Revolutions

161 - Veil

You don't remember closing your eyes, but you awaken to warmth. Not the comforting kind, like the embrace of woven blankets or the padded grass of the hills. Something unnatural, something slightly unnerving. The ground beneath you shifts as though it's breathing, rising and falling, up, then down, in a slow, steady rhythm.

The air shimmers with an iridescent haze that bends the light into colors you've never seen. Vast arrays of indescribable spectrums.

Your gaze drifts upward, and you see it—the jacaranda tree.

Its canopy is as vivid as you remember. A cloud of violet blossoms sways gently in the breeze that doesn't brush against your cheeks. The branches twist and weave into gnarled, disturbing patterns. The bark is split in several places, cracks glowing faintly with an inner light that pulses like a slow, faltering heartbeat. The blooms lazily drift to the ground. You expect them to land softly, but the moment they touch the land, they shatter with the harsh sound of clay breaking.

The shards liquefy instantly, pooling into dark streams that slither away. They carve jagged paths across the withering land. Veins of decay split the ground open, as the cracks spread and spider outward. You've seen this before—this crumbling world, this endless rot. But this time, it doesn't feel as ethereal as before. Rather, it feels final, definitive.

Amidst the ruin, the jacaranda stands untouched, defiant. Soon, its petals fall faster and faster, the discordant crashing is all you can hear. Without warning, the sky suddenly droops, and the colors leach away. First, it's the gold of the sun, then the violet of the blossoms, until all that's left is gray. You remain tethered to this unraveling place, as if it refuses to let you go. Or perhaps it's you who won't let go.

"Brother."

The voice is soft, familiar.

You turn your head, and there she is. A young woman stands beneath the tree, her dark hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders and tattered black and gold cloak. Her form is exactly as you remember—or it would be, if not for the glaring distortions that prickle your skin.

Her red and orange dress is frayed, as though it's been dug up and pulled from the depths of a grave. Her face is pale, and her lips move in slight delay to the words that spill forth, the synchronization just barely off.

"I'm glad you've returned," she says, sounding slightly muffled like she's speaking underwater.

You try to speak, but your voice catches in your throat, swallowed by the air that thickens like syrup. As she steps closer, you notice her movements are almost jerky, disjointed, like a puppet on strings you can't see.

"You've been gone too long," she continues. "I feared you wouldn't find your way back."

You find your voice, but it feels distant, as though it doesn't belong to you. "Back to what?"

Her smile flickers, there and gone in an instant. "To what matters," she says. "To what's left."

You take a step forward, but the ground ripples beneath your feet, rebelling against your movements. Her strange, quicksilver eyes meet yours, and you feel exposed, as if she sees something in you, as if she's staring deep into the essence of your being.

"The tree," she says, gesturing to the jacaranda. "Even when the world around it dies, it blooms still. An amazing thing."

You glance at the blossoms again. Even more fall now, more than any one tree can possess. The sound of their shattering echoes louder. The liquid they leave behind snakes closer, and the smell of rot rises with it.

"What is this place?" you wonder aloud.

"This place?" She tilts her head, and for a moment, her expression softens, becomes almost childlike. "It's ours. It's always been ours. Haven't you seen it before? Haven't you felt its pull?"