Grandmother Raven — Guardian of Memory in the Dragon Twin Flame Oracle

Before form, before movement, before choice, there is remembering — for without remembering, there can be no understanding of purpose.

Click HERE for chapter 1. The Commission

The Waters of the Void stirred. From that primordial depth, where time and space first learned to breathe together, Grandmother Raven emerged. She was born at the point of origin, where the matrix of worlds was first set in motion, and so she alone could pass freely between realms.

Raven saw all. Raven remembered all. She did not hurry, and she did not linger. She moved only when she had a reason.

To those who watched her, Grandmother Raven always seemed still, even as she moved.

Hearing the resonance of what had been agreed, Grandmother Raven flew toward the Hall of Records. There, within the crystalline archive of living memory, two forms of consciousness awaited descent. Sariel had taken on a citrine state, fluid and luminous, like liquid gold held in suspension. Anandariel rested in amethyst, deep and magical, alive with an inner pulse. Their awareness was intact, yet unexpressed — knowledge waiting for form.

Before the crossing, Raven paused.

She inclined her head toward Uriel, whose presence burned with clarity. Nothing was rushed. Nothing was assumed. Only when the alignment was confirmed did Raven gather the two crystalline forms in her beak, holding them close against her throat and breast feathers.

Turning toward the Earth realm on steady wings, she passed through layers of thinning light and thickening matter, through currents where memory still moved freely and into regions where it began to condense. Worlds folded and unfolded all around her, yet the silent beating of her wings remained steady as time and gravity gathered. The air carried a faint, living luminescence — not light as humans would later name it, but the subtle plasma of worlds still remembering their origin.

When at last she crossed fully into the Hyperborean realm, the air was alive with responsive presence. Raven descended steadily, circling once before alighting beside a crystal-clear river in a sheltered woodland clearing. In those ancient times, such riverbanks were strewn with crystals and gemstones, and Sariel and Anandariel would not seem out of place.

She released the two crystalline forms gently onto the mossy ground.

At once, the Earth responded.

Deep within her body, the Earth Mother stirred — not in alarm, but in recognition. She had always known dragons. Long before this moment, they had moved within her, great and patient intelligences guiding energy currents, anchoring the magnetic field, holding the slow rhythms of planetary life in balance. These dragons were vast and elemental, bound to her body and her cycles, steady as stone and tide.

But this was different.

As the world descended further into density, its field required a subtler harmonisation — one that could move between realms, between forms, between states of being. The Earth Mother felt the arrival of these two not as an intrusion but as assistance: a new note entering the chord, necessary for the phase unfolding.

The ground softened beneath the crystals. The air settled. The river adjusted its song.

From a nearby treetop, Grandmother Raven watched. She sensed that the Earth Mother had received her charges with grace.

Anandariel was the first to hatch.

She emerged eagerly, stretching and unfurling her dragon wings, violet like amethyst, catching the light as though they had always known the shape of the sky. Memory rushed back into her body.

“We’re here!” she laughed, a snort of smoke escaping her perfectly shaped nostrils.

She breathed in the scent of water, leaf, and earth. Everything felt denser than the Hall of Records, slower, yet charged with possibility. The world pressed back when she touched it. She liked that.

Moments later, Sariel broke free from his crystalline form. He emerged as a golden dragon, radiant and composed, his presence steady as the sun lifting over the horizon. Where Anandariel moved with delight, Sariel paused, attuning to gravity, to time’s one-way current, to the unfamiliar insistence of matter.

“It’s quieter than I expected,” he said at last.

Anandariel circled him, stirring the air. “Quieter, but louder too. Everything is… singing.”

“Yes,” Sariel said slowly. “Nothing is stored here. Everything is on the move.”

They stood together at the riverbank, their reflections shimmering in the water. Already, the Hall of Records felt slightly more distant — not lost, but softened.

“We should stabilise the currents first,” Sariel said. “The land will respond once it knows we’re not here to impose ourselves upon it.”

Anandariel lowered herself, pressing her claws gently into the soil. The earth answered — subtle, receptive, alive.

“As dragons, we harmonise,” she said. “We hold the frequencies steady. We remind the realm how to breathe.”

