Scene Archives

waits a little while, in keeping with his own nature, before setting out to explore the new island himself. He keeps his blades on him but no pack–it’s not like he’s heading out into the deep forest, after all. He makes a lap around the island’s perimeter, allowing himself to enjoy the sights and scents, this strange little bit of home deposited in a world he’s coming to love as dearly as Almachadta. Then, he heads inwards–more intent, this time. He hums softly under his breath as he works his way towards the large hill where they fought the “sprites,” gnosis occasionally flickering at his fingertips as he examines a tree, or a bit of rock. A watcher might note that he’s using flourishing, burning and pellucid gnosis to test his chosen subjects, albeit with a fair bit of care where the burning gnosis is concerned.

: “Wolf!” Salme spots him from near the top of the hill. She’s wearing her modified Almachadtan garb—boots, trousers, and new gnosis-worked blouse—with the handle of a wide, shallow basket looped around her arm. The basket is an absolute riot of flowers—hydrangeas and nasturtiums primarily, but dark hellebore blooms and buttery peonies and showy asters are also piled up within. There’s dirt under he nails and a small, sleek pair of well-used clippers hanging off the basket handle. She’s bright and grinning. She trots down the hill toward him. “I was going to look for you later today, but here I found you now.”

blinks up at her–clearly momentarily surprised, having been deep in focus on what appears to be a young oak–and then smiles, warmly. “Fortuitous indeed.” He glances at the basket, grinning. “Tending to your new garden, eh?”

: “Something like that.” She looks down at the basket of flowers. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed having such easy access to plants. What about you? What were you doing?”

looks almost sheepish, shrugs. “Testing a few hypotheses, I think is how Caion might put it.” He looks around a little, taking in the island. “This is our first ‘proof,’ after all, of how we might fix our worlds.”

: “What are these hypotheses? Or would you rather keep them to yourself until you’re more certain?”

frowns, chews his lower lip a little bit. “One hypothesis, I think you’ve proven already, so I’m confident to speak to that. Burning, flourishing, and pellucid gnosis, used together, are stable. I’m not sure a thought-storm could destroy this island. If it could, it would take a massive one. Which then leads me to believe that the problem with our worlds is in their ‘singular’ natures–they’re unstable without the balance of the other two types of gnosis.” His frown deepens, his eyes looking out in the middle distance at his own thoughts. “But it makes me think of another question, one that I’m not sure how to answer.”

: “What’s the question?”

inhales, exhales slowly, tilts his head back to look up at the sky, lacing his fingers behind his head pensively. “Why did it only take three?”

: “That,” she says, “is a truly excellent question. You’d think it would take all five, right? Or six? But no.” She shakes her head. “When I—I completed the library, by the way. The shelves now contain folios that can store memory. But. When I was weaving together the gnosis to complete the library, as soon as I had pellucid, flourishing, and burning it was stable. It was more than the sum of its parts.”

smiles a little, nods. “Aye. Burning, pellucid, and flourishing intertwined are stable.” He sighs. “But then where do the other three fit?”

: “I wonder if anyone at the Academy has any theories concerning that? Or if any of our companions might have any theories.” She looks at him, thoughtful. “I actually wanted to ask you about a—well, it’s not even a hypothesis at this point, it’s really just a question. But I think you’re the person to ask.”

tilts his head at her, refocusing, coming a bit more alert. “Aye? What’s the question?”

: “You said that you dream. And in your dreams you were able to cross a distance we can’t even fathom and speak to someone from Mu. And the Polite Visitors are actually called Dream-Whales. I was curious what a dream is to you?”

blinks at that, for a long moment. “I don’t…I don’t know.” He frowns, deeply, suddenly lost in thought again, hand coming up to rub at his chin.

: “Perhaps … think on it? I don’t—have you always had dreams like that?”

frowns more deeply. “I…hmm.” He looks up at Salme. “Let’s find a place to sit, shall we? This may not be a standing kind of discussion.”

nods. “There’s a—well, there’s where we had the rite at the top of the hill, but sitting outside the circle of bushes affords us a nice view without any strange gnosis leftover.”

smiles a little, and makes an ‘after you’ gesture.

leads him to the top of the hill, but stops outside the encircling bushes which had previously been burning and have now fully grown back. She doesn’t have her cloak to sit on, so she plops down on the ground, crossing her legs beneath her.

sits, not precisely gracefully, just flopping down on the ground and letting his legs stretch out–with a bit of a wince and a rub at his back as he does so. He leans back, bracing himself on his arms, letting his head fall back and his gaze shift up to Samudra’s constant shroud of clouds. “So. Dreams.”

