Scene Archives

sits at the loom—her loom—feet working the treadles rhythmically as she sends a silk-wound shuttle between the thin-plyed silk warp. A magnificent quetzel is perched on the top of the loom, listening as she speaks aloud. “That star, pinned steadfast at the ceiling of / the sky, he is—no, fuck, that doesn’t scan right,” she grumbles, while Heli echoes back dutifully, “no, fuck, that doesn’t scan right.”

knocks at the door–just a gentle rap. “Salme? May I come in?”

: “Of course!” she calls over her shoulder. She keeps the shuttle and the treadles moving, for the time being.

pokes his head in. He’s almost…grinning? Yes, definitely something close to a grin. “Are you busy?”

finishes this pass, letting the shuttle come to rest. “Nope,” she says, popping the P. “Just attempting to compose sonnets in honor of my beloveds, like a teenager wither her first crush.” She turns to look at him, hearing the grin his voice. “You seem pleased,” and there’s a smile in her voice to match his.

: “I am.” He grins for real this time, stepping in the room just enough to be in the room, and holding out his hand. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

blinks, and then smiles a bit more, and takes his hand. “Okay.” She’s always down for being shown something, and anything that makes him this happy will certainly be something magnificent.

does, though, gesture at Heli and turn it back into a single bright feather, tucking it away. Mustn’t leave her workspace untidy.

takes her hand in his and almost pulls her through the door, heading off down the hallway at nearly the full length of his stride–he’s laughing a little under his breath as he heads down the heretofore unused hallway, and comes to a stop before a plain wooden door. He turns and beams at Salme. “Are you ready?”

blinks, as she realizes exactly where they are, and also at the … almost boyish glee on his face. It’s a good look on him. She takes a moment or two to study it, to memorize it, to fold it away to later braid into the hope that she carrying, and then nods. “Show me this room of yours, heart-brother.”

ducks his head, almost sheepishly, then grins. “Close your eyes. I want the first sight to be a surprise.”

closes her eyes. “Tell me when to open them.”

’s face lights up–Salme hears the creak of door hinges, and then–a breath of fresh air? Green air, tree-scent air. The sound–quiet and half muffled–of crystalline, almost bell-like chimes. He takes her by her hand and leads her in–four steps, five. The Library’s floor turns to the duller sound of…dirt?…beneath her feet. And then… “Open your eyes.”

takes a deep breath of the air, shifts her weight on the dirt beneath her feet, listens to the sound of crystalline chimes, and then opens her eyes.

stands in front of her, beaming–radiant–in the middle of a path through an honest to god forest of oak and pine, with soft sunlight filtering down through a canopy of emerald green. Iridescent, broad-petaled flowers–you could swear they’re glowing faintly with an internal light–edge the path, which stretches far enough past him that his body blocks Salme’s view of wherever it goes. There’s a gentle breeze, just the perfect degree of coolness on her skin, and the sound of almost-melodic chimes subtly undergirds the sound of wind-blown leaves and–just possibly–the soft lap of water against a shore some distance away. ⁂

: “Welcome,” he says, voice a warm proud rumble, “to the Garden.”

stares, and stares, and stares, eyes darting almost everywhere, drinking it in. She stares at the trees, the flowers, the path stretching past him, then the flowers again, and then finally at him. “Light. Wolf, you wonder.” Her eyes are drawn back to the flowers and she kneels, brushing a fingertip along one, careful, careful, as she says, “this isn’t Almachadta.”

: “No. It’s not.” He looks up overhead–you can’t see through the canopy enough to tell precisely what is casting the light, but it’s not the Centrelight. It feels much more like the light of the Sun. “I don’t know what it is. I just know that it’s the Garden.” Wolf smiles, almost shyly. “There’s more. Would you like to see?”

follows Wolf’s gaze for a moment, tilts her head upward to feel the dappled light on her face, before jumping to her feet. “Do you have to ask?” And she’s grinning now, almost laughing with sheer delight and wonder. She squeezes his hand. “I want to see everything.”

leads her down the path, then, to the central clearing with it’s rough-hewn but comfortable-looking benches on the intercardinals, and its three other paths–left, right, and ahead. He leads her down the left-hand path first–to the small lake and its empty pier, and its dark tunnel leading off to goodness knows what. “There’s a lake,” he says, proudly, as if it wasn’t obvious.

