Of regrets I have none, nor reluctance about what I am about to do. I write this down not to stall the coming. The gods know I’ve had a fair share of time on this world, watching humans rise to dominance, only to lose their inheritance to lesser breed. That is their fate, and who can contest it?
Their god has decreed it, and so it must be. Our god is a long dead thing. She was dead when we first rose above our senseless, savage nature. And that was a good many moons ago. This moon is red and hurting. It mourns the death of this world. So it is, and so it should be.
In our tongue my name is Mikaliarile. My mates name was Drodvrcarasi. We were made two from one, and then made one from two. So it was, and so it should be. So it will be soon. One made two, made one. There is rhyme and reasoning to the goings and comings of things. So it is and should be.
One group of humans called us Arachne. They made a story for how we are different. We have always been as we are. This is how our dead god made us, and in our appearance she was pleased. I do not mind the human names though. Naming is a way to understand. A way to accept. Though we were never fully accepted. That is sad, but it is the way of things, and who can contest it?
Another people called me Tse-che-nako. I don’t believe they are anymore. Humans are soft things. Some days they lie down and do not arise. This is their way. Soon I will lie down and not arise. So it is, right and truly so.
Humans grew up in time, and became a great race. So great they no longer needed their god. Or indeed, any god. Our god died. Humans killed their god. This is right and truly so. Perhaps it was time in his way, and the humans were following their way. This I do not know.
The humans became gods to themselves, for truly ones such as they were worthy of worship, and having none worthy to praise their magnificence, they praised themselves. This is their way. This is right and truly said.
My people were simple. We made nets for food. We made young. Some ate their young because they did not leave to BECOME. This is right, and is our way.
Humans made nets. Their nets were beautiful, and larger than any we could make ourselves. This is their way. To make better. To be better. This was their way of BECOMING.
Old Mother is very old now. It did not used to be so old. But now it is very old. The ground shakes as she tries to birth once last. I understand. I would birth if I had young INSIDE. I have none. My young are gone. I am barren INSIDE as Old Mother before me. Her trees are gone. They have gone their way
The water is going. I know not where. This is its way, and who can contest it?
My eyes are weak from seeing all the many things they have seen. Even so I see the Daughters of Father Sky leaving their places. This is their way.
So too mine eyes are weak from the face of a god. It was taller then all things. Its voice was a terrible roar. Its breath made mighty trees faint and die. Its brightness was as the mid-day sun, and again, and again, so was the brightness.
I have more words of stories, but too many to be spoke. This is right and truly so. So now I shall cast my myself into Old Mother’s bosom, into the deepest dark. This is my way, and there are none to contest it.