30 Days of Past Life Regression - Day 4: The Faerie Bloodline

A Lifetime of Magic in the Highlands of Scotland

Today, as I sat outside beneath the wide open sky, feeling the golden warmth of the sun on my skin, listening to the symphony of birdsong weaving through the air, and gazing at the vibrant bloom of summer flowers swaying gently in the breeze, I felt something ancient stir within me. A remembrance. A knowing. The eternal hum of magic. My magic. The world’s magic. And so, in my past life regression today, I chose to journey backwards, across the river of time, to a life where magic was not just known, it was lived.

The mists parted and I found myself in the wild hills of Scotland, sometime in the mid-1500s. The air was damp and clean, carrying the scent of moss and wild herbs, and the land stretched endlessly, untouched and alive.

I was born to a single mother, a woman who carried both mystery and radiance in equal measure. Of my father, I knew nothing. His story was never told, and oddly, it never seemed to matter. My mother’s love was enough to fill the spaces of two hearts, vibrant and all-encompassing, as though the stars themselves had poured their light into her devotion.

She was a vision of quiet strength and ethereal beauty: thick wavy dark hair that tumbled like the rivers through the glens, skin as pale as morning mist, eyes like the storm-tossed sea, grey-blue with depths that seemed to hold the old songs of the land. And across her cheeks danced freckles like constellations, scattered by some playful god who had kissed her under starlight.

We lived far from others, in a small stone cottage tucked between the folds of green hills, nearly half a day’s walk from the nearest village. Our home was wrapped in a vast garden where herbs, vegetables, and wild berries flourished in joyful abundance. At the edge of the woods, elderflowers bloomed, mushrooms pushed up through damp soil, and birch trees offered their sap like sweet elixirs. The earth was generous, and we lived in a harmony that felt like breathing with the seasons.

My mother taught me how to read the sky, how to listen to the whisper of wind through the trees that foretold rain or drought, how to know when to sow and when to reap. The land was our clock, our teacher, and our partner in all things.

There was an old woman who visited us twice each year. She was not my grandmother by blood, but she felt as though she were carved from my lineage, as if her spirit had always been part of our story. When she arrived, there was a hush to her visit, she and my mother spoke in secret, their voices low and serious, like ancient priestesses sharing sacred rites. But after their quiet counsel, the air would lighten, and she would always present me with small offerings: herb dolls bound in twine, delicately carved trinkets, and bundles of strange dried plants wrapped in cloth.

My mother always begged her to stay longer, but she never did. She came like the turning of the wheel, once in spring, once in autumn, and when I was around 15, her visits ceased altogether. My mother mourned quietly, sensing perhaps that the old woman had passed beyond the veil, though no confirmation ever came.

As I grew, so too did my gifts. I remember singing to the flowers, and watching, wide-eyed, as petals unfurled beneath my melody. My mother’s songs would thicken soups and soften bread. We spoke to the wind and sang into its currents, summoning rain when the earth grew thirsty, or coaxing clouds away when the land was too sodden. Even now, in this lifetime, I carry remnants of this, calling the clouds, shifting the winds.

The fae walked among us, some friendly, some dangerous. My mother taught me to treat them like bees: honour their presence, but do not provoke. I played with some beneath the trees, tiny lights that danced and sang in languages I still cannot translate. Others I was warned to avoid, for their trickery was sharp and unpredictable.

As the moon cycles passed and I entered my twelfth year, my days of play gave way to heavier study. My mother carried ancient books filled with languages long forgotten, texts filled with wisdom of the fae, the spirits of the land, and the healing of both body and soul. She taught me to craft tinctures for sickness, for sorrow, for summoning and protection. We prepared for long winters and lean summers, for births and deaths and all the thin places in between.

I did not understand then the urgency in her teachings, but I see it clearly now: she was running out of time. She and the old woman had seen it in the winds, read it in the fire. And so she poured every last ounce of her knowing into me, ensuring the lineage would not be broken.

When I was seventeen, she passed in the night. She knew her time had come, and whispered to me as the stars turned above us: that she would always remain near, that her love would never fade. The spirits arrived softly for her that night, lifting her essence into the quiet darkness.

The next morning, a traveller knocked on our door, a stranger asking for bread and water. When I went to wake my mother, I found only stillness. The man, kind and silent, helped me carry her to the garden, where we laid her beneath the earth she had so loved. His arrival was no coincidence; this I knew instinctively. After our task was complete, he took his bread and water and vanished down the path.

That night, I waited by the fire, perched in her rocking chair, breath held in hope. And she came, radiant and glowing, more beautiful than ever. We spoke for hours, my heart swelling with both grief and peace. She returned from the spirit world to guide me through my first lonely night.

In the nights that followed, the spirits came often. Some brought stories, some sought healing. I listened as she once had, speaking words sweet as honey, guiding them onward. I stepped seamlessly into her place, as though my life had always been preparing for this.

On my nineteenth birthday, my mother returned once more. But this time, her message shook me to my core. It was time, she said, for me to carry the bloodline forward, to have a daughter. But for that, I needed to find love.

The very thought was foreign. I had never been with a man, never even entertained the idea. I begged her for answers:

Who was my father?

How did she do it?

But she would not tell me.

“Each woman in our bloodline,” she said, “has a unique story of how their daughters come to be. Yours will not mirror mine, nor will your daughter’s mirror yours. This path you must walk alone.”

For the first time, I was adrift.

I pleaded with the wind, sang for a man to find me, begged the spirits to bring me a traveller.

But none came.

I wept into the earth, praying for someone to rescue me. Silence answered me.

And so I did the unthinkable: I left.

