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The priestesses haunt my dreams. they always have, even when I was a child.

I do not know when I first saw them, when my parents first took me to a ritual, it is too long ago to recall. I only know that they feel like the one constant in my life, returning every sacred night, in their terrible, fearful glory.

I know them as silence. I know them as masked faces. I understand perhaps I mix with them in the day to day, never knowing it is their faces behind the solemn purity of the masks. It is not mine to know who or why. Not now, and perhaps never.

That depends, that depends on how I learn and how I behave. It is all up to me they say.

I must come to love blood, and the redness of pain. I must learn to give this and receive. I must understand that death is just passageway, and that life is an energy to be transferred for the higher purification of the all.

They teach me, they teach me. And they are kind in their terrifying terribleness.

So I dream of them, every night. They are my guarding angels, fallen from the light, beckoning me to join them.

One dream I transgressed and reached and took off one mask, only to see my own face looking back at me. It is this, in the end, that gives me hope. That allows me to think one day I will be a priestess too, and have passed all my awful trials. Hope that I am, as they call me sometimes, a little Cassandra, a prophet in her time.

Hope that indeed, dreams come true.

(c. ) Helen M Valentina 2018