: “Mine are fairly banal. I’m guessing yours rarely are.”

laughs quietly. “On the contrary. Often, my dreams are just dreams. Strange, incoherent messes that make perfect sense when you’re in them and fragment at the first touch of sunlight.” He gets a very wry look, glances over at Salme. “Just not all of them.”

reaches out to him, offering him her hand, palm up, in case he wants it. “When they aren’t that, what are they, Wolf?”

smiles a little, grasps her hand briefly, but releases it. “It depends. Sometimes it’s just fragments, scattered images that simply feel more real than a normal dream, last longer in my memory. And sometimes, there are…themes. Recurring images.” He lifts his head a little, letting his wolf-green gaze cast out across Samudra’s Sea. “I would dream of the ocean. Not this, but like this, waves rolling across a rocky, pebbled shore. I would dream of a mountain–the same mountain, every time, massive, sky-splitting, snow-capped. And I would dream of…of a tower.”

: “A tower?” She’s listening, curious, not judging, just curious.

stays quiet for a long moment, staring out at the Sea, and when he speaks, his voice is almost sing-song, distant. “A great tower, gleaming like alabaster, sturdier than stone, stabbed into the land like an anchoring spike. At its top, a gleaming crystal, blacker than black, darker than dark, all the more stygian for its cradle of white. And about its base…a city, grand and sprawling, brightly gleaming, greater than any settlement I’ve ever known.”

closes her eyes when he begins to speak, trying to imagine it. She thinks she can almost visualize it, thinks that if she could just reach, take just a step more, she could almost see it, but she can’t. She opens her eyes. “These images. How do they make you feel?”

frowns, then looks thoughtful. “I’m not…sure. Awed, sometimes. Melancholy? On waking to a world where all that was fantasy.” He laughs quietly. “Where I thought it was fantasy, anyway. I thought they were just…dreams. Strange dreams, but I have…always been more than a little strange.” Wolf looks…amused. “I have always heard the Song as I do, and that is not…normal.”

: “No.” She picks up a flower, a fairly wilted peony, and starts plucking petals from it. “That was another thing I wanted to ask you. About the Song.” She hesitates, though, and continues to pluck delicate petals with curling, browned edges from the wilting bloom. “I am not. Good. With music. But it seems, more and more, that the … divine language of the world is written in music. And. I know I’ll never hear the Song, but I was wondering if you could maybe teach me? How to. Not sing, but to … understand?”

blinks for a moment, sitting up straighter to peer at Salme. “How are you not good with music?” He sounds legitimately confused. “No, you do not seem to be a musician, per se, but I’ve heard your words, your tales.”

tilts her head at him, echoing his confusion. “Those are words. Stories. There’s a rhythm and a rise and a fall to it, but it isn’t a song. At least, that’s what I’ve been led to understand.” She says the last a little bitterly.

sighs, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle and a little sad. “Then they were wrong. What is a song without rhythm and rise and fall? What is different, truly, between the meter of a verse and the notes of a melody? What is a chant but music–and what is a chant but words and verse?” Wolf growls a little in his throat. “Who was so narrow-minded and foolish as to say that your gift was lesser–“ And he cuts off, looking rather chagrined, as he guesses who, exactly, it was.

gives him a small smile, a grateful smile. “I met them, you know. After I became the Sword-Saint. I so rarely used my name. They were traveling somewhere, and they invited me to share their camp. They performed for me. My mother had—has, probably—a beautiful voice, and my father was brilliant in both composition and the lyre. They didn’t recognize me.” She frowns. “The thing is no one ever taught me. My father brought me a lyre and expected me to just—know what to do with it. I can’t actually carry a tune. And thus far, I’ve been lucky, to have you here to carry me, or to have Caion able to present a metaphor I can understand, but I don’t know. When Melpomene said I sung her forth I felt. Something. I don’t know if I could articulate what. And it made me want to … be able to do that. To sing something forth. That … probably doesn’t make any sense to you.”

