The Luna Cycle: Book One

Prologue

                                                                        The Luna Cycle

                                                                            Book One

                                                                                 ~*~

                                                         ‘Energy is intangible rope.

                                            Everything seen and unseen is ensnared

                                                      upon the same piece of rope,

                                                    which both leads and tethers us

                                         to a singular point in our beautiful cosmos.

                          Our cosmic body’s revolution pulls us quickly through life.

                                    With our many years, we shall never truly grasp

                                                the rope of energy that guides us.’

                                                                    -Syrellen

                                                         Dosmerind 14572 OE

                                                                        ~*~

                                                                Introduction

"You need not read them today, or even tomorrow. But you must read them, Diaen,” rattled her father-in-law’s rusted windpipes.

She stared with dark eyes at the stack of envelopes in her hands. The edges of the paper were already yellowed; they felt old and crisp, the type of paper covered in words written a long time ago. They had to be; they were from her father, and he was ten years dead.

“I will leave you to it, then-- ah, them, I suppose. Happy reading.” He turned, and shuffled through the darkened doorway at the end of the room. Beyond the doorway was a staircase, which led to the Underground. She watched until the door shut softly behind him.

Her feet refused to move. The familiar brown walls of the room around her felt completely composed of apprehension. She stood still in the middle of her sitting room, one floor above the massive library her father collected. She wasn’t quite sure what to do; the letters posed too many questions.

Sighing, she settled upon a brocaded couch in front of her fireplace. Pulling a soft, woolen shawl off the back of the couch, she wound it around her shoulders, then smoothed her simple skirts around her thighs. She resumed staring at the bundle of yellowing paper, which now law heavily upon her the tops of her legs. The light cast from the fireplace was a bright, yet dark, orange; it threw the room dramatically into shadow, the umber theme of the room swallowing most of the light.

Diaen gingerly untied the blue ribbon around the letters, and set aside all but the top letter, her hands trembling slightly. A strong dislike for herself boiled in her belly; Diaen groaned, and leaned her forehead in her free palm. Thoughts of her father were better left dormant. She needed no one other than her husband. Resting a hand on her belly, swollen and stretched with pregnancy, she fervently wished to be a good mother.

The fire crackled and sent light flickering across Diaen, making her dark hair gleam. She sat pensive for many moments, until finally, she let out a breath she felt held for an eternity, Diaen gathered the stack of envelopes, stood from the couch, and approached the staircase that led to her father’s office. She decided to read the letters; however, she would do it from where they were written.

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                                                                                               From the Desk of Solan Lacord

My daughter,

No matter how much I tried to stop it from happening, I have to admit that there is a widening gap between us. I regret this distance, it’s a main reason why I write to you now. I wish to tell you many things I should have told you years ago. Even in my old age, my first days in Tertancia are still knife-sharp in my memory. But they are rife with connections to your mother, connections to things that still cause my hardened heart pain.

I admit, writing things down instead of telling you myself is my way of hiding. It’s easier to tell you through paper, a medium which allows me to control my emotions and my weaknesses, choreograph my words. But, with these letters, I hope to make up for some lost ground. They are a poor replacement for hearing the stories first hand, but I pray they will serve to bring you closer to my memory.

I hope that by telling you more of your own beginnings, I can provide you the strength needed to survive the Wave. Your generation is terribly burdened, a burden that I, and all of the adults in your life, have worked all our days to try and alleviate. I trust our efforts, not only in building the Underground, but in teaching you how to see and understand the world’s true nature, has provided all you need to make the right choices in your life..

I will end here for now. Tomorrow I will begin to write of the days that led me to the tunnels of our Underground, to assist the noble cause of the Rebellion. I hope the tale brings you great joy, daughter, and allows you to better understand how I, and all the people I met in those days, came to be who we are, all these long years later.

                         Your father,

                                  Solan

                                                                    ~*~

Diaen’s mind was still reeling, though its whirring had slowed to a speed she could manage; her father’s words, after all these years! Her mind itched from the possibility of insights into her life she never expected to gain, had given up the hope of knowing.

She debated whether to read another letter; should she savor them one by one, or devour them all at once? The oil lamp on the desk before her answered her question. It sputtered into non-existence, and plunged the room around her into darkness.

Standing from the desk, she opened the door into the hallway, and moved down the corridor to the closet where the lamp oil was kept.

But when her husband intercepted her with speak of the late hour, there was little she could do but follow him, quite willingly. The rest of the letters would have to wait.

                                                                            ~*~