Waking God: Rising

The weeks on the ship were repetitive. I roamed the decks, mostly undisturbed, observing the sailors at work, gaining practical knowledge from watching them, and recalling the lessons from Mouk and Aidra.

My heart ached for them, or perhaps for the scarf I had tossed away. Nothing since had captured my attention like that scarf did. I spent hours staring at the ocean, pondering over the lessons of the stars, the winds, and the currents, trying to fill the void left by that piece of cloth.

For most of our journey, my mother washed me, despite me being old enough to do it myself. She enjoyed it, and I didn't mind. It was one of the few instances where I felt truly cared for, her touch gentle, her laughter warm, making the harshness of our situation bearable.

We ate meals she prepared from limited ingredients, each one tasting special because of her love. Food made with love does taste better, doesn't it, dear reader? There's no proof, but I feel it in my heart. She would cook over the small stove in our quarters, transforming simple grains and dried meat into feasts fit for royalty, her hands moving with a grace that seemed to dance with the flames.

We spent a lot of time together playing games and listening to her stories of legend and myth. These tales were more than entertainment; they were her way of teaching me about our homeland, its history, and wisdom. I suspect they were embellished versions of real events and figures. Maybe, in a thousand years, my own story will be mythologized too. This is why I write, to affirm my existence.

Her stories were like threads weaving through the fabric of my memory, each one adding color and texture to my understanding of the world. They spoke of heroes and heroines, of battles fought with both sword and wit, of love that transcended the boundaries of the mortal realm. Most of her stories aren't crucial to my tale, except one, which I'll share when it fits the narrative.

My mother was stunningly beautiful, but calling her 'beautiful' doesn't do her justice. Her beauty wasn't just skin deep; it was a force of nature, commanding and relentless. Her eyes, a spellbinding mix of blue and green, seemed to hold the secrets of the universe, drawing you in and leaving you defenseless. Yet it wasn't her beauty alone that defined her—it was the intelligence behind those eyes, the wit that could disarm kings and gods alike. She wielded her allure with precision, as one might wield a blade, carving paths through the hearts and minds of those who dared stand in her way.

She wasn't just my mother; she was my first hero, the foundation of who I would become. And so, dear reader, I write of her not merely as a tribute but as a truth that refuses to be forgotten.

Ink is a precious commodity here, as valuable or even more so than iron glass, yet I choose to spend much of it on her. Some might argue this focus is unnecessary, but I disagree. In most tellings of my story, my mother's role is minimized, her impact suppressed by those who feared her influence. She was someone who could make fools of both men and gods, and for that, there's an attempt to erase her from memory.

She shaped who I became.

All in all, dear reader, my mother was a beauty unrivaled. I would meet a handful of women in my lifetime that perhaps matched her beauty, but none surpassed her, at least in my opinion.

I took my time to write about my mother largely because of her importance to the early parts of my story, and I want the world to remember her. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, and she was strong.

Helena of the Mist, remember her.

Let us continue.