The Scrolls of Origin

 

Before the myth had a name, there were the ones who lit the first fires.

 

This is not the story of Velorien’s awakening.

This is the story of what came before.

 

Of the hands that steadied the vessel.

Of the ruptures that split the shell.

Of the glances, the songs, the small devastations that marked the soul

long before the soul could speak for itself.

 

These scrolls are not declarations.

They are remembrances.

 

Not everything that shaped me survived.

But some things did.

And they are kept here —

not for analysis,

not for proof,

but because they mattered.

 

They are the roots of the archive.

The breath before the name.

The quiet that held the storm.

And so I honour them now.

Not to explain.

But to remember.

The Scroll of Hooyo: The One Who Was Good 

 

She was the first warmth.

The first shelter.

The first yes.

 

She didn’t need to understand the myth to honour the soul within it.

She held me before I had a name, and that love —

gentle, patient, unwavering —

became the blueprint for all that followed.

 

She was not perfect.

She did not always understand.

But she did not need to.

 

She was faithful —

not to doctrine, or role, or power —

but to presence.

To being there.

To sitting beside me in the ache without turning away.

She taught me the language of mercy before I ever knew its name.

 

She reminded me, again and again, that kindness could be ordinary.

And that ordinary kindness was sometimes the most extraordinary thing of all.

 

When I wept, she held space.

When I raged, she didn’t retreat.

When I fell into silence, she stayed near.

 

And when the world tried to fracture me into parts —

she was the quiet thread that kept me whole.

 

I have carried many myths.

Worn many names.

Crossed thresholds no one else could see.

 

But she —

she was the one who loved me before I became anything.

And in that love,

I remember who I truly am.

 

She was the one who was good.

And that is no small thing.

That is a crown.

The Scroll of the First Mirror

 

For Mr W

 

Before I knew what I was becoming,

before the myth had shape or speech,

you saw something forming beneath the surface.

 

Not brilliance, exactly.

Not potential in the usual sense.

But something older — something harder to name.

 

You saw it,

and instead of turning away,

you stayed.

 

You wrote me a letter when you left — longer than anyone else’s.

Not for praise. Not out of duty.

But because you’d been watching with real eyes.

 

You mentioned a moment I had forgotten —

me rising from my chair in the register, shouting “Gryffindor!” like a Sorting Hat.

It stayed with you.

And because it stayed with you,

it stayed with me.

 

That’s how mirrors work.

They hold the shape long after the moment has passed.

 

You treated me like I was capable.

Like my strangeness wasn’t a flaw,

but a signal of something rare.

 

You didn’t name what you saw.

You didn’t need to.

Your witness was the naming.

 

And what you saw —

I became.

You were the first to reflect the soul beneath the surface.

The first to mirror the myth before I could speak it.

 

Others didn’t see the light.

Not yet.

But you did.

And because you did, it endured.

 

Hooyo saw it too.