: “There is. Is there a boat? Have you tried to swim in it?” She’s wearing her boots and trousers from Almachadta, and he probably gets the sense that if she wasn’t she’d be jumping into the lake immediately. “Are we going to build a boat? And that tunnel—where does that go?”

blushes a bit, and then laughs a little at herself. “I think I’m excited. I’m going into interrogation mode.”

laughs. “I haven’t tried to swim in it, no. It seems quite deep.” And it does–the drop-off from the shore is quite steep, and it goes down far enough that you can’t see the bottom. “The boat…” he smiles, a little enigmatically. “Build one? I don’t know. I think…I think there’ll be a boat when it’s time to see what lies beyond.” He gestures at the neat coil of rope on the pier. “It’s just…waiting.”

gives Wolf a brief look, slightly flat, and for a moment she is, very clearly, a slightly surly child. “Waiting,” she says tonelessly, and then she shakes her head. “Waiting is fine. It’s still magnificent. And so clear and deep.” She grins at the bioluminescent fish, and then looks at Wolf. “Did—hm. Did these places already exist, or did you create life when you made this room?”

looks off into the distance, almost pensively, down that dark tunnel of unknown ending. “I don’t…know. Something happened. I don’t think I made this place. I think I…” Wolf frowns, brow furrowing a little. “…found it? Reconstructed it?” He shakes his head, shaking himself out of his reverie as he does so. “But no. I did not make this place. All I did was make the Key.”

tilts her head at him. “I am curious about that,” she squeezes his hand again, “but, I think, I’d like to see the rest first.”

nods, then takes Salme’s hand again and leads her back to the clearing–and then to the right-hand path. It’s not far before you’re both at the strange, free-standing gate, with the small…shrine?…dwelling?…beyond it. The gate is Wolf’s height and maybe a head more, red-painted, with a paper talisman of some kind hanging from each post.

: “I’ve not been inside yet. Shall we?”

stares at it in wonder, as she’s been staring at virtually everything, before nodding eagerly. He again did not need to ask; her answer will always be yes. Still, she knows he will always ask, because that is how he is. “Yes. Of course.”

practically bounds down the path to the small structure–if it’s a shrine, it’s a bit big for what it is; if it’s a dwelling, it’s ‘comfortably snug.’ The slightest frisson passes over them as they step through the gate–like walking through a very delicate soap bubble. There’s a wooden porch that seems to run all around the structure, and a little windchime hanging from one of the eaves. Getting closer, you can see there’s a small spring or fountain nearby, that feeds a thin stream of water into a hollow…stick?…cunningly balanced so that, when it fills enough, it simply tips over, emptying itself into a small pool–and then falling back with a rather satisfying ‘donk‘ noise. And then you’re at the door, made of light wood and paper, set into a track so that it can be slid aside, instead of swung open.

stares and stares and stares. The dwelling approaches some things she’s seen on Samudra, and some things she’s seen on the Beast, but it’s also nothing like either of them. She carefully reaches her hand out and gently, gently, slides the door made of light wood and paper open.

peers inside as the door slides open–as easily as if the tracks were greased, it’s so perfectly made. Inside–a room; enclosed but not dim at all because of all the light coming through the walls of thin, almost delicate paper. The floor is made of sections of some kind of tightly-woven reed that fill the air with a wonderfully planty scent. To one side is a small firepit–carefully sheltered from what must be very flammable flooring by a ring of thick stone; with a metal tripod over the firepit, and a small cauldron hanging from the tripod in turn. To the other side are some neatly arranged cushions, what looks like a small lap desk with a small box on top, and–all the way against the far wall, next to another sliding door that can be opened for air and light–a solid, beautifully smooth block of wood set on four stubby-but-graceful legs, with two seating cushions, one on either side. The top of the block appears to be engraved with a dark grid pattern, and two small, simple, but somehow elegant baskets sit on its top. To the back is another room, obscured by another sliding door. ⁂

starts to step inside, then something–something not exactly him, but also him–makes him stop with a foot just hanging over the threshold. He looks down at his foot. “…oh.” He carefully removes his boots, sets them to the side of the door, and steps inside on sock feet. 🙧

watches him for a moment, and then also carefully removes her own boots. She looks up at the bundle of paper charms that she’s too short to look at properly. “Is there writing on those? And can you read it?” And then, because she did notice the pause, the way Wolf, who’s so at home in his own body, briefly seemed like he wasn’t in control, she adds, “or can Shijin?”

