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      good  prevails  in  the  end,  or  so  the  stories  always  say.   it  is  the  same  in  another  tale  that  is  told,   another.   there's  enough  to fill  the  whole  of  the  night  sky  over  again  yet  the  hour  grows  late  even  as  he  wishes  to  hear  more.   there  will   be  another  night,   he  naively  thinks.   there  will   be  more  stories   ( and  with  one  last  glance  into  a  darkness  that  calls  him  so,   he  resigns  himself  to  sleep,   not  knowing  the  next  time  he  wakes  it  will  be  to  ash  and  ruin )  
            
            ³\    

     how  did  magic  come  into  our  world?   who  taught  us  to  pluck  the  delicate  strands  of  power  from  the  other  world  into  ours,   to  weave  them  into  spells?   and  who  broke  the  two  worlds,   defied  first  mother  and  tore  the  wells  between?   but  it  is  the  good  son  who  prevails  in  the  end,   it  is  always  thus.  and  it  is  the  traitor  who  is  left  to  pay  for  his  misdeeds.  cleaved  from  his  godly  vessel  he  is  now  but  one  of  the  unclaimed  and  nameless  spirits  left   wandering  the  mountains  beyond  ( a  night  bird  stirs  overhead,  a  coyote  wails  in  the  distance.   the  children  cower  and  yet  he  looks  out  into  the  shadows  as  if  searching ).   
            
            ²\  

( by firelight, ) 
             
                the  old  stories  echo  in  the  night,   recanted  beneath  the  glow  of  a  half  moon.   the  children  gather  around  a  crackling  fire  watching  the   dance  of  sparks  and  embers,   their  eyes  narrowed  against  the  sting  of  woodsmoke.   there,   across  the  canopy  of  shimmering  stars  the  tales  are  told.   histories  melding  with  legend,   truths  only  half  remembered,   half  embellished.  lands  of  gods  and  spirits  and  their  world  that  lies  just  beyond   ( he  reaches  for  the  stars  nonetheless,   fingers  grasping  at  empty  air,   numbing  at  the  night's  chill ).   the  story  then  returns  to  creation  and  there  is  a  shared  groan.   it  is  a  tale  told  time  and  again.   the  children  know  this  one  well.   they  are  hushed,   and  the  story  continues.   the old  woman's  voice  rises  into  the  night,  roughened  by  age  but  holding  a  tone  that  demands  all  to  heed.   she  tells  the  old  tale  of  first  mother,   her  sons,   and  the  lavish  world  of  dreams  she  had for them.   something  changes  in  the  story  teller's  voice,  sorrow  perhaps,   thoughts  of  what  might  have  been  had  we  not  fallen  so.   she  tells  of  the  son  who  remained  and  the  one  who  left ..  
            
            ¹\