Eilonwy

Everything has a name - everything from the smallest clover to the wide, infinite sky. But names are there to be remembered; if you are forgotten, then so too is your name. Names hold power. The strong have well-known names, and the weak have names known only to a few. To be known is to exist.

There lies a village nestled by a river, where the lilies and lotuses blossom in bursts of vibrant and soft pink upon the waters' surface. Long ago, they were renowned for their exquisite silks and embroideries - textiles so fine and vibrant that both mortal royals and divine deities traveled far and wide for their wares. The villagers had been taught their craft by the river herself, who spun thread from her own currents and the petals upon her surface. Her only stipulation was that they never used more than a fourth of the blooms and currents.

The village and its river coexisted in harmony for an age before the son of one of the villagers developed an enterprising greed. He believed the river's rules stood in the way of their village becoming wealthy and powerful. So he traveled with his wares far and wide, selling them for exorbitant prices. His wares caught the eye of an exceptionally wealthy king who demanded a large order of the silks for his upcoming wedding. The villager accepted the commission, and when he returned to the village with his wealth, the rest of the villagers soon gladly agreed to assist to get their share.

The order was so large and the demand for fabric so excessive that the village spun thread from nearly every flower upon the river and every current in the waters. They rejoiced when they received the vast treasures promised to them for the king's order. They had festivities for a week and glutted themselves on delicacies. But when the time came to begin weaving again, the flowers did not bloom, and the currents did not run. The poor river was so diminished that she no longer had the strength to home fish for food nor nourish the land.

The villagers cried out for their river, asking why she no longer fed them. Why she no longer soothed them on warm days. Why they could no longer weave. But the river could no longer answer, for in her weak state she entered into a slumber. Over time the people had no choice but to leave, and as they settled into new homes along new rivers, they forgot the river where they learned to weave - more and more with each new generation. In time, their craft became a folksong and the river's name forgotten entirely.

On the day the river awoke, replenished and vibrant, she too had forgotten her name. She wanders along her shore by the abandoned husks of buildings, with strange memories of weaving and the faint feeling that she is more than the form she finds herself in now.