’s brows come together in a rather thunderous glower as Salme speaks, and he takes a moment to breathe deeply before speaking. “First, let me say that…” He stifles a growl. “That is not how you teach. I am fortunate, in some ways, and music does come naturally to me in many ways, but even my voice needed to be trained–and that was done with patience and repetition and instruction and not ‘let me hand a child an instrument and’–“ He cuts himself off before his voice can do much more than drop into a rock-like rumble. ⁂

clears his throat, takes another deep breath, and when he speaks his voice is mostly not a growl. Mostly. “If you would like instruction in some kind of musical performance, Salme, I would be happy to provide as best I can. But…” And his voice is much gentler after the pause– “Sister, you already have a gift of creation. More than one. You create with your words, and you create with your hands, and you–not I, nor any other of us–were the first to create a place of stable gnosis, with nothing but your desires. I have heard your song, Salme. It has few equals.”

🙧

looks at him, and yes, her eyes are a bit wet, but she isn’t crying. She is beaming, though. “I love you, Wolf. I. Thank you.” She swallows, and takes a minute to compose herself, finally fully eviscerating the peony blossom. “I think. Well. I’d like some tips on being able to hum a couple notes, since that seems useful, but. I take your point. Your multiple points.” ⁂

: “That was maybe another thing I’ve held off asking you. This idea of—clan, that they have on Samudra and the Beast. Where you choose a group of people, and they aren’t precisely family, but they are yours, and you are devoted to them, and they to you. I know as yeresh you have other commitments, but. You know. You’re the last person in our group I’ve been able to have this conversation with? But. I’ve been thinking about what I want, and one of those things I want is to be clan with you. And so, I’m asking if you’d consider building that with me.” 🙧

looks, for just a moment, truly and absolutely bewildered and confused–and then his mouth works, corners of his mouth curling up, like he’s desperately trying not to burst out laughing inappropriately. “Salme,” he says, very, very carefully. “Have we not…been doing that, this entire time?”

takes a little breath and swallows his laughter, looking at Salme warmly, intently. “Sister, my place is on this road, with these companions, as long as life and fate allows me, and I have accepted that for a while now. We are bound, by care and by chance, and I have nurtured those bonds as best I can. But…” He smiles, a little wryly. “I suppose that’s a long and inelegant way to say that…yes, I would very much like to continue that work.”

looks at him in a mix of wonder and bafflement and then breaks out into laughter. “Light. Wolf, Aurelius is a bad influence on me. I’ve become as dense and prone to overthinking things as he is.” She laughs again, elated, helpless, glowing. “That is what we’ve been doing this entire time!” ⁂

shakes her head. “Did you know, I felt. Conflicted, asking you this? As if … you were somehow above me, and to be clan would. I don’t know. Make you ordinary, or lesser, somehow. But I suppose I’m not as ordinary as I feared, and that is … a silly concern to have anyway. Thank you, Brother.” 🙧

looks very, very amused at that. “I think, my friend, that you put far more stock in my dignity than I do. And…” He gives her a bit of an arch, pointed look. “You do yourself far too little credit, to ever think yourself ordinary. Even before all this–“ Wolf gestures at the island, Samudra, possibly the universe. “–you survived that which would break a lesser soul, and seized a destiny when one was not delivered to you. Do not make me prove Aurelius right, and chastise you. Father-like.” He…smirks.

: “You know,” she drawls slowly, “I kind of pointed out to Jorule that you and he have a certain amount of commonalities, and part of me wonders if Aury’s authority issues stem, at least in part, from Jorule. You’re not really disproving my point, dad.“ She straightens and grows more serious. “Though, genuinely, I appreciate it. It’s not a thing I ever saw about myself, but I’m starting to see it now.”

recoils in over-dramatic–but not entirely feigned–horror. “Similarities? Us?“ His voice pitches up rather higher than usual. “Goddess help me if I’ve ever been like that.“ Wolf grumbles and settles back into his usual register. “Yes, well. Sometimes–not always, but sometimes–it is those outside us who see us most clearly. They do not see our faults nearly as well as we do, often to our benefit.” He smiles at her, gentle and warm. “I was, and am, so very proud of you, Salme.”

