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Like all tempestuous spells, it began with a whisper.

A string of rounded consonants, melodic and guttural, wrapped around staccato vowels. Murmured beneath breath, growing within the thrum of a beating heart. Words patched together, joined with action—verbs, adjectives… pronouns.

Smoke of freshly burned sage wafted from thickly bundled herbs, a circle of flickering candlelight. The words swelled with meaning, straining against their own fleeting echo. Fluttered from ear to ear, mother to daughter; becoming thicker and more intoxicating. With each casting, vowels curved and tangled around consonants, elongating syllables with potency.

Protect the caster, preserve the spell.

Whispers became symbols, pulsing with life, painted and carved into stone. Their strength ebbing within the restraints of progress. Reminders of the old ways etched onto thick vellum and stretched papyrus—recorded and dormant.

Waiting.           

Parchment creased, stained with ink, and bound with thread. Glossed over by the flourishes of time. Leather stretched over wooden boards, sealing the words into tomes stacked between the dusty shelves of monasteries and temples. Libraries devoid of light.

And still they throbbed.

Eager fingers tumbled over rough and frayed edges, seeking utterings of a distant time. Skipping spells in search of history, as if history could exist alone.

The words know their place. They nestle into collections, brimming with power, aware they were first.