[ry0un0suke]

2191
. . .

A cycle is defined as a full rotation from season's start, to its return. Spring to spring, summer to summer, autumn to autumn, winter to winter. Four years, one cycle. Four seasons, one cycle. Three cycles, nigh, in isolation from even the capital city. Ill, some said. It happens to Faeborne just after a century. Or it is not a physical illness, or an illness at all. Regardless, in fuller health does the Realm of Delphina's Heir make greater appearance throughout the capital. It's a miracle! Rumors even started circulating about a new novel they're working on. It's called... what was it called again? It has poems, and word flutters about the streets, stemming from Amaryllis, about a poem they have. One offered in performance to anyone who is not too keen on Delphina's history that wishes to listen. How long have they been Heir anyway? Some children were born and died in the time they have been. Steady. Consistent, while the rest of Meranthe bleeds itself every few years, garnering faces so brief that none can remember it. Consistent. Present. The very notion of anything lasting at all enough to quake fear into those in full belief that they themself might be insignificant- a self-fulfilling prophecy preached and believed only by they.
 
The faithful in Amaryllis whisper about conversations they overheard from the Heir-Luminary themself, having made rarer, yet increasingly more normal appearances back in the temple. It spreads a bit throughout the quieter streets of the district, likely reaching the greater stretches of the city soon enough. It sounds a little something like:

 

"Oh... yes. I've been working on a few poems- stories, mostly- about ah--... that does not matter. They aren't ready, but another one comes to mind. I've written poems for the entirety of my life. Each poem, strung together, is a poetry all its own. I could, perhaps, tell you exactly what was happening at the time I wrote each of them. I've published in... let's see: 2077, 2086, 2091, 2099, 2108, 2131, 2162 and... hopefully sometime before 2200, goodness. It is when? Winter, 2191. I adore winter. It is a time of reflection. How well do the little ones know their home's history? Ah, I've not shared in so long...
. . . 
Would you care for it as a poem?"

Friday, Oct 10th
530p EST
Amaryllis (550, 783)