The Tuatha De Danaan

By Ardja

There is much written about the People, Danu's children, there is much yet there is nothing. Wind through the trees, no substance, which is almost as it should be. Almost. Memory is fragile, memory and delusion intertwine, delusion reigns. I am a child of Danu, I do not speak from memory of the People, I am the memory of the People. I live my life, waking, sleeping, and dreaming, as who I am, Her child. I do not understand those who claim to be of my People, yet who bring dishonour upon themselves. I do not understand claims of greatness when my People were never great. We lived, we live, by our honour; if that honour leads us to deeds recounted through the ages, it is the honour that is great. The People are a reflection, transparent, and only by our honour do we offer something solid to the worlds, it is only by our honour that we are known. Honour is our king, our only king, we are dedicated to our family, our blood, we serve that blood and that alone, when we serve anything. No king rules over us, that is a myth. Honour breeds legends and big men and women among us, but honour does not breed followers.

We do not live in the world, but within the worlds, active through inaction. We watch and listen and involve ourselves on a whim. We scheme and plan and plot, laughing at all that we do. We have love and no love for this world and its population, we are restless in the world beyond. We are a restless People, always moving, always flowing into change, creating change for our pleasure, plucking the threads of the weave for change's sake. We play. Our understanding of today may be casually shed tomorrow, and it matters not. One might wonder what then does matter to a people such as this? Bones and blood matter, the life matters, truth at its ugliest matters, the bones and flesh of the earth matter. We easily die for these things, we die smiling at the meaningless of it all.

The only thing that binds us is our word.

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