. I went through, fixing grammatical mistakes, as well as the time table a little bit. Don't worry, nothing big, but this series focuses on the Lunar and Solar calandars, and I had to be sure I got things right for it all to work.

THE MOTHER'S AWAKENING

There are some things which cannot be wholly expressed in words. Love is one of them.

These two children, clinging together in the grove of silver and golden trees, found that words failed them now. Even their kissing, breathing in each other's scents, couldn't express what they felt.

And so they bonded in a way which has always been known, but forever shunned. But in that joining, these two felt no shame for their love. They could not speak, they could only bask in each other's embrace. And in those last moments of ecstasy, both knew that no joy could ever match the love that they had found.

When they could last no more, and gave that last burst of passion, they found their voices again, crying out the other's name into the sky.

"Lyra!!!"

"Will!!!"

It was that cry of joy and love which awoke the worlds again. At that moment, they let out the breath they held in anticipation, knowing that life had begun again. The Beltane Rite was complete, and all life rejoiced.

But that cry also awoke another.

Across the worlds, those dual voices carried on, merging together. At last the sound arrived at it's destination. In a world spanning the whole of the universe, a great oak grew. It's branches reached beyond those of the wheel trees, in the world were the cry began, and spread out in a canopy so dense that whole cities could reside in the foliage. Under those branches a system of roots grew, spreading beyond even the branches above. They intertwined with on another, forming a complex maze of wood, bark and Earth.

A river flowed in between them, circling the trunk until it came to rest between two of the largest roots. There, it formed a lake, blanketed by a swirling mist. On the shore, where the roots met, a great cave lay open, leading into the tree itself.

This was the great Duirgaia, the Earth Oak, the home of the most ancient of spirits. Into that cave, the sound traveled, rushing down to the borrow within. But now it carried a different cry--

"Mother!" echoed through the darkness of the den.

Two orbs of light appear, illuminating the area around them. They appeared to be eyes, human eyes, but they glowed with a light more akin to the moon. It was a pale, bright light, shinning out like twin full moons in a clear sky. In their light, the forms of a face could be seen. The bridge of a nose, long and smooth. The eyebrows, black against the light, shadowed the forehead, while below, the elegant curves of cheeks were jutting into view. Strands of long hair formed black streaks down the image, hiding the rest of the face from view.

With the light came a sound, suddenly breaking the silence which had lain over this hall for centuries untold. A sudden intake of air, like a breath. For a breath it was, a gasp in the night, like when someone has been underwater, and suddenly breaks the surface.

The breathing continued, at first fast and short, out of air, but slowly began to calm again. With each intake, the face would rise, and with each release, fall again.

Then a voice whispered into the black emptiness--

"I live..."

It was feminine, at once beautiful and terrible. At once worn with age, wisdom and care, yet light, young and filled with joy. In that voice, one could hear a thousand sounds--the crack of thunder and whisper of a breeze--the lapping waves upon the shore and the groan of the earth--the chirp of birds and howl of the wolf--all confined in that wondrous voice.

"...But how?"

She was surprised and worried. The wavering in her voice conveyed that without question. But it didn't seem right. Hearing that voice, was like being home; where everything was safe and right. But hearing that voice quaver so, it was like being thrust out into the winter's despair, without warmth or guidance. Lost; to hear that voice now was akin to being lost without hope.

A rustle came with those words, a movement. It came from her gown, what ever it was. It sounded like the silence of silk, the crack of bark, the crackle of leaves and the soft whispers of fur and feather, all eminating from that one sound. The woman had risen.

She moved quickly, the light from her eyes illuminating the path. But by the surety of her steps, it was obvious she could have walked blindly and still move with impossible grace. Her feet padded softly on the bare earth. There was no click of shoes, no flap of sandals or stamp of boots. Only the soft fast, padding of bare feet accompanied by the rustling of her gown.

As she walked, she murmured under here breath. Her thoughts were so jumbled, so confused, that she could not keep them silent, she had to say them aloud.

"The bonds of man are weakening..." her brow was bent in concentration.

"...The Authority's power has waned. Beltane..." her eyes widened with understanding.

"Yes, it is Beltane. This eve the Rite was renewed... But by whom?"

Her brow bent again with confusion.

"Who cried out my name?"

By now the light had grown. No longer was the pale light just from her eyes, but all around. As she stepped out into the open air, the full moon cast it's light upon her, as if in a warm greeting. Like a flower in the sun's rays, the woman seemed to grow in the silver light.

In it's glow, the woman's features could easily be seen. But even as one features could be distinguished, did it shift into a new form. She seemed to flow, as if she were fluid, or trying to express something of everything, being a part of all that was around her.