“And later,” she added, lifting her head, “we take the other forms.”

“The Elven forms,” Sariel said.

“Yes. Close enough to the humans to walk among them. To speak without overwhelming them.” Her eyes brightened. “I’m curious about them.”

“About the humans?” Sariel asked.

“And the animals,” she replied. “The birds, the deer, the small ones watching from the undergrowth. Did you feel them?”

Sariel had. In this era, the veils were thin. Humans still spoke with rivers. Animals still carried messages. Dragons were neither hidden nor feared; they were recognised as part of the living order.

“They will see us,” Sariel said. “They will know us. At least for a time.”

Anandariel smiled. “Then we won’t need to explain ourselves.”

“Not yet,” Sariel agreed. “But the Records were clear. There will come ages when density increases. When fear enters the learning field more deeply.”

She grew thoughtful. “Not because we leave.”

“No,” he said gently. “But because remembering us will become difficult. Stories will replace encounters. Symbols will stand in for presence.”

Anandariel considered this. “Then we’ll leave traces.”

“Yes,” Sariel said. “Memory will find other ways.”

They spoke then of Lemurian shores and Atlantean temples yet to rise — of times when dragons would still walk openly among humans, and times when they would withdraw, not in defeat but in patience. They reminded themselves that other intelligences would soon seek to bend the currents for their own ends — not of this realm, not born of its rhythms — introducing strain where harmony had once flowed.

“We will be remembered differently,” Anandariel said at last.

“And remembered still,” Sariel replied.

---

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The river moved. The moss breathed. Somewhere beneath the surface of the world, the currents adjusted again.

Then Anandariel stilled.

“What if we forget each other?” she asked.

The words surprised her as they left her mouth. They were not abstract, not philosophical. They came from the body — from the sudden recognition that memory here was not guaranteed, that density asked something in return for presence.

Sariel turned toward her fully. In that instant, the space between them felt altered — narrower, charged.

“We won’t,” he began, but she stepped closer before he could finish.

“What if we do?” she insisted. “What if the weight of form, of time, of living among humans presses so deeply that even we blur?”

She reached for him then, not as she had in the Hall of Records, not as a counterpart or brother — but with urgency. Her hand closed around his, warm and real, grounding him in the undeniable fact of her presence.

“It is my true will,” she said, her voice steady despite the fire rising in her chest, “to never forget the translucent quality of your skin — or the shape of your hand.”

She lifted her eyes to his.

The moment held.

Sariel felt it too — the shift, the narrowing, the way affection here could no longer remain diffuse or symbolic. He saw her not only as she was, but as she might be forgotten — and the thought struck him with unexpected force.

“And I,” he said quietly, “will never forget the intensity of your gaze.”

The vow settled between them — not sealed by ritual, not witnessed by decree, but spoken into matter itself. The land received it. The river carried it. The plasma-light in the air tightened, as if listening.

From that moment, their bond was no longer only one of shared origin.

It had become chosen.

And that choice — made in the presence of forgetting — would change everything that followed.

From the treetop, Grandmother Raven watched.

She felt the truth of it settle into place. The veil of forgetting did not mean erasure. What could no longer be held directly would be carried inward, encoded into myth, dream, and longing — for without this, purpose itself would be lost.

Raven did not interfere.

She knew this narrowing was not a failure, but a necessity — the price of intimacy with matter. What truly mattered would return when needed. What did not would fall away without harm.

As the light shifted, Sariel and Anandariel allowed their dragon forms to rest. Their elven shapes emerged — tall, luminous, closer to the human pattern, though not quite of it. They felt lighter like this, but also more exposed.

“I can’t quite remember the colour of the Records now,” Anandariel said quietly.

Sariel searched his own memory. “Neither can I.”

They exchanged a look — not of alarm, but of understanding.

“Then we’re exactly where we’re meant to be,” Anandariel said.

Above them, Grandmother Raven spread her wings.

She would remain until the first true forgetting took hold — until presence replaced certainty, and watching replaced knowing. Only then would she move on, carrying what had been witnessed back into the deeper currents of time.

Some guardians act.
Others remember.

Raven does both.

And for now, she stayed.

This chapter forms part of the living mythology behind the Dragon Twin Flame Oracle.