’s mouth moves, and the voice that comes out is his…but nevertheless lighter, higher, than you’ve ever normally heard him speak. “No, that’s shugenja magic. Hikaru would know, I do not.” Wolf looks rather bemused as he rubs his throat and coughs. “Well. That’s new.”

raises an eyebrow and gives him a sympathetic pat on the back. “Well. You and Aurelius can bond about being commandeered by your bird now and then, though the information is appreciated.” She takes a careful, respectful step farther inside.

does not look particularly happy about that–which is precisely when his tomestone pings. An eyebrow lifts, and he pulls it out to glance at briefly, then tucks it away. “Apparently an accident. He says he’s closer to the surface here, somehow.”

: “I was going to ask if it was—if this was familiar to you, from your dreams, or to him, from his past.” She looks at far room in the back. “May I go open the other door?”

gestures in assent. “Please. I’ll be right behind you.” When she opens the door–the room beyond is simple, but elegant. A simple, but perfectly-crafted set of drawers stands near the door of the dividing wall, and a beautifully calligraphed word (or words) in that unknown language hangs from the far wall. A thin cotton mattress lies on the floor, with a duvet on top of it. What catches your eye, however, is what lies beyond the room, past two wide-open sliding doors letting in the cool, green-scent air. The doors open onto that porch, and beyond the porch… ⁂

…there is a beautiful garden, unlike anything you’ve seen before, even in Almachadta. It’s tucked into the “L” the bedroom makes with the rest of the house, cordoned off by the treeline on its far sides–and within, a simple yet beautiful combination of mosses, dark stone paths, and small trees scattered almost–almost–haphazardly across the whole. It seems effortlessly natural, and yet perfectly created–right down to a small spring-fed runnel of water that threads through the garden and mixes plant-scent with the cool, clean scent of water. 🙧

gasps. “Oh Light. Wolf, Wolf it’s beautiful.”

, for his own part, is just staring, transfixed. “Goddess bright,” he breathes. “What a wonder.”

grins at him, and then grins and grins and grins. “That’s you, you know.” She gives him a somewhat-awkward side-hug. “Whether you built or rediscovered or remade, this entire place is …” she laughs, joy spiraling up into the sky. “This is you.”

smiles, shyly, looking around. “Though, I think…I am welcome here…but this part…” His smile takes on a wry, but warm cast. “I think I know whose house this is.” He just admires the garden for a long moment, then turns his smile to Salme. “One more thing to show. Shall we?”

: “Absolutely.”

carefully closes the front door behind them, slipping his boots back on. He takes Salme’s hand again, and leads her back–back through the gate, back to the clearing…and then to the “northward” path. This one winds more than the others, is longer than the others–once in the middle of it, you can, briefly, see neither the path’s beginning nor it’s end. The sound of crystalline chiming grows more distinct–moving from background twinkle to something more…forward. The not-quite-melody within it grows stronger, and–if she listens neither too little nor too hard–Salme might just be able to perceive the edge of words in it. Or not. ⁂

listens, is working on listening better, but probably listens a little too hard—but maybe, maybe, she catches something here or there, the curve of a consonant or two.

Forward, and forward some more, just long enough to feel almost disjointing, disorienting…and then, just as suddenly, the path sprawls out into a clearing, and in the middle of the clearing is the Tree, crystalline and shining in the soft, not-quite-dusk light, surrounded by its attendant field of iridescent blooms. 🙧

: “Oh,” she says, because there is nothing else to say, not really.

just gently tugs her forward, through the flowers, petals brushing softly across their ankles, to the trunk of it. He reaches out and–reverently, tenderly, rests a hand against the crystal trunk. “Hello again,” he says, softly. “I’d like you to meet Salme.” And his words seem to echo oddly, in the chiming of silver-edged leaves. Salme, Salme, Salme…

finds her eyes welling with tears—not quite joy, but something even greater, something for which she lacks words. She reaches out her own hand and rests it against the crystalline trunk as well, her fingers brushing against his, side by side. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you,” she says. “It seems you’ve taken good care of my brother.”

