Seedlings

It was not enough that they killed us.

No true child of the Dark Mother fears death- we know that when we fall, we return to her embrace, and nourish her other children.  It is part of the Great Cycle, and the knowledge brings us comfort in the face of old age, or illness.  We do not court death, but when it comes, we know it is not the end.  We know that we go on.

But they would not even let us have that.

They killed us; maidens, mothers, and crones; youths, fathers, and sages.  They killed us all, roots to leaves, and rather than let us return to the creatures of the earth, as is our custom- or even leaving us to creatures of the air, as is theirs- they fed us to their unnatural fires, so that our bodies nourished nothing, and our souls were cut loose to wander, lost in smoke and ash.

Those who survived, fled.  Those who fled, were pursued.  And those who were pursued, were caught.  And killed.  And burned.

But some of those who fled carried secrets beneath their hearts.  And when they time came, they hid those secrets among people still loyal to the true crown.  Then, empty, they fled again, drawing the hunters onward, as far as possible from those final seeds, scattered in desperate hope.