Fire on the Water, a Song in the Sky
21 Dec 2024Rawnu
The Alpine air bites sharper tonight, cold but not bitter. Snow clings stubbornly to the ground, dusting the valley rather than blanketing it, leaving the earth and faded grasses exposed. Winter hasn’t fully claimed the landscape yet, but the signs are there. The nearby lake ripples in the still air, dark and unfrozen, reflecting the stars above and the faint glow of lanterns from the commune. Tonight is the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year.This night has always carried weight. It’s the moment the darkness peaks and begins its retreat, yielding to the return of light. For millennia, humanity has marked it as a symbol of resilience, renewal, and hope. But for me, tonight feels deeply personal. After years in the void, after facing the war and the haunting songs of the Titans, I find myself here—on Earth, among my people, reflecting on what I’ve fought for, what I’ve endured, and what lies ahead.
I sat by the communal fire tonight, cradling my father’s sitar he brought with him from Leesti. Marika had kept it safe for all these years, and handing it to me, she’d simply said, “Il t'attendait." It’s been waiting for you. It felt strange in my hands at first—alien, almost—as though the instrument belonged to someone I no longer was. But as my fingers found the strings, something inside me shifted. The first notes were hesitant, stumbling through the childhood songs my father taught me—songs of planting and harvest, of seasons and the cycles of the living cosmos.
The commune sat quietly around the fire, their faces aglow in the flickering light. I saw my reflection in their eyes, a mix of recognition and distance. But as the music found its rhythm, so did I. The notes flowed, the melodies grew steadier, and then something unexpected happened. The music shifted. The tones stretched and bent, taking on an unearthly quality, echoing the songs of the Titans I’d heard in the void. It wasn’t a conscious decision. The melodies simply wove together, the human and the alien, the ancient and the cosmic. Some of the commune stirred at the sound, exchanging uncertain glances. Others leaned closer, captivated. For me, it felt like a revelation—a bridge between who I was, who I am, and who I might yet become. The song wasn’t just music; it was a statement. Darkness might linger, but the light always returns.
When the music faded, we walked together to the lake. It’s an old tradition here, setting small wooden boats adrift on the water, each one carrying a tiny flame—a candle, an oil lamp, a symbol of the sun’s return. I carried my own boat, unadorned save for a faint star engraved on its side. As I placed it on the water, I murmured a wish—not for myself, but for clarity. For a path forward that could honor both the light of the Earth and the mysteries of the stars.
The lake was alive with light as the boats floated out, their flames dancing on the surface. The reflection of stars and fire mingled, turning the water into a canvas of light and shadow. Watching my boat drift away, I thought of the long nights I’ve spent in space, the haunting songs of the Titans, the endless war. And yet, here, this simple act of lighting a flame and releasing it felt like a promise: even the longest night ends. The light always returns.
The solstice is a time of endings and beginnings. For me, it’s a reminder of the resilience it takes to bring light into the world. Tonight’s music—woven from the songs of my father and the melodies of the Titans—wasn’t accidental. It’s who I am, rooted in Earth but drawn to the stars. My journey isn’t separate from this place; it’s an extension of it. As the last flames disappeared into the night and the fire burned low, I stayed behind, cradling the sitar. I strummed a few final notes, blending the Titan-inspired rhythms with my father’s old songs. The light from the boats on the lake grew faint, but it lingered, like a constellation of hope in the darkness.
The solstice reminded me of what matters most. Darkness isn’t the end—it’s part of the cycle, just as necessary as the light. My path through the stars will carry this night with me, this balance of past and future, of Earth and the void. The sitar will come aboard the Gallifrey. Its music will guide me through the unanswered questions and the challenges yet to come. Tonight, as the longest night begins its retreat, I feel ready to carry that light forward—through the darkness, into the void, and into whatever awaits.