Photo prompt: Sue Vincent
She was Ethera, and she came at the peak of the longest night, on the cusp of the broadening daylight.
She was Ethera. A human. A spirit. A soul. Sometimes one. Often all.
She’d lived among them, flesh and blood and hope and heartache. She’d hungered and shivered and grew and raised and danced and cried and plowed. There had been nothing in her that foretold what she’d become once she passed the veil to the realm of Nether. Where summer did not come and winter did not grip the land and where the prayers of people held substance, unlike bodies, which did not.
She was Ethera. Unseen by most. Perceived by some. Hoped for by many. Feared by almost everyone.
Feared though she’d rarely brought on harm that wasn’t already in the making. Feared though she heralded truth, which for a reason she hadn’t been able to fathom, so many fought against.
She passed like air. Like wind. Like the willow whispering a breeze into one’s ear come silent night.
She was Ethera. And she came bearing gifts: Of scented fields. Of sunlit glens. Of fruit blushing ripe atop the trees. Of roots awaiting the fattening of rain. Of undulating earthworms sliding through the layers of the dirt to aerate the unseen.
As she could, too, pass between the layers of being.
She was Ethera. Some thought her fog. Some thought her ghost. Some knew her as the mist that rose to hold the moments yet to come and the droplets of the feelings those would bring.
She came at the deepest hollow of the longest night, and in her palms she held a bowl of alms, collected by the people’s dreams to appease the frost and sing the morning in.