We all carry our own burdens in life, some are heavier than others. None are heavier than those of tradition. Burdens are heavy when your ancestors expect perfection...
I am the voice of my people. I am the song in the night. I was born to carry on the work of my family. I was born to weave the tale of history.
So you ask who I am really? That is far less complicated. I am the daughter of Terrisa and Teagen, of the fourth dynasty of the Riordan family, once heirs to the throne of our world. We are no more nor less than any family now, but still an inherent nobility is said to run in our blood.
By the fate of our blood we inherited the task of chronicalling the history of our people after the cataclysm. The cataclysm is a pretty name given to the public revolt that brought down the monarchy, it was the first and only time in our history that blood was shed. Blood was shed to rebirth our people into a greater whole. The cataclysm is so far distant now that most have forgotten the power of it's upheaval. The Riordan family, once royalty, swore an oath never to let such events fade through time. It was that oath that dictated my birth and declared my destiny.
To say that my parent's marriage and bond was loveless would be somewhat inaccurate. I've been told once, that in their youth, they were an idolized couple. But the weight of tradition fell heavy and unexpected upon my father's shoulders. My uncle should have carried the weight of Riordan tradition, he should have been bard to the people. I don't know the true story, but suffice to say, my uncle could not bear the weight of his burden and fled in shame. My father was unexpectedly called to a task he was much unprepared for.
The man was forced to learn years in months and shoulder a burden only a life of education could prepare one for. My father became the bard of Riordan, the voice of the people. You ask what is so difficult about being a bard, a storyteller? Perhaps the job of an average bard is not so difficult, but to be the voice is another matter entirely. I suppose I should explain. My people can communicate in a verbal, spoken language, but it is not our preferred terms. We communicate through linked minds, telepathy if you will. Now an ordinary member of my race is receptive to these communications and hears generally only what is directed to them. The bard does not have this luxury. The voice of our people becomes a conduit for all communication. The bard must hear all and see all to accurately record our history.
We do not record one account, or one side of the story. We look at all views, speak from all perspectives, to better portray the truth in all matters. The bard of Riordan is trained from a very young age to handle this flux of thoughts and voices. Even with the strictest training, many bards fracture and fail. I suppose my uncle fell into that category. My father assumed the weight of the task and fell out of touch with my mother. because I am told there is no reality beyond the world of the bard. My mother for her part was a very understanding woman and it was her compassion and understanding that allowed her to fufill her duty to the Riordan family.
And by duty, I do mean me. There always must be a bard. I know my mother had no desire to give a child to the world only to lose that child to training and education, and the heavy weight of responsibility. But devotion inspired by birth, and so here I am speaking to you today. I was born in the prime of spring, to a heartbroken mother and a father who had time only to record the event, but not to acknowledge it.
At the tender age of nine seasons, or three years in your terms, I was taken from my mother's arms and deliverd to the temples to gather my education and legacy from the scribes and priestesses. It was simple at first as you can imagine, learning the old tales and myths. Traditions we hold dear, but have no truth to back up. These I had to learn to recite by heart when I was only five. The rest of my education is a bit more complicated to explain, and much of it is kept as secret and tradition. To learn to hear all, acknowledge all, but not to be overwhelmed. To filter through events with certainty and record only the important. And most of all, to observe, but maintain privacy and indiscrimination. And to never, ever interfer.
The bard of Riordan serves as historian, guide, judge, and sometimes storyteller. And often the bard has no life of their own. I believe it was my father's detachment that made my mother choose to pass on. Although she swore her duties and life had been fufilled. My mother passed on, my father withdrew further into his duties, and I disappeared into my education.
I lost ten more years to pursuits of knowledge and control. And in ten years my father further withered and aged beyond his years. It was decided by the ruling council that he had passed his usefulness and that one better suited and better trained should take his place. And at the age of ninty-nine seasons, thirty-three years, I became the youngest bard in recorded history.
The passing of title and responsibility from one bard to the next is a complex process. It is not simply the passing of honors, but of all recorded information. My father's thoughts, the history he had recorded, and all history that had been passed to him had to be transferred on. My people did not believe written word to be documentation enough. Again, the process is one I could not describe, but it was not a matter of minutes or hours, but of days and weeks instead. Weeks that drained my father of what little strength he had left. With the birth of one bard, another passed on. And that is the only personal memory I bear of my father...
I could not count to you the seasons I lost to my duties and responsibilities. Thankfully unpaired, I had no responsibility to mate or child. A nephew of mine was elected to carry my position once my time had passed. Now, seperated from it, I pity the boy. But tradition is what it is. And in the end, I was not what tradition believed a bard to be. I had hopes and aspirations that were not fitting for my position... The bard is supposed to be realistic, grounded, not to harbor dreams and fantasies.
You would not believe me if I told you how many years I lost myself in that existance, living only in words and through the lives of others. But suffice to say, it was more years than the average human mind can begin to encompass. My youth faded and with it my health. When I reached the day my hands were too tired to write, I realized the mistake of my ways, the foolishness of my dedication. I had spent lifetimes wasting myself for duty and draining my myself to satisfy creativity. That night, in the dead of winter, I summoned my nephew from the temples. In my quarters, in private, I allowed him to decide.
To decide if he wished to be the next bard of Riordan or if he desired to be free of the bond. I believe he might have taken his freedom, but years of education, of belief in duty, led him to accept his charge. And so he came to me in the dead of night for many nights and in secrecy and silence the next bard of Riordan was born and I chose to fade. My fascination with the old tales and myths allowed me to unlock old secrets. Old secrets that pertained to a gateway in the high temple.
On the final night with my nephew, I extracted his solemn promise to guard my secret and allow me to slip away while others believed I had passed on. I needed to get away, to taste freedom and perhaps to live for myself for some time. I packed what few treasures I had, namely the volumes of history I had created for my own enjoyment. Packed them and slid seemlessly away to the high temple. A voice departing for another to be born, may the ancestors guard him. There in the high temple I tested my theory on the gateway. The locks slid so semlessly, perhaps someone had passed this way not long before?
But my theories had ben correct and allowed me to open a gateway between worlds. Perhaps it was chance that landed me on this earth, perhaps it was fate. I know that adapting to this world will be difficult, and my body and soul are still so weary, still so attached to duty. But I know, know ther are stories to be told here. And perhaps her at least, there will be people to listen, if only I can learn how to tell the stories my heart can hear...
"The Voice"
Celtic Woman
I hear your voice on the wind
And I hear you call out my name
"Listen, my child," you say to me
"I am the voice of your history
Be not afraid, come follow me
Answer my call, and I'll set you free"
I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain
I am the voice of your hunger and pain
I am the voice that always is calling you
I am the voice, I will remain
I am the voice in the fields when the summer's gone
The dance of the leaves when the autumn winds blow
Ne'er do I sleep thoughout all the cold winter long
I am the force that in springtime will grow
I am the voice of the past that will always be
Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields
I am the voice of the future, bring me your peace
Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal
I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain
I am the voice of your hunger and pain
I am the voice that always is calling you
I am the voice
I am the voice of the past that will always be
I am the voice of your hunger and pain
I am the voice of the future
I am the voice, I am the voice
I am the voice, I am the voice