I have watched the rivers fall in love with stone,
curling themselves into patience,
learning the shape of waiting.
Even the twisted waters of the north
remember how to return.
To guard is not to stand alone.
Balance asks for witness.
Even I have learned this.
These lands—
my continent of crossings and quiet fields—
endure because I do not hold them by force,
but by devotion to their becoming.
I do not seek dominion.
I seek company.
From the earliest seasons,
when the world is still new in their hands—
eight winters, nine—
I watch for those who look toward what is unseen,
as if something ancient is calling them home.
Some carry light in their hair,
pale as dawn before it knows its name.
It is not beauty I recognize—
it is lineage.
An echo of the ageless woman
who learned how to stand beside eternity
without asking it to bend.
They are not fearless.
Nor should they be.
But they remain curious.
They listen.
They feel the ache of imbalance
and wish, quietly, to ease it.
Challenges will come—
they always do—
but no path worth guarding
is meant to be walked alone.
I look for those who would stand with me,
not beneath,
not ahead,
but beside.
Those who might hear me
not as command,
but as invitation.
A warmth behind the ribs.
A knowing that feels like recognition,
not intrusion.
If they answer—
even in silence—
then the bond begins.
Protégé is a human word.
What I offer is companionship
across thresholds and years.
I am Malian.
Watcher of crossings.
Keeper of what must be shared.
I wait—not for perfection,
but for the one who shines
and still chooses to stay.