just smiles, quietly, as the gentle breeze sings softly through the crystal leaves. It has a timeless feel–as if eternity, beneath these boughs, might just be a reality. “I don’t know what this is, or where it came from,” he says, finally, looking up into the graceful arch of its branches. “But it is…important. Somehow.”

nods, because if Wolf says something is important she believes him. “Wolf, finder-of-ways and maker-of-journeys,” she says, mostly to herself, and then, more directly to him. “Do you still have that bit of my cloak I gave you? Back in the Architect’s Sanctuary? If not, that’s fine; it was a very long time ago, but I finally remembered … why it was so important to me.”

gives Salme a wry, slightly arch look–and reaches into a belt pouch, digging down and down. Up from the bottom, carefully, he pulls out that scrap of cloth, kept neatly folded, kept close. He holds it out, cupped in his palms. “Yes.”

reaches out and runs her finger over the vining embroidery. “It was my very first journey as the Sword-Saint. Badri had commissioned the cloak for me, and I was headed to Zurya, on the far side of Almachadta. And I was nervous, and worried about not being very good at the role, but I remember as I traveled on my own, hearing the birdsong and eating myself sick with berries and just—living—the joy of walking somewhere on my own two feet, fulfilling a calling I didn’t quite feel up to meeting, but determined to meet it anyway. And I sewed that story into my cloak.” ⁂

looks up into his eyes and smiles, brilliantly. “When I was telling the story to the travelers, when I realized I was talking not just about my past but our past, when I realized … in some small way, I had set perhaps the person I admire most in all the planes on his first journey as yeresh I—it meant an unspeakable amount to me. And I remembered the story of my first journey too, and it felt fitting that we met again, after all that time, and I would give the memory of it to you.” ⁂

blushes. “That’s all. But I, er, wanted to tell you.” 🙧

just smiles, gently, and takes her hand, and covers it with his, so that they’re both holding the cloth, together. “Sometimes…I feel as if we have always been together. Journeying together, learning together.” He looks up at the crystal leaves again, thinking of a distant maybe-memory, pulled out of the deepest reaches of liminality. “Perhaps we always have.” Wolf looks back at Salme. “No matter what happens. No matter what comes. I will always be with you. And you will always be with me. Even if only in memory.” His smile is so, so warm. “You have always been a part of me.”

does cry then, and squeezes his hand tightly. “I was thinking, when you were talking about being young and strange and not understood, I—I kept thinking I wish I had known you then. We would’ve perhaps hated each other even more, but maybe we would’ve just terrorized whatever village that was unfortunate enough to house both of us.” She sniffs a bit, and laughs. “I will hold you that, you know. I’m going to spin our souls together so if you ever get lost in the Worldsong again I can yank you back. Just watch me.”

laughs, softly. “As if we could ever be untwined now, O sister of my heart.” He leans in a bit, smiles. “If ever I am lost, Salme, you will not need special magic to draw me home again. You will need only call my name–and I shall hear you, even amidst the deepest darkness. How could it be otherwise? There are deeper arts than those of gnosis and spell.” Wolf looks up again, into the silver leaves, edged with the gold of warm sunlight. “Such arts are merely magic. Love…” He smiles, and closes his eyes, basking in soft light and chiming leaves. “Love is a miracle.”

reaches out, almost unintentionally, at the truth of those words.

realizes she did not ask, so she asks then, with her soul, with her self.

reaches back, openly, guarding nothing, withdrawing nothing–doing nothing, striving for nothing. Being. And answers, as ever… ⁂

: Yes.

thinks, no, is certain that he is right, that love is a miracle, and that (she | he | they) might not save the world with it, but still, every thing that makes their life worth living, that makes their world worth fighting for, is underscored with love. And she shows him the Cathedral on the Beast, herself there alone, made of fire, lit like a paper lantern, dressed in rubies, small in her humanness and vast in her sorrow, vaster in her love, and the Mother of Monsters reaching back, drowning her and then not drowning her, and then the vision Wolf has seen before—the mountain with its bright-eyed fiends, and the towers Aurelius had photographs of in the distance, and the small park nestled in a bustling city that dwarfs even Queenstown, and the smallest wren singing its little wren song, and (Salme | Wolf) knows that wren is Her, in Her immense desolation, made small and sweet and sunlit, singing a song braided with their own sparrow-song. A kelson of the creation is love—words, flowing through them both. Certainty. A miracle.

