Phoenix Fire
by Phlebas the Phoenician

I never knew my mother.

None of us did. It's part of what we are.

My earliest memories as a little girl, are of my father's strong grasp around my tiny fingers. Neither sights or smells, but instead the feel of his rough callouses on my palms, a tactile sensation that was somehow familiar.

As I grew, I realised that many of the things I experienced were already known to me. The wind on my face, the caress of noonlight, were as the touch of old friends, murmuring a greeting to a soul already rich in knowledge and power.

Yet, it was always the new and strange that I craved. The unusual rather than the mundane. Such things would catch my attention, and I was driven to seek out and record them. Avaricious as a dragon, it was knowledge that I hoarded, a brighter jewel than any polished gem stone, a sharper weapon than any blade.

All my life, I've been granted the foreknowledge of my race, the gift to understand what has already been felt and known by my ancestors. And now, as I feel the fire igniting just under my heart, I know that my time approaches.

I carry a child now, as my mother once did, and her birth will be my demise. For it is only from the ashes of my death that her life can begin anew.

Burn bright, then, little spark, for you will carry the knowledge and hopes of us all.