Her long hair, cascading down her elegantly arched back, seemed raven black in the moon's light, yet under the surface, shades of deep sea green, shadows of the forest floor, and pure white of the swan all could be seen swimming in those locks of hair.

Her skin, snow white in the night's illuminated air, held all the tints of the earth. There was the tan of the tropics, rich black and brown of the loamish soil, and golden beauty of fields of wheat.

Even her gown flowed and changed before the eye. It was some kind of dress, or more likely a robe, draped over her right shoulder, left free to flow down to her feet. A belt of leather and green leafed vines held it about her waist. But the material itself was a myriad of nature. At once as light as spider's silk and as heavy as a beast's mane. About her head the woman wore a wreath crown, comprised of flowers budding in the early Spring's warmth.

The woman walked barefoot on the mossy ground, her feet taking her away from the cave, and toward a mound of stone by the shore. Piled upon the mound was used firewood, it's logs black, crisp and charred by past fires. But it was ready for more, only needing a spark to light it again.

"Just as it was all those years ago," she murmured, stopping in front of the pyre.

"Awaken!" Her voice roared, now filled with power and command. The boy, who's cry of love had awoken her, had such a commanding presence that even such creatures as angels and bears yielded to him. But this woman's voice held more power, still. The very Earth would cower and obey at her command.

"Awaken, Fires of Time! Hear your Mother's Call! I, Ysis-Astolante, summon you once more!"

The fire was no exception. Flame erupted where only ashes once remained; in the coals, embers flared into life anew.

"Show me what Man has done while I lay imprisoned. Show my what He has ravaged upon the worlds, and what events have led to my awakening."

In the dancing flames and swirling smoke, shapes appeared and the shifting embers brought life to the images before them. In their firey display the woman, this Mother of lovers and flame, saw many things from the past, present, and future. She saw the fall and hunting of her faithful Druids, Shamans and Witches. The rising powers of the Church and Authority played out before her, as she observed man fall into gluttony. Years flashed by before her, as Man abandoned Wisdom, Spirit and Nature, in exchange for their own petty desires and conveniences. She saw empires rise and fall, horrors committed and hatred consumed. But all this she passed with but a glance. They were her children, and a mother always forgave.

Until she saw the Knife. That blade had cut into her as nothing before. It burned into her very soul. All that she was--everything--all the worlds' Essence--screamed as it felt the blade of the AEsathaettr. Yes, it was the God Destroyer, but also Dust Destroyer, Earth Destroyer, Life Destroyer. All those titles were in that term, that anathema curse. For that, Man could not be forgiven.

But as the images passed, so did her anger. She would deal with the Knife later, first she must discover what had awoken her, and ensure it was no temporary thing. It was then that the Mother saw the beginnings of it. In a world were the remains of her power struggled with the iron dominion of the Church, a girl was born. A girl whose return the Mother herself had prophesied and set into motion.

"Eve..." she whispered, her eyes wide with love and understanding.

"Eve, my Daughter, you have finally returned."

And so it was that she witnessed all that had transpired. The wrenching open of the worlds, the finding of the knife, the freeing of the Dead, the Great Battle, and finally the discovery of this great love all passed before her eyes.

It was then that she knew--the love of these two, of Adam and Eve reincarnate, as they joined in the Beltane Rite, had awoken her. Their cries of ecstasy carried on the winds had broken her bonds.

Finally, the Mother looked up from the pyre, and stepped back down onto the shore.

"They have begun the Cycle of Life again," the Mother mused, "yet their tasks are far from over. These two shall guide Man back to me, away from the upstart Authority and usurper Azmordis, each in their own world. But their line must be ensured, for this duty shall span over generations."

A smile came to her lips as she head toward the edge of the Lake.

"It is good that two were conceived this night, but I must plan well for their birth, so both lovers may have a successor."

As she stepped onto the shore, she called in a high, haunting voice out onto the water, summoning the Spirit that would take her to the Gate, back into the worlds of Time. Away from the the Eternal Tree, away from Timeless Avalon.

All was silent in the mists, except for the gentle lapping of waves upon the shore. But her patience was rewarded, after what might have been an eternity, another sound comes from the concealed waters. A low splash, steady and paced, drawing ever closer.

A figure emerged from the mists, blurred and indistinct at first, but becoming cleared as it made towards the shore. An ancient boat, dark with rotten wood and moss, incredibly worn, but forever steady. A figure sat in the stern, manning the oars. A skeletal figure it was, whose worn face was hidden behind a deep black cowl, a cowl of the same cloth which draped about his entire body. The hands were permanently crooked around the handels of the oars, the skin drawn tight around the bone. Ancient and frail, this figure was as undeniable as Death itself.