I stepped beyond the only world I had ever known. The village, though less than a day’s walk away, was a mystery to me. I had never ventured beyond the boundary of our lands. Fear swallowed me whole.

My gifts seemed to slip away in my fear. I found myself caught in sudden rainstorms, unable to read the skies. I went thirsty, unable to find fresh water. My fear clouded my connection, and anger brewed within me.

Why had she never prepared me for this? Why had she kept me so sheltered, so ignorant?

A week into my journey, my body gave way. The sun blazed cruelly in an unseasonal heatwave, drying the grasses beneath me to brittle whispers. I collapsed upon the earth, my lips cracked, my voice too dry to cry for help.

I surrendered fully, whispering to the Earth to take me swiftly and gently. But the Earth, in her kindness, offered me something else. A breeze kissed my skin. Soft at first, almost missed. Then again. A whisper. A reminder.

With the last threads of my strength, I sang, the rain song my mother had taught me. My voice was raspy, broken, but still the clouds gathered. Fat drops fell from the sky like mercy itself. I opened my mouth, catching each one.

The earth guided me, her curves leading the rainwater into little rivulets. I followed them until I stumbled upon a stream, drinking deeply, feeling life surge back into me. I found berries along the edge of the woods, their sweetness grounding me once more.

I remembered who I was.

I called upon the fae and spirits of the land to walk beside me. And they did. My journey, once filled with terror, now became a dance of beauty once again.

For two months, I wandered, following signs and whispers, until I reached the village. It was overwhelming, loud, chaotic, filthy, and vibrant. The din of so many voices was both music and madness.

Near the village gate stood an inn. My mother had left me coin, enough for a room and food. The inn was owned by a bitter widow, sharp-tongued and cold, but I had nowhere else to go.

One night became a week. A week became a month. I befriended a young woman who worked at the pub, and she helped me find work alongside her. The widow did not care if I knew how to serve drinks, so long as the mugs remained full.

I observed these people with wide-eyed wonder. They were so disconnected from the land, from spirit, from magic, like sleepwalkers moving through life unaware of the song beneath their feet. At first, it terrified me. Then it amused me.

My friend listened eagerly as I shared stories of the fae, of my songs, of the whispers of the wind. Her grandmother had told her such tales, but she’d always thought them nothing more than warnings to behave. Now her eyes shone with new delight. We spent our days off wandering the nearby moors and woodlands, foraging and talking to the trees.

One late autumn day, while foraging for mushrooms, we became separated. The forest cradled me into a trance, and I lost sense of time. As night fell, I heard her distant voice calling my name, fear lacing her tone.

Before I could answer, a man’s voice cut through the dark. “She is here!” he called.

I turned sharply to find a young man standing there, breathless. His face was kind, his eyes warm. He held a basket filled with mushrooms, berries, and tucked among them, tiny trinkets like those offered to the fae. He tried to hide them when he noticed my gaze, but I smiled and emptied my own pouch of similar charms into my hand. We understood each other instantly.

The rest unfolded like a song already written.

Within the week, we left together, returning to my home beneath the hills. My friend stayed behind, promising to visit often.

We spoke our vows beneath the trees and into the wind, the land itself witnessing our union. Nine months later, our daughter was born.

On the morning of her birth, there came a knock at the door. The old woman stood there once more.

She offered blessings from the spirits and whispered that we had been kissed by the fae, that their blood pulsed through our veins. She spoke of futures and pasts, placed a small dried herb doll into my daughter’s hand, kissed her brow, and vanished again.

She returned twice each year, just as before, bringing messages, guidance, and warnings. She told me the men of our line never stayed long. Mine, she said, would stay the longest, but by my daughter’s tenth year, he would grow ill and pass. And so it was.

When my daughter was fifteen, the old woman came one final time. Her last message was a gift of peace: I would remain longer in this world than my mother did with me, but I would not meet my granddaughter for the grandmothers must always pass before the granddaughters are born.

And I understood. It felt right. It was not sadness that filled me, but an ancient knowing that we are never truly apart. We walk together, lifetime after lifetime, always hand-in-hand with the magic.

The Lesson This Life Gave Me

That life taught me how swiftly fear can rise and swallow us whole. How easily we can forget who we are, even after a lifetime spent in devotion to our gifts, our magic, and our knowing.

I had lived my entire life in rhythm with the land, speaking the languages of wind and water, hearing the whispers of the spirits and the songs of the fae. And yet, the moment I stepped beyond what was familiar, fear crept in like a thick fog, blinding me from the very gifts that had once felt as natural as breath.

It showed me that even the most practised heart can be pulled into forgetting.

That even the deepest roots can feel untethered when the winds of change howl too loudly.

But it also taught me that remembering is always within reach.

The earth never abandoned me; she waited.

The wind never silenced; it whispered.

The spirits never turned away; they lingered just beyond my fear, patient and steady.

My gifts were never gone, only sleeping, waiting for me to open my eyes again.

That life reminded me that we do not lose our magic; we only lose our way.

And when we remember, when we call our gifts back into our hands, when we sing to the rain again, when we trust the wisdom that has always lived inside us, the world lights up in response. The path appears. The way forward unfolds.

In this lifetime, I carry that remembrance.

I know now that the world will test my memory, will try to convince me that I am small, that I am powerless, that I must forget.

But I also know the truth:

I am never as lost as fear wants me to believe.

I am never as far from my path as the world may appear.

I only need to remember.

Remember my connection.

Remember my gifts.

Remember my power.

And when I do, the world will rise to meet me, as it always has.

If you're ready to explore your own past lives through a guided regression, book a session here.

Or if you’d like to receive intuitive insight into a past life through a channelled message, book a past life reading here.

Your story is waiting to be remembered.

Emma Elizabeth

www.RealmsofAlchemy.com