flits through thoughts—the Omniclast, immense in his love and sorrow, the wind that breaks ships on the rocks; the Mask, palimpsest of memory, that loves her and which she loves both for itself and for the people carried therein; The Scorpion Queen, the vastness she touched, once, in the library, hope like blinding light; the Dream-Whales and their warbling sorrow, their insistence it will be different this time; and, finally, the White Sun of Mu, screaming, infinitely refracting in pain. She wants to love them all. She does love them all. She will. They will. 🙧

accepts it all unflinchingly, and through it all a bright thread of pride, and a bright thread of love, twining around her memories, through them, stitching them together into a shape that is her and is him and is them. In turn, there is a thought, a memory–of water and mountains, of warsong and primal fire, of icy shadow and something beyond that–a nameless Way that unites all things, and holds them in its riverine grasp, pulling them all down through the corridors of time. A timeless Dance that danced through him, a memory of love cloaked in white, and a surrender to something far older and bigger than his fragile, mortal frame. A culmination in a vision of a world–not untouched by pain and sorrow, but transcending it–a world where courage, like wildfire, burns and grows. A shining key–and a chiming Room.

And–at the core of it, a little seed, a bud–that glints like gold-colored scales, and shines like burnished, well-worn brass. 🙧

accepts it unflinchingly as well, because he is also her, and they are one bright, proud thing, and she is split with questions, curious, concerned. Why were you so upset you walked into a ritual circle? she asks, while also she thinks, We will arrive in Mu soon and you will meet him then and I will love him as my brother as well, and also soft gratitude, for letting her see these parts of him, the parts that struggle and fight, the parts that are not the serene yeresh or the loving friend or her heart-brother in either his sly humor or his iron determination.

is unapologetic, because he cannot feel shame here–he is who he is; he is magic and fire, song and dream, and to be otherwise would to be someone else. In yearning, it happened. Just a truth, just a reality. Something unflinching, forged in fury, tempered in ice, brazen and bright. Shadow, and light. We are much alike, he/she/they think, with a healthy dollop of humor. Rash, ever rash…never change.

does not want them to apologize. They are not the sort that makes apologies. They do not need to be sorry for any of it—they just need to know, always know, that at any struggle or snarl, (he | she | they) will be there for (him | her | them)self. And also that their admiration for (him | her | them) is boundless, more boundless than the infinite sea of Samudra, or the heavy darkness at the center of their cosmos. They will change and change and change, grow vaster, stronger, stranger; push limits and boundaries; find new ways and walk new paths, but they will always remain thus: rash, loving, filled with wonder at the world.

jolts, their–his, as one become two again–eyes snap upwards, to crystal leaves and beyond.

doesn’t quite jolt, but does frown in concentration. “Was that an original composition, silmät, or did you remember something?”

nods. “It’s lovely. It’s … really, really lovely,” she looks at Wolf and laughs a little. “I’m really running out of compliments here.”

just laughs. “It’s been a day full of wonder. Maybe they just need to recharge.”

: “Caion sent us a lexicon of ancient terms but maybe I should have requested a thesaurus instead,” she says a little wryly. She sighs, content, and then looks at him. “Though. Hm. I do have one favor I’d like to ask of you. Someday, not today.”

: “Mm?”

: “Do you remember, on Tulinsuojat, before Melpomene appeared, how one of the Itkijät danced with you? They did that—well, for many reasons, but I suspect one is that I’ve wanted to dance with you for some time. I think we’d be excellent together.” She gives him a smile, just a little one, pleased and content. “So dance with me sometime?”

smiles, and bows, deep and sweeping. “Of course, my lady. It would be my honor.”

does not shine like a star, not here, but maybe she does shine like a star just a bit as she curtsies and says, “thank you.”

: “Ever,” he says, “and always.”