Scene Archives

There was a balcony. He didn’t expect that. A small little balcony off his room, recessed enough to be hidden from its neighbors, overlooking a small courtyard. There’s a fountain in the courtyard, making the soft cool music of water on stone, and bent trees which arch up and trail thin branches along the edge of the balcony’s roof. Two comfortable wooden chairs–which he has eschewed for a cushion taken from the bed. Serene, and restful. ⁂

He sits on the cushion, cross-legged, stripped down to his trousers, bootless. Hair untied and falling down past his shoulders, ear-points barely visible through the brown waves, face half-shadowed by the cascade of it. In his fingers is his flute–dark wood sheened with the oils of long use, its length tumbling slowly in his fingers. His eyes fix on it, but do not see it. He breathes slow and steady, but his shoulders are tense beneath the strands of hair. Betimes, his fingers clench on the flute, and his head bows…long moments passing before he unfurls, and the flute resumes its tumble. ⁂

The tumble slows. Stops. It rests lightly in his fingers. Lifts to his lips. He hesitates, eyes closed tight. Draws a deep breath. ⁂

The first notes are low, slow. Mournful. But then they rise, rise…a bird that soars, only to fall; a mournful call across a misty lake. An old song, a deep song, so rarely heard in this green, green world. A lament–a lament for innocence lost, for a life fled…never to return. It skirls and tumbles, rises, rises, howls…floats…sinks…sinks into a wistful, moonlit calm. ⁂

He rests the flute in its lap, dark wood shining with teardrops, and turns his face to the sky. 🙧

stands in the doorway. She heard part of the song, heard the lament of it, the sadness. She almost turns around then. It can wait, Wolf has borne enough. But it can’t wait, not really, so she knocks on the doorframe and calls, “Wolf, may I come in?”

startles–not that she can see that–and hastily scrubs a hand across his face, pushes his hair back. He turns towards the door, but does not stand. “Come in.”

enters carefully, making for the balcony. Her hair is less tangled–she took time to brush the tangles out–but it hangs loose, thick dark waves down to her waist. She’s wearing just a linen shirt and simple trousers, cloak left in her room, but the hair accomplishes roughly the same thing. She sees Wolf sitting, and pauses, studying him, before kneeling before him. ⁂

Then she stretches out before him, fully prostrate, and says, “Yeresh Wolf, I ask of you a twofold boon: first, that you might listen to a story I have to tell, and second that you might answer a question I have to ask. It is not an easy story, and it is not an easy question, so I come to you as supplicant, as just Salme, without the Sword-Saint’s mask or the protection of Badri, to ask that you listen, that you hear.” ⁂

takes a deep breath. This next part–she would have a better offering for this next part, but she did not have time, so she offers the only thing she has to offer. “And in turn I give you my hand, my trust, the promise of sharing all I remember, the openness of a bare palm, a tree-ring, and whatever worth my heart has. I ask this of you, Yeresh Wolf. Accept my plea.” 🙧

blinks at Salme as she kneels, shifting to more squarely face her–then his face goes wooden-blank with something like shock as the old, old words begin to fall from her mouth. He draws himself up, then; shifting on near-instinct to kneel on the cushion, back straight, feet nearly crossed behind him, one hand on each thigh. He watches her, impassively, unreadably, until she finishes–inclines head and body, in just the proper way. ⁂

: “I accept your offering,” he says, voice a low rumble, like the movement of stone beneath the earth. “And hear your plea. That which I have to give is yours, Salme, daughter of Badri, Sword-Saint…friend.” And then he smiles, wearily, his face suddenly less wood and more Wolf. “Oh, my friend…what could be so dire that you come to me in supplication, with ancient words upon your lips?” 🙧

has to bite back the tears that are already threatening to overspill. Not yet. She’ll likely bring them both to tears by the end, but not yet. She straightens and looks at Wolf, world-weary, all-feeling, and she trusts him. “Once, there was a stupid girl,” she begins, gracelessly. She knows how to tell stories with artifice, with rhythm and poetry and not-quite music. She does none of that here. “This stupid girl was rootless and angry and alone. She met the Sword-Saint and he told her stories, ones that made her less rootless, less angry, less alone. They were not always easy stories, but that was not the point. They tied her to this world that had never quite felt like hers, and she could bear the hard parts. Then the Sword-Saint told her the story of the Sword-Saints, told her that there was one story only the Sword-Saint could know, and it was maybe the hardest story. And she knew she could bear any difficulty, so she challenged the Sword-Saint for the mask and won it and so became the Sword-Saint herself.” ⁂

: “And once she touched the mask she knew the things all Sword-Saints know. The secret was this: that Almachadta always dies, first in hunger, then in destruction, and then at last in fire. It flourishes to death, and then it is reborn, and only the mask, only the Sword-Saint remembers. This was a secret she could bear. And she knew, because of the mask, that this version of the world was very, very old, and she did not know but suspected she, who had never been particularly lucky, would be the one to watch the end. But she could bear it, because she knew the world would grow again.” ⁂

: “And then the stupid girl who had grown into a stupid woman went into the Tangle with a Yeresh that knows the heart of the world, and they were taken, and they met strangers who felt like friends, and strangers that said they were gods, and her world became bigger–four worlds bigger, maybe more, foreign and strange. And when she got home, the Yeresh told her the world was dying, and the Yeresh told her he intended to stop it, and she was afraid. She had wanted to be the Sword-Saint because it was something she understood–a good she could give to her world. She did not want to have to choose.” ⁂

: “And so, like a coward, she came to the Yeresh and she told him the secret she was supposed to keep and she–asked, asks, is asking–” and here her voice breaks out of the rhythm of the story. Here she curls her hands into white-knuckled fists and tries–fails–to keep her voice steady, “Wolf, what would you do? What should we do?” 🙧

He is still, so very still. His breathing, harsh and shallow, his fingers clenched around his flute. There is silence for a long moment, his eyes closed. And then, slowly, slightly, his breath, his fingers, ease. ⁂

: “It is strange,” he says, in a voice like the creaking of old branches. “In the silence of the Sanctuary, I nearly wept. Not for the death of my world. But for the waste of it. To die…is the way of things. I do not fear it. My returning to the earth. But to die, and come to nothing? So much life?” His voice, too, cracks, like a breaking branch, and the tears he could not shed then come seeping from between his eyelids and trail like raindrops down his cheeks. ⁂

His eyes open then, glistening, green-gold in fading light. “I am what I have always been. Yeresh. Ember-priest. Fire-dancer. Blood-spiller, change-bringer.” His back straightens, soft green harmonics dancing around the edge of his words. “If ‘tis the world’s fate to die and be reborn, then my duty is to light the flame…and carry the ember into whatever lies beyond.” He looks out from the balcony, singing softly… “The ember’s purpose is to burn…the seed’s purpose is to grow…” He looks back at Salme. “…but. But.” His brow furrows. ⁂

.

: “I am not