: “I’m proud of you as well. He didn’t tell me the specifics, but Aurelius said you spoke with him. I know you were dreading it, and things seem—better. As for Jorule he—is kind, and often very perceptive. And he is also both old and wise beyond his years, thus.” She says it with a joking tone, but she’s absolutely, forcefully sincere. “You are, of course, considerably less challenging to have a basic conversation with, but,” she shrugs, “ I stand by my statement.”

, after a moment, adds, “I don’t want to say you’re too hard on yourself, Wolf, but you do seem to hold yourself to exacting standards. I hope you grant yourself the kindness and grace you grant me.”

gives a little sardonic half-bow, or as much as he can from sitting. “I shall trust your judgment on Jorule–truly, for the one and only time I interacted with him, I very nearly came to blows with him from how he treated you.“ He chuckles, and gives Salme an amused look–but not a dismissive one. “I am who I choose to be, and it does not burden me unduly, never fear.” Wolf does give a bit of an arch look, again. “I might point out that you, at times, have held yourself to a difficult standard.”

opens her eyes wide and bats her lashes innocently. “Me? Certainly not. I’d never do such a thing!” She shifts from feigned innocent into an easy smile. “I’m working on it. Awoken is … helping me. Aury too. You too. Everyone, really. I said the other day that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my life, and I meant it. Existential stakes aside.”

smiles softly. “I’m very glad. Very glad indeed.” He chuckles, a bit, but his gaze drifts off across the horizon. “And I, for my part, fear for our world aside. I have seen the sea…”

: “And, hopefully, one day your mountain, and your tower. I do think there is a significance to dreams, even if I couldn’t say what. Aurelius’s pamphlet mentions a woman on the Beast called ‘The Dreamer,’ and you, too, are a dreamer of a kind. I wonder—well. I can only ask you to (rotate) it.”

: “There is? Interesting…” His eyes narrow. “I almost forgot to mention. I mentioned my dreams to Caion, after a nooplankton we met showed us the tower from my dreams as a…message, of some time.” He looks at Salme directly, voice heavy with the import of his words. “The Iros dream, too, some of them. Silver-Throat is one. That tower? Is not unknown to her.”

raises her eyebrows at the mention of the noöplankton, and then raises her eyes further at the mention of the Irós. “Then I think my hypothesis about the nature of these dreams, and of some sort of connection with the Dream-Whales, is now actually a hypothesis. Of what, I couldn’t say.” She considers him a moment. “Prior to arriving on Samudra, had you ever met someone who shared the same dreams as you?”

shakes his head. “No. But my connection to the Song was unique, and…I suppose I did not think to mention it. Just one more strangeness in a life full of them. Whether other yeresh dream these things, I could not say–and now very much wish that I could ask.”

nods, and she is not looking at him, but past him, through him. “I wonder if Luĉja dreams of such things? Since they hear the Song of their world?” Her gaze focuses back on his. “You know, I’ve talked a lot about my loneliness, but I don’t know if I’ve ever thought to ask you about yours. ‘Just one more strangeness in a life full of them.’ That sounds … tiring, I think.”

: “Mm. At times. And yet…” Wolf looks out at the sea again. “I have seen the sea, and I dream of mountains. I have been a bridge between communities, and…perhaps I shall become a bridge between worlds.“ He looks back at Salme, smiling softly. “Life is ever a mixture of joy and sorrow, pleasures and pains. I would not change a step, nor a moment, for it led me here, to this.” Wolf tilts his head, wolf-green eyes meeting Salme’s. “And you? Has your journey been good? Has it been worthwhile?”

: “Yes. Absolutely. Without a second thought. Every horror, every nightmare—yes.” She laughs again, voice crackling with burning gnosis. “I sung an island into being! I fell in love twiceover. I have made friends, built clan, where I never thought I would. I have—spoken with constellations and met the first Sword-Saint of Almachadta and built a library of memory. Yes.”

: “Good. I am very glad.” He smiles, slow and fierce and warm. “You burn so very bright, o star.”

And then he blinks. “Wait. You met the first Sword-Saint?!”