Ferendolia

In Every Bloom [BONUS CHAPTER]

   Wren ran a hand over his eyes, trying to slow his racing mind.

   Folding his arms over his chest, he tilted his head back so that it rested on the tree trunk. He was nestled in a tree where the branches forked, creating a space where one could sit and have a view of the markets far below. It was one of his favorite haunts, not just for the solidarity, but also for the sounds that surrounded him.

   The whistle of the birds, the soft ushhh of the trees as they swayed to and fro, tickled by the winds which rushed under the canopy like a chilling tide. Owls called from the branches above, and crickets chirped from the undergrowth. Woodland music, his mother had called it. Murmurs and the clinking of glasses rose from below, the warmths of family, love, and familiarity never fully penetrating the understory, where Wren perched. He peered down into the glow of hundreds of floating fires, a spectator of their tranquil evenings. Couples were scattered across the grasses, arms slung around one another. Many sat in the grass or talked about experiences they had had that day. Wren could see them all from where he sat, but none saw him.

   I will be with you, Wren. his mother had said to him all those years ago. In every melody you hear, every bloom you smell. Your song is your own. Sing it happily.

   Her song had ended that night.

   In the years that followed, it seemed hard to sing any song, never mind happily. He felt like a bird who had lost its voice, crushed under a weight only he could lift.

   After a time, his voice returned, and he continued singing. He vowed then that his melodies would be cheerful, if not for himself then for Aurelia.

   His father, however, would never sing again. A ghost in his own body, he would drift from place to place, pallad and incoherent, a shadow of the man that had once filled their home with such light and joy. He seemed to shrink into himself over the years. He refused to use magic, magic which his wife had understood so well. Magic that had flowed from her lips as her love had flowed from her heart.

   It wasn't just something she harnessed and used as a tool, but something that had become a part of her, as much as anything. She could trail her hands through the air, weave it into anything she wanted with a simple word. Turn smoke into silk. Make a flower bloom in the palm of her hand. Wren had wondered at the effortlessness with which she manipulated the power, the invisible force that was always around them. In the years after her death, Wren would cling to those memories. He practiced her spells until his fingers burned. Every time he could harness it, he felt as if she were there, smiling down at him, caressing his face with her warm hand, running her fingers through his hair and singing to him...

oOoOoOo

   Wren's eyes flew open.

   Elves still paced the grasses far below, but it was noticeably later. The skies above had faded from a cloudy blue to black, throwing shadows into the canopy. The fires dancing below were the only sources of light penetrating the darkness. Wren's hands felt around on the trunk for handholds, guiding him swiftly to the ground. He felt the grass, springy and soft underfoot. Spring had already grasped the forest, succeeding winter instantaneously. 

   In every bloom you smell. Wren smiled wistfully at the white buds that shone in the gloom.

   As he made his way back up the winding trail that led to the elven houses, he looked back. Past the market and in the woods beyond, he could see lights in the distance. Stopping, he pondered them before realizing they must have been coming from the palace. Rarely was it so illuminated. He wondered if there was a special occasion.

   He continued along the path for some time before veering off. There was just enough light to see the trees on either side of him to indicate he was going in the right direction. Deeper and deeper he walked until the lights from Ferandheim had disappeared altogether, leaving him alone in the night.

   "Luma," he whispered, holding out a hand. A bright white flame flickered to life above his palm. A palmfire, a little white light that followed the caster until the charm either wore off or was extinguished.

   Only a few minutes' travel brought him to a hillside. A portion of it had been hollowed out, forming a little pocket at the base. An awning was strung up outside of it, shielding the inside from rain and whatever sun that managed to penetrate the thick leaves. Flowers crept up the sides of the hill, patches of purple and white speckling the green.

   Wren edged closer, holding the palmfire aloft. Nothing moved within. His father was likely already asleep. His aversion to magic made it difficult to find any work in and around Ferandheim. That coupled with his cheerless character made him almost as averse to elven contact as to magic. It was only in the past two years that he had managed to secure a position gathering herbs for traditional healers.

   Since Aurelia's death, his father had torn them away from their home, finding the memories too painful to bear. He and Wren had distanced themselves from the rest of the village, finding the hillside just inside the Grove's borders. There he and Wren had lived for ten long and lonely years. Wren returned to it as little as possible, leaving before the sun had risen and coming back well after dark. He saw his father even less. Drowned in his own grief, he would hardly speak, even to his own son.

   Wren ducked under the awning. The burrow was sparsely decorated: in the ten years of its existence, the space hadn't accumulated much more than the basic necessities -- a few dishes, baskets for gathering berries, a stone basin for water, and bedding. A desperate attempt had been made to enliven the space with a few potted flowers and several books that Ivy had given them, but the plants had died immediately, and the books (read at least a dozen times over) sat selfless in corners, gathering dust.

   As he moved closer, the light fell on a sleeping form, curled in the corner. Finnagean Ardelaen lay crumpled under his blankets. He seemed to have caved in, his whole body collapsing in on itself. Each year touched him in some way -- wrinkles darkening his almond complexion, grey creeping into the roots of his scraggly hair.

   Wren closed his hand, extinguishing the palmfire. He didn't need the light to find his way to bed. Breath hissing from his teeth, he sunk into his blankets. His eyes, though wide open, saw nothing. An hour or two passed without sleep. Though Wren thought of nothing, he remained wide awake.

   At last, he could bear it no more. He got to his feet and stumbled out into the night. Even as his eyes adjusted, he could see just how bright the forest was. Fireflies winked from between the trees, stars shone their light from above, and the moon beamed at him.

   And best of all...the music.

   Wren reclined in the grass, feeling the forest song wash over him. The scents, the sounds, the sights. Out here, he didn't feel so alone.

   I will be with you, Wren.

   "Luma," He watched the flame dance in his palm.

   Wren made a silent promise that night, to himself and to his father. When he graduated, he would make life better for both of them. He would rebuild what they once had. He would pick up the broken pieces of their lives and put them back together.

   With or without magic, he would succeed.

   He had to.