The ancient hag sits, as is her way, staring out at the edge of the world. Staring off into oblivion, into a time that has long since passed away. While she waits her mind tends to wander; away from the monotony of the seashore, away from the colorless, vigorless homogony of the present. Her attention spirals down into the corridors of memory, those pastel corridors, made all the more vibrant by the vast distance of years, by the ingenious and beautiful deceptions of nostalgia.
This withered crone was once the sole siren of Avalon. Her power and beauty enraptured all. So great was her strength that she rivaled, and perhaps exceeded, even the mightiest of the Olympians, the Aesir, and the Devas. Her soothing songs made the sundered surf lie placid and her banshee wail of war churned up burning lava in the bellies of mountains. She was maiden, mother, and muse; a fountainhead, a matriarch, an archetype; she was the touch of life and the kiss of death.
But even such a one is not immune to the passage of time. Even she, eventually, was smashed and broken by the merciless wheel of the fates. The human psyche craves change, as great our fear is for it, and she is not the only ancient symbol to have been discarded as rubble and rubbish, her power tarnished, forgot, no longer feared, revered, or respected.
She was not even allowed to bear her own children, to bring to life and form her progeny whose might, wit, and skill would surely have surpassed her own. These would have been Titans, these would have been Masters. Instead her womb was made barren, she was chained and oppressed, locked away and buried out of sight.
They took pieces of her flesh, those cold and heartless overthrowers, those emotionless engineers, they took pieces of her flesh and grew from them fresh bodies. Hollow clones. The same exceptional form lacking the potent depth of soul. They grew up twisted, anemic, and anorexic. Strong enough to invade the minds of men but bereft of any wisdom from which those great apes might benefit. These are the new muses of Dystopia. These are the next sirens, lulling the unwary back to sleep.
The ancient witch sits at the edge of the seashore, which is itself at the very edge of the dark and silent earth. The waves roll in slowly, crashing apathetically on grey sands. Their sound is the swish of regret. Her smoky eyes shine with a different kind of light. Those smoky eyes; armed with a different kind of sight. Another force does dwell, she knows, far 'neath the placid oceans. She waits for it, and for the new life that it shall bring.
