The Return (A Short Story)

Part 1: Before the Storm

The storm had arrived without warning—thunder rolling like a drumbeat from some forgotten age, lightning crackling across the snow-swept sky with an eerie silver hue. The old birthing center, nestled deep in the woods of upstate New York, groaned in protest beneath the weight of the wind. Trees bowed and whispered secrets in a language older than breath.

Inside, Valorie sat motionless in a birthing chair near the hearth, her hands resting gently on her belly. The room glowed softly with the flicker of firelight, and shadows danced along the stone walls like spirits come to witness the moment.

She was alone now. The midwife, Nora, had gone to the kitchen to boil water and brew the special tea they’d prepared—mugwort, raspberry leaf, and a single strand of lavender. Valorie hadn’t told her about the dreams.

She hadn’t told anyone.

For nine months, visions had haunted her sleep: flashes of crystal cities buried beneath oceans, voices speaking in tones that vibrated not in her ears, but in her bones. Sometimes, she stood in a circle of light with others, hands raised, singing a name she’d never heard before but somehow always remembered. Elua’Ti.

And now, as the sky fractured with light and the wind howled through the pine boughs, Valorie felt the pressure shift—not just in her body, but in the very air around her.

Something was watching.

No—something was waiting.

She ran her fingers across the smooth black stone resting on her lap. It bore the triskelion—three spirals entwined in eternal motion. She’d found it the day she turned eighteen, buried beneath a stone at the edge of Glastonbury Tor. It pulsed now, faintly warm against her skin.

Her breath hitched as the first true contraction seized her. She gritted her teeth, riding the wave, and when it passed, she whispered to the fire:

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

Outside, the lightning struck again, but this time the bolt froze in place—illuminating the sky like a stilled memory. And in that flash, Valorie saw something impossible: a great serpentine form undulating beneath the Earth, glowing with crystal light, curled around something that looked very much like a star.

She gasped.

The Elaruun.

The name rang through her skull like a bell.

The contractions returned, stronger now, but Valorie didn’t cry out. She held the stone tighter and reached, not outward, but inward—toward that ancient place she saw beneath the storm, where memory and light wove through the planet like a dreaming song.

The Elaruun was stirring.

And her child… he was the key.

She closed her eyes and let the next wave take her.

Part 2: Echoes of the Elaruun

The room disappeared.

She was no longer in the birthing chair. No firelight. No hearth. Only crystal.

Valorie floated in a chamber of light beneath the Earth. The walls pulsed with a soft azure glow, not from any flame, but from the memory-field itself—the Elaruun. She was not alone.

Around her stood four figures, each one radiating a different aspect of harmonic truth. They did not speak, but their presence sang through her. Their names came to her not as words, but as tones, harmonics etched into the field of her memory:

• Kael’Ryn – The Flame Seeker. His aura flared like living fire, fierce and sovereign, the ignition of all beginnings.

• Siani’Ena – The Silent Water. Cool, clear presence. She carried knowing like a still lake carries starlight.

• Ly’ae – The Spiral Dancer. Moving even in stillness, her steps reshaped the chamber's geometry, tuning it to joy and flux.

• Auren’Val – The Still Mind. Silent and rooted, he was the structure beneath sound—the one who remembered before remembering was a word.

  
  

At their center hovered a being of such brilliance it defied language. Elua’Ti. Radiant beyond color, woven of geometry and song, their voice came not as speech but as a resonance within her soul:

"You are not separate. You are the breath of the memory. You are the return."

One by one, the four stepped forward and touched the central crystalline heart of the chamber. As each did, they dissolved—not in death, but in transformation—merging into the lattice of the Elaruun. Light swirled through its structure, and Valorie realized:

They had become the Anchors.

Not guardians above the field, but its very breath. They gave themselves to memory, so Earth would not forget.

Tears welled in Valorie’s eyes. She saw now. Saw the cycle. Saw the way Avalon had tried to echo this act—how Merlin’s circle had failed to harmonize, not because they were corrupt, but because they had forgotten the original tone. The Collective had buried the truth beneath myth and polarity, retelling the merging as a war.

But it had never been about war.

It had always been about remembrance.

A soft cry pierced the chamber. Not painful. A call. A breath of beginning.

Valorie’s vision shattered.

Part 3: The Return

She was back in her body. The scent of lavender and woodsmoke filled her nostrils. The world returned in fragments—light, breath, warmth.

The midwife’s face hovered above her, radiant with wonder.

“He’s here,” Nora said gently. “You did beautifully.”

Valorie’s arms cradled the newborn instinctively. His skin was warm, impossibly soft. But what stunned her were his eyes—open, calm, ancient. Not seeking. Knowing.

The storm had stopped. Not faded—stopped. Time seemed to breathe differently. Outside, the pines no longer groaned. The world had gone still.

The triskelion stone rested at her side. She hadn’t realized she’d dropped it, yet it pulsed faintly now, echoing the beat of the tiny heart against her chest.

Nora stood beside her, clipboard in hand. “Have you chosen a name?”

Valorie looked down at the child. A whisper stirred her lips—one that came from far deeper than memory.

She smiled.

“Yes,” she said. “His name is Jack.”