With one final stroke, the rower beached the craft upon the shore. The figure stood, using an oar to balance, and offered a hand to the woman waiting on the stones. It was obvious that she could have stepped aboard herself, but this gesture was one of respect; the rower knew who she was.

"It has been many long years since the Queen of Life and Death called upon me," The figure rasped, his voice betraying the tiniest notes of wit and sarcasm, "Perhaps she has forgotten her children?"

"Be nice," Mother Earth said with a smile. Apparently she picked up the snide tone of voice. But her voice became serious and the smile faded as she continued.

"Indeed, it has been far too long, my Guide of Souls," she sat in the bow, as she asked, "How have you faired, Raven Lord, under the Authority's rein?"

"Not well, Mother," The rower replied, a deep sigh in his voice, emotionless for ages past. "Were I once flew across the worlds, leading my fellow Ravens, guiding those who died home for rest, I now am confined to ferry across the Styx. The Authority has broken all of us Old Spirits, my kin now are Deaths, silent and moody, rather than joyous Ravens promising new life. I myself have become what you see before you, a ragged old man, frail yet immovable in Death's certainty."

"What of the Summer Country? Surely the dreams of the Dead have kept it green?" The Mother knew about the World of the Dead and it's fate, but wanted this man, the Raven Lord, to remember the old ways, to bring life to him once more. She wanted to give him hope. Yet, she let him find that on his own, through his own memories.

"Nay, my Lady," the ragged man shook his head as he answered, "the harpies, who have never known kindness or the sun's warmth, have been freed, and have tortured all the Dead into depression. The Well of Lethe has long since dried, and offers no respite to the poor souls."

The rower paused, remembering a little girl who, not so long ago, sat in his boat, passing into Death while she still lived. The beat of his oars remained steady while he thought. The Mother smiled, this is what she wanted him to remember, wanted him to see.

"Until she came," The Raven Lord continued, a new light in his shrunken eyes, "The girl, she stepped into my boat, betraying her very self, and her companions did as well. Two Gallivespians, mounted on their insect steeds, and a boy, The AEsathaettr. I recognized him well enough, but in my ageless lethargy, I failed to realize who she was."

"She is Eve, isn't she?" he asks, full realization shining in his widening eyes, "she is you're daughter, the Mother of Man."

"Indeed she is," The Mother replied, satisfied that the spark of life was rekindled in The Guide of Souls. "Her cries, joining with those of her lover, penetrated the mists of the Lake, awakening me from slumber."

The man continued to row steadily, hopeful in the returning love of this most ancient of spirits. For minutes, or perhaps hours they remained silent, letting the soft heavy sounds of the water fill the emptiness.

"To the Shore of the Summer Country, my Lady?" The Raven Lord asked, breaking the eternal silence.

"No, my Raven."

"But the Well..." The Raven's voice cracked with surprise. It had been so long, countless centuries and more, since any emotion was projected in that voice, that the sound failed him even as he began to cry out in shock.

"Worry not for the Merciful Waters," Gaia said to him in a soothing voice, "They will flow again with the passage of the Samhain Harvest. After the Dead have accepted their state, they will enter the renewed Cycle, and begin their lives anew by drink from Lethe."

It was her surety, her unflinching confidence which revived the energy in the Raven more then anything. To see such life again, displayed in the very Avatar of Life, he felt he could soar above the highest peaks. He felt happy and full once more, and proud to be the Raven Lord, Guide of Souls. He could have crowed his call into the night, shattering the heavy fog around the water. But he knew that the mists were there for a reason, so he held his joy inside, letting instead his posture and demeanor express what he felt. His back straightened, the loud cracks lessening, like a hinge newly oiled. His eyes lightened, displaying the mischief and fun they held in ages past.

"No, Raven," his Mother continued, "take me to the Shore of Crossing. It is time I went into the worlds again. I have duties I must attend to."

And so it was, that for the first time since the Authority's rein, the boat landed on the shore of the Suburbs of the Dead, carrying a living being on it's rotten planks.

The ghosts who were waiting to cross stared open mouthed at this paragon of beauty, her shifting features and immeasurable wisdom. They stepped aside, giving room for her to pass. They knew not who she was, but felt the power around her, and knew that she was more than any of them ever was, or would be.

As they stepped into the boat, they were greeted not by an ancient, lethargic rower, but the proud, witty and passionate Lord of Ravens, Guide to the Dead.

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So, what did you think? Please Review. But when you do, please tell me what you like and don't like, so I can improve. Was it too long? Did it flow and make sense? Did it have great detail? Did it capture your imagination? Please, tell me!