Private: “A Gathering of Heroes”

Timedate – September 18, 2006

The Akashic Library stretched infinitely in all directions, its shelves glowing with the essence of countless stories, each a thread in the great weave of Creation. The air shimmered with the quiet hum of knowledge, a resonance that seemed to echo the breathing of the Universe itself. Among these sacred halls, Peter Fae walked, his steps light but purposeful, his thoughts reflecting on the timelessness of the space around him. He felt the call of one particular tale, a moment etched deeply in his own timeline, and as he moved, the story began to surface.

Calliope, the Muse of Epic Poetry, drifted beside him. Her presence was radiant, her flowing robes glinting with the light of distant stars. Her hair moved as though stirred by an unseen wind, and her eyes shone with the wisdom of all the tales she had ever inspired. She gestured lightly, and a scroll unraveled itself from the ether, glowing with a soft, golden light.

“Peter,” she began, her voice resonant and melodic, “tell me of the convergence at Earthdance, the day when threads of the Quest first began to weave themselves into a shared tapestry.”

Peter paused, the memory rising within him like the soft glow of dawn. “It was the summer of 2006,” he said, his voice carrying both reverence and nostalgia. “The air was charged with the energy of something ancient stirring beneath the surface of the world. Earthdance was a gathering of seekers, a convergence of kindred souls. I had come to find resonance, though I didn’t yet know how deeply it would shape the path ahead.”

As he spoke, the Library responded. The air around them shimmered, and scenes began to manifest: the festival grounds alive with color and movement, the pulse of music blending with the laughter and chatter of those gathered.

“I found myself in the center field,” Peter continued, his gaze distant as he recalled the moment. “I carried twin swords, their weight a familiar comfort, and began to dance, carving arcs of meaning into the air. The dance was my way of connecting to the energies around me, of stepping between the worlds. But it was not meant for that place. A festival-goer, unsettled by the sight, asked me to move away from the circle.”

Calliope’s eyes softened. “And so, the displacement became an opening.”

Peter nodded. “Yes. Wandering the grounds, I encountered Hjeron O’Sidhe, a man whose energy thrummed with the same mythic resonance I felt within myself. He, too, wielded twin blades. Without words, we began to dance—a silent exchange, a meeting of archetypes. It was as though we had always known each other, our movements guided by an unseen force.”

The Library responded again, painting the scene in radiant detail: the clash and flow of blades, the arc of light reflecting off their steel, and the knowing glances exchanged between two souls recognizing each other across the spans of time and space. Calliope’s voice rose softly, weaving itself into the moment like a melody.

“On that day, you clashed swords in a theatrical sense,” she mused, her gaze lingering on the glowing tableau. “Yet even then, the Akasha whispered of deeper patterns. Did you not feel it, Peter? The sense that these blades would cross again, not only in dance but in the fiery crucible of ideologies and myth?”

Peter’s lips curved into a faint, reflective smile. “I felt it, Calliope. But barely, across the skein. It was a meeting of two kings, bound by the echoes of the mythic. On one level, our blades were a greeting, a recognition of kinship. But beneath the surface, there was a tension—an undercurrent of destiny and divergence. Hjeron and I carried the weight of ancient patterns, threads of the Norse mythos woven through our souls. We were meant to clash, not only in the dance of swords but as ambassadors of what it meant to be kings.”

“And did you resolve those differences?” she asked, curious. His paused, his gaze softening, trailing over the shimmering image of himself and Hjeron. “… the tales not done. This was merely the beginning of the travels we would take together. In that moment, in the summer of 2006, he was the initiation for me into a world of characters, a fellow devotee of Lady Story thick with the energies of the Olde Ways.”

Calliope tilted her head, her expression both curious and serene. “And you sought to honor his myth, even when your paths led you into conflict.”

Peter nodded, his voice steady. “Over time? Yes. I understood that our journeys, while distinct, were facets of the same greater Story. He carried his own piece of the divine, his own resonance with kingship and myth. To honor him was to honor the larger tapestry, even when we stood on opposite sides of its weave.”

The Library shimmered in agreement, the scene dissolving into a glowing thread that wound itself into the shelves, another story held in the timeless expanse. Calliope’s smile held both wisdom and curiosity, sensing the depth of the tale, its echoes reverberating through the Akasha.

“Such is the way of the Great Story,” she said, her voice like the rustling of pages. “Respect, conflict, divergence—it is not always about resolution but about honoring the truth of the myth and the role each soul plays. What happened then?”

“Hjeron led me deeper into the festival,” Peter said, his voice taking on a tone of delight. “He brought me to a hidden enclave, a sanctuary crafted by nomads and mystics. Buses and RVs had been arranged to form an intimate space, a circle of belonging. It was there I met the others—Noah McLain, Forest Schrodt, Zor Fyregod, Malakai Schindel, Solus Soulsinger. Each one carried a unique magic, a signature of the divine.”

The Library shifted, revealing the enclave in vivid hues. Fires crackled, casting warm light on faces painted with ritual markings. Instruments played softly in the background, their notes weaving through the laughter and quiet conversations of those gathered.

“And then, there was Jagara,” Peter said, his voice softening. “The Mythmaker bus. Green-painted and crowned with the antlers of a stag, she was no ordinary vehicle. She was a vessel of myth, a sanctuary of ritual. When Hjeron invited me aboard, I felt the gravity of it—the pull of something sacred. This was a place of power, a nexus of stories waiting to unfold.”

Calliope’s gaze followed his words, her expression serene yet intent. “And the ritual? Tell me of the healing.”

Peter’s brow furrowed slightly as the memory deepened. “They invited me to join them, and by fortune—or perhaps design—I had brought my lion mask, crafted years earlier by Carl Bridge. It felt as though the Akasha itself had orchestrated the moment. The ritual was profound, a weaving of energies to heal the wounds between the Divine Masculine and Feminine. The masks they wore did not conceal—they revealed. Each mask was a window into the essence of its wearer, a testament to the truth that lies beneath the surface.”

The scene materialized, glowing with the hues of firelight and shadow. Figures moved rhythmically, their masks glowing with an inner light. A sense of reverence permeated the air, mingling with the raw, unspoken truths that the ritual sought to address.

“There was a moment after,” Peter said, his voice quieter now. “Zor Fyregod reached for my lion mask, attempting to put it on. My reaction was sharp, instinctive. It was a boundary, one I hadn’t expected to defend so fiercely. Yet in that moment, something shifted. That spark of tension became the foundation of respect, of brotherhood.”

Calliope inclined her head, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding. “It was a convergence, Peter—a moment of Kairos, where the threads of your path intertwined with those of others, each carrying their own piece of the Great Story.”

Peter exhaled softly, his hand brushing against the glowing scroll that now hovered between them. “It was more than a meeting of people. It was a meeting of archetypes, a gathering of heroes. For the first time, I felt at home—among beings who shared my devotion to the mythic, to the sacred paths between the worlds.”

The Library seemed to hum in agreement, the scroll now glowing brighter, its story firmly etched into the Akasha. Calliope smiled, her presence a gentle yet powerful affirmation.

“And now,” she said, her voice like the soft closing of a book, “this story stands immortalized, a beacon for those who seek their own myth. May it guide them, as it has guided you.”

Peter nodded, his heart full. “Let it be so.”