They tell me of their childhood...
...and their upbringing;
it is an interesting story:
The Zorza had stood up against order and refused to adapt; all things considered, after all, this is no strange thing for any growing and evolving adolescent, though the terror-like and militantly radical antics they adopted surely was a foreshadowing of an insurgency far outstretching the bounds of some mere teenage rebellion; they were the subject of monitoring from various intelligence agencies and secret police surveillances until they successfully threatened with the destruction of the divine fire had the harassment not ended in convencience with their eighteenth birthdays; this was surely a defeat for Buyan authorities; which cowered to the terms the sisters had stipulated, afraid they would release the fire-imps upon them; such was the profound respect the sisters had been given along with other various heredities of their birth; the island of Buyan spawned the Zorza and treated them well like princesses – after all, it was in their mythic duty to keep the wolf shackled at bay – but they grew all too big for their little bird-cages they had around them, for holy fire always melt iron bars... consider it a parable: power should never travel down genealogies and authority should never be inherited by anyone; it should be earned... the Zorza did not want to execute authority over some undefined, abstract 'paradise' – they wanted to strife for authority over themselves; no-one else; no thing else. They did never give a fucking shit about the greater good of Buyan, and that was the seed of the schism. They told me how they grew up with fan-posters of rock-stars such as Eve, Lilith, Lalleshwari, Enheduanna, Mother Lü, and Goddess Eris in their teenage bedrooms, and how they had carved and sculpted figurines of Al-lat, Al-‘Uzzá and Manat, the three patron goddesses of the Pagan Arabs, which they had placed thoughtfully atop their wooden altars, beautiful shrines of worship embellished with carnelian and lapis lazuli... I behold them, I rarely can muster anything eles: the sisters look moderate albeit cosmically beautiful, though disregarding their aesthetic lustre, they are quite anonymous in their physical presentations; do not get me wrong, they can easily turn the head of every man down a busy street, but never would one think anything other of them than that they are indeed two mere, ordinary girls, fathered by a father; mothered by a mother... They appreciate this. Holy work gets worked on in the shadows, not on the lustrous stages of amphitheaters; they find something valuable in their anonymity. I have supposed it is the reversion and rejection of childhood and adolescent traumata: growing up, they carried the yoke of expectations; neither one of them wanted to assume the tedious work of diplomacy, nor did any of them feel rather comfortable in the garbs of Buyan ambassadors; they ploughed their soil with the oxen that had wandered alongside whole genealogies and they became so fucking sick and tired of the weight of history: they rebelled against their lineage and they burned the cords to their families; they cut the massive rope that tied the galleon of dutiful apprehensions to its dock: yes, this is the story of how two ordinary girls discovered their innermost powers, and how they learned to cultivate them; how they tread the path of the existentialist and how they found me astray in some desolate part of the forest and this is the story of how they took me along – for we are the same – onward to the gates of Buyan, paradise of heaven; this is the story of how the holy fire was stolen from the walled garden, carried out into the wilderness passionately, ignited paradoxically with the cold and thick absenceness of darkness, then returned to set the fundaments of their world aflame... the sisters were mistresses of the flame: in the ancient Aksumite lands, they have been venerated timelessly as Great´Esato; the word for fire in the tongue of the Amharic, for the Zorza hold in their hands the keys that unlock the fire-beast from its pithole; likewise the archetype they represent can be found in the farthest corners of the cultural world; from the north american Inuit to the Yaghan tribes of the South Cone, the Terra del Fuego – spanish for land of fire; it is called so because of the many fires the tribesmen lit on the beaches as the first European man approached with his magnificent ship; the Zorza is also in the fire of the ancient Iranian Zoroastrian magicians; the Zorza is in the the halo around the burning skull of Agni, ancient Hindu deity of fire; the Zorza is in the Sacred Fire of Vesta and every other eternal flame that ever burned; the Zorza is in the fire the Indo-Aryans leap over in their anticipatory embrace of the forthcoming year: yes, they are surely the potential of house-fire and of forest-fire... it is they who wield the sword of Androktasiai in every battle of human history, for the Greek deity, feminine archetype of manslaughter, gave them their fighting swords as accolades of initiation; it is they whom kill the beasts of the forest and the wicked goat-people of the mountains: the heads of Nemean lions have been impaled on stakes all around their dwelling-places... Both the Zorza, the Morning Star and the Evening Star, had daughters on their own; Veleda and Mavia respectively. Veleda was of Germanic descent, a prominent prophetess and priestess amongst the Bructeri and Batavi peoples of the north-central Germanic lands; she led many military campaigns against the Roman invaders. Mavia was a warrior-queen of Arab descent, swift in her military prowess, achieving unity and igniting inspiration and communion amongst many nomadic tribespeople against the Roman occupation in what is modern southern Syria; after reaching the frontiers of the Egyptian lands through enduring and resilient military offensives, and having brought humiliation and the loss of many men upon the Roman occupiers, they finally sealed an embarassing truce with her on conditions she herself proudly and spinefully stipulated; such was her character and for it she cements herself in the museums of the history of human resilience as a glorious incarnation of the She-Wolf, majestic Inanna, goddess of warfare and love... Both Veleda and Mavia were beloved by their mothers, but they were the grievous fruits of fatherless conceptions: the Morning Star had stolen the semen of some Germanic tribesleader she had been infatuated with many moons ago during the exploratory campaigns of her youth; she seldom talks of it nowadays though, it must be important and feel-strong an episode to her. I have only heard her mention the father of her daughter once, and she did so with the tone of saudade caressing her spine, carried by chills of icy emotion; the Evening Star, on the other hand, had masturbated visciously the leader of a Tanukh tribe in the drunken sleep after he had raped her; she saved the semen in a small glass jar and a hundred moons later she sent her daughter to avenge the rape he had commited. That night, he died with the thrust of the scimitar, eye-locked with his only daughter staring with the iris of requital; that night, he got a good taste surely of the bitter fruit-nectars of revenge, his Saracen blood spurting outward in the fountaineous fashion from the hole in his sand-coloured body. later, Mavia and her mother celebrated; they fed the body of the father to Simargl, whom had not been fed for weeks or months, and they scoffed and taunted every bypassing man on the streets of their home. None was safe that night... Veleda on the other hand took a more pragmatic stance in the question of her father: she had even visited him later as she had grown to the warrior-queen we all modernly know her to be: they even battled rebellions against the Romans together, forging a copper-strong bond on the fearsome frontlines: surely, Veleda loved her father. Surely, Mavia hated her father...
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