It was quiet and still, and again it was as though her mind was speaking to her, a house inside her mind, that housed her mother"the house she built in the vaults of Hell, in the tomb she laid in, died in, with, the one she sweat in and with that same body created her daughter, produced something before she died"Jokaneen, the warrior. She hadn't forgotten the vaults of hell, where the Manticore and his demonic assistant wrapped her up in a cocoon like state, put into their complimentary vault like shell and forgotten or the most part.

She had to live and die a stranger in this underground earthy world. She had named her child Siren; she might had called her any name, anything, but Siren was the spoken name that emerged from what was left of her decayed body There was an instant though, when child and mother stood face to face, the instant before she died, before her advancing decompose flesh rushed past her like a ghost in the wind. And then, then she touched Siren, and stopped"dead!...dead!

That is how it was, how she remembered it, not all of it, she didn't remember all of it, I mean, how she got into Siren's head: perhaps her body didn't fully stop, since her voice, her echo in her voice, the residue from this release"blindly against her solid skull slipped into Siren, an imponderable weight, like an instrument, thus was created sound, the voice.

Siren knew the voice, it was her mother's voice, it was not mere amusement out of the rage for what the demonic beings had done to in her, in Hells vaults that created the voice, it was a timorous voice searching for a window, and found it, because her character, her psyche, her essence couldn't rest. She had already been in the unforgettable valley of torment, and she was unbending. All she had left was the voice: nothing more to give to her daughter. Thus, the mind of the embryo called Siren, gave permission to the voice to enter, and it did, found a corner in the mind, and it did: now tied to an umbilical voice.

Day of Resurrection

Siren upon birth just stood there, motionless in the posture of wanting to run"not sure where, but run was in her mind; the two of them: daughter, and mother in that furious immobility, a ghost in her mind"who fell to darkness, in a room all alone in her mind, and now made her fist whisper to a daughter frozen in birth.

"Kenaj, Kenaj [Archbishop of Bruges] is dead, in the north land, the arctic of Moiromma. Ah, my daughter had but one night with him. She cried, she cried, I have never cried. She's calling me asking me to 'Wake up mother, please wake up, help me to know what to do,' I hear her plea. Child in fear, and only I can hear, and the God of Gods (she whispers: all will be ok)."