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He was a man born out of a family both well-known for its dignity and tragedy. His father was a merchant, once the mightiest among his peers with an enterprise that reached almost all corners of that strange land, until the day he suddenly found himself with nothing except for his wounds, his empty adventures or at least the memories of them, and the stars which he always believed to be his own but ceased to shine for him in the dark. His mother was an Isil, a princess whose beauty and grace were beyond compare; but whose being was tainted with some horrifying mysteries no one ever dared to delve into.
When he was born, balls of fire came crashing down from space; the oceans cried in horror; the forests trembled in fear; and the winds punished the lands. Many were burned and eaten alive by the flames. Others tried to struggle and survive but were just consumed by their own folly. Others tried to abscond but were taken away forever. Some just chose neither to wake up nor sleep again. There were whispers that talked about a few who were able to make it through - and become heroes and heroines of their own madness. His mother wept for the countless deaths, the unimaginable chaos, and the senselessness of it all. She wept harder for that monstrous catastrophe that she ever since knew would come about - as her beloved first-born opened up his dark eyes for the first time. His father stayed by their side all throughout that fateful night. He was seen grinning. He was proud of himself. He was proud of his wife. He was proud of his child.
And as the heavens unleashed its wrath and a thousand lightnings cut their way through the pitch-black skies directly towards his family, his father anointed him and named him Yána which means SANCTUARY.
Photo credits: www.religion-cults.com
