Post by Gray on Sept 22, 2023 15:59:47 GMT -5
Gray recalled his magic as a precise, detailed thing, lovingly polished though the years under the guidance of- Some edges are too bright to remember. His had been a magic of spaces and times, of bending the hidden corners of the world into cozy nooks. A box for keeping herbs in which time slept, a blade that cut before it touched, a staircase endless for all but those who had its key. Constrained and controlled, not like the dream-seed. The dream-seed was not his magic. Absolutely. But it was part of him, and it hurt to let it go.
“Rest.” The man told Sylvanie. “You have done so much. I am proud to witness it.” His voice was softer now, with a faint reverberation.
He would be there to catch the plant-mage by her arm, and gently guide her to sit down. He would speak of tea and honey and cinnamon and breathing, while around them a pleasant breeze picked up. Him not being Nina, he noticed nothing strange about it. What Gray also did not notice was the little seed's voice. A little voice, or perhaps two, trying to reach out, reach back to Sylvanie, without really understanding that any of them existed. It/they had no frame of reference. Its/their world was dark and without edges.
'Connections,' Gray remembered. The elder tree had spoken of roots weaving underground as if they were a tapestry of voices. The man wondered how much of that tree's wisdom had been from growing up among his peers, and how much from the magic. He hoped that the sapling would not be wise here, but rather foolish and happy.
He did not see the real-seed and the dream-seed reach out to the only thing they could, which was each other. Tentatively, they prodded the other, grew into themselves. The real-seed learned feelings that it could barely contain; the dream learned how to grow. Power grew into patterns that reflected between them ever faster, like light glinting increasingly brighter between mirrors. It had once been Sylvanie's power. Among ancient power-patterns, twin mirrors were among the most powerful; also among the most deadly for the user.
Ever louder, a whisper...about needing to escape, not knowing where, not knowing how, not even whether such a thing as escape existed, echoed. There were chirps of pain, as the plantlet(s) struggled against the only world they knew. They grew in strange ways, turning once, twice, seven times into a shape that happened to be a knot of power, not only in one space.
Without thinking, Gray reached for something in his pocket. Curiosity, he told himself; that was all it was. Sylvanie might remember his box from the Seminar. Balanced carefully on his palm, wooden on three sides and glass on the top, the minor artefact contained a black, liquid-like dust that would form faint ripples in the presence of magic. Or so it should have. Except that no liquid has ripples that grow stronger, faster when they cross each other. Then, nothing. Gray breathed out. Death?
A thin, deep mark. Singularity. Gray grabbed Sylvanie by the shoulder, as if to throw her away.
“Say, are you certain this is under contro-?”
Something broke. It might have been the dream. Dreams are notoriously easy to shatter. But all that Gray knew was that the liquid-dust box escaped his hand. He brought his hand to his chest, where a silver-leaved branch had just speared him through. There was no blood. He felt air escaping his lungs.
“Because I am not.”
The tree grew. It grew jubilantly, digging its roots into the old rock shore; into the cliff, where strange creatures long ago had been caught in stone and died. It grew taller than the cliff, and its acorns popped onto the ground with musical rings, as thick as hail. Then those acorns grew on top of the tree, and their acorns still, for millions of years or perhaps an evening, like a laughter that softened into a chuckle, until the cliff had been ground up and the sea had been drained and the world was just a soft green space. It was then that Sylvanie woke up, in a soft mossy nest. Rays of dusty green light glinted through the branches, from a sky too far away to see. The forest she would see outside her tree hollow was not quite the wide, serene space that Gray remembered...and neither was it fully like home, but it shared aspects of both. The air smelled vibrant and alive.
“Princess! Princess!” An old, familiar voice would call her. Someone she had never thought she would hear again. “You must be careful. There is a human over there!!” The speaker pointed agitatedly across a small meadow. A small, black-cloaked figure slept soundly while curled into a ball around his sword.
“Rest.” The man told Sylvanie. “You have done so much. I am proud to witness it.” His voice was softer now, with a faint reverberation.
He would be there to catch the plant-mage by her arm, and gently guide her to sit down. He would speak of tea and honey and cinnamon and breathing, while around them a pleasant breeze picked up. Him not being Nina, he noticed nothing strange about it. What Gray also did not notice was the little seed's voice. A little voice, or perhaps two, trying to reach out, reach back to Sylvanie, without really understanding that any of them existed. It/they had no frame of reference. Its/their world was dark and without edges.
'Connections,' Gray remembered. The elder tree had spoken of roots weaving underground as if they were a tapestry of voices. The man wondered how much of that tree's wisdom had been from growing up among his peers, and how much from the magic. He hoped that the sapling would not be wise here, but rather foolish and happy.
He did not see the real-seed and the dream-seed reach out to the only thing they could, which was each other. Tentatively, they prodded the other, grew into themselves. The real-seed learned feelings that it could barely contain; the dream learned how to grow. Power grew into patterns that reflected between them ever faster, like light glinting increasingly brighter between mirrors. It had once been Sylvanie's power. Among ancient power-patterns, twin mirrors were among the most powerful; also among the most deadly for the user.
Ever louder, a whisper...about needing to escape, not knowing where, not knowing how, not even whether such a thing as escape existed, echoed. There were chirps of pain, as the plantlet(s) struggled against the only world they knew. They grew in strange ways, turning once, twice, seven times into a shape that happened to be a knot of power, not only in one space.
Without thinking, Gray reached for something in his pocket. Curiosity, he told himself; that was all it was. Sylvanie might remember his box from the Seminar. Balanced carefully on his palm, wooden on three sides and glass on the top, the minor artefact contained a black, liquid-like dust that would form faint ripples in the presence of magic. Or so it should have. Except that no liquid has ripples that grow stronger, faster when they cross each other. Then, nothing. Gray breathed out. Death?
A thin, deep mark. Singularity. Gray grabbed Sylvanie by the shoulder, as if to throw her away.
“Say, are you certain this is under contro-?”
Something broke. It might have been the dream. Dreams are notoriously easy to shatter. But all that Gray knew was that the liquid-dust box escaped his hand. He brought his hand to his chest, where a silver-leaved branch had just speared him through. There was no blood. He felt air escaping his lungs.
“Because I am not.”
The tree grew. It grew jubilantly, digging its roots into the old rock shore; into the cliff, where strange creatures long ago had been caught in stone and died. It grew taller than the cliff, and its acorns popped onto the ground with musical rings, as thick as hail. Then those acorns grew on top of the tree, and their acorns still, for millions of years or perhaps an evening, like a laughter that softened into a chuckle, until the cliff had been ground up and the sea had been drained and the world was just a soft green space. It was then that Sylvanie woke up, in a soft mossy nest. Rays of dusty green light glinted through the branches, from a sky too far away to see. The forest she would see outside her tree hollow was not quite the wide, serene space that Gray remembered...and neither was it fully like home, but it shared aspects of both. The air smelled vibrant and alive.
“Princess! Princess!” An old, familiar voice would call her. Someone she had never thought she would hear again. “You must be careful. There is a human over there!!” The speaker pointed agitatedly across a small meadow. A small, black-cloaked figure slept soundly while curled into a ball around his sword.
