Excerpts from Aioniotita by Eremos

The Song of Creation, or The Song of Spheres

(Related to the item @Alendrian Music Box)

In elder days, ere stone or star,
When silence held the world ajar,
A single note, both deep and high,
Was sung beneath the breath of sky.
That note begat a chord of flame,
And harmony, like wind, became
A wheel of sound, a turning light—
The spheres were born from song and rite.
First came the Sphere of Flame and Thought,
Then Water’s Ring, with wisdom wrought.
Air followed next, in silver tune,
And Earth was last, beneath the moon.
Each nested in the other’s grace,
A music locked in sacred space.
And at the heart, where echoes cease,
A garden bloomed in quiet peace.
There walked a man with eyes of dawn,
And she beside him, dusk and fawn.
They spoke in tones the stars could hear,
And danced within the final sphere.
In the seventh age, when the spheres turned slow,
A star awoke in shadowed woe.
Born of silence, sharp and cold,
It sang a song the spheres could not hold.
Its note was jagged, wild, untrue—
A cry that split the sky in two.
The garden trembled, roots grew thin,
As discord sought to enter in.
Then man and woman, hand in hand,
Were called to walk the broken land.
To find the star and learn its name,
Or lose the garden to its flame
They climbed through chords of shattered light,
And faced the beast of endless night.
But rather than strike with wrath or blade,
They sang the song the spheres had made.
Their voices wove the star’s own cry
Into the ancient lullaby.
And thus the discord found its place—
A minor note in major grace.
Returned they did, with wiser eyes,
The garden bloomed beneath new skies.
For harmony is not just peace,
But holding grief and love in lease.

The Unicorn Maiden repels the enemy

...A bride of war, yet dressed in white,
Her vows were sung beneath moonlight.

The unicorn, wild as storm and sea,
Bowed low to her divinity.
She touched its brow and sang its name,
And thus it bore her into flame.

An army rose with iron breath,
To claim her lands, to deal her death.
But she stood firm, with harp and horn,
And sang the song of stars unborn.

Her music broke the spears in flight,
Turned wrath to weeping, hate to light.
And when the battle ceased to be,
Her song remained—a melody.

Now legends say she walks the spheres,
Her voice still echoing through years.
A bride of peace, a flame unshamed,
A name the stars themselves have named.

The Wedding of The Unicorn Maiden and The Firebird Prince

She was born of moonlight and meadow,
A maiden crowned in spiral horn,
Whose breath could calm the storming sky
And bid the wildest beast be sworn.

He came from ash and burning feather,
A prince of flame, of wing and woe,
Whose voice could split the mountain stone
And set the frozen rivers flow.

She danced where silence kissed the dew,
He flew where thunder dared to roam.
And when they met, the spheres grew still—
The stars leaned close, the winds flew home.

He burned, she sang. He wept, she knelt.
And in that hush, their forms unspoke.
Her horn turned gold, his wings grew pale,
As fire and grace in union woke.

They kissed beneath the seventh sphere,
Where music folds and time forgets.
And from their love, a garden bloomed
With blossoms shaped like silhouettes.

Some say they turned to constellation,
A spiral flame in twilight’s dome.
Others claim they walk the sea,
Still seeking songs to call them home.

The Song of the Deep Sisters

Beneath the foam where moonlight fades,
The sisters sing in silver braids.
Their voices curl like kelp and thread,
And wake the dreams of sleeping dead.
Nymphs of tide and @Tritons fair,
With coral eyes and salt-swept hair,
They do not lure, they do not lie—
They ask the sea to teach you why.
One sang to kings who lost their crown,
One sang to ships that drifted down.
And one, the youngest, sang alone—
Her song became the ocean’s tone.

The Northern Reach

Where sky grows thin and stars bend low,
The northern winds begin to glow.
The ice does not just bite—it sings,
And carves its hymns in mountain rings.

There, heaven touches earth with frost,
And time forgets what it has lost.
The sun is shy, the moon is bold,
And silence speaks in tongues of old.

A traveler once climbed past the light,
And found a gate of crystal night.
He knocked but once, then turned to flame—
And vanished with no name to claim.

The Deeds of Halion the Bound

Halion, born of ash and thread,
Was bound in chains before he bled.
A hero not by birth or right,
But by the way he bore his fight.

He slew no beast, he claimed no throne,
He walked the world entirely alone.
Yet every village knew his name—
Not for his sword, but for his flame.

He lit the fires in darkest caves,
He sang to children born of slaves.
And when he died, the stars grew dim—
For even gods had wept for him.

The Wheel and the Garden Sphere

The wheel turns not for wrath or grace,
It turns because it must.
The stars do not recall your face,
Nor marble hold your trust.

I once walked paths where music grew,
Where thought was fruit, and speech was dew.
Now silence tends the garden gate,
And time forgets what once was true.

Shall I curse the wheel for turning?
Shall I beg the sky to stay?
Or shall I learn the art of yearning,
And sing what cannot slip away?

For memory is not a prison—
It is a lamp, a thread, a shore.
And though the sea may steal my kingdom,
It cannot take what I adore.

So let the wheel grind down my name,
Let banners fall and tyrants fade.
I’ll be forged with truth in ash and flame,
And return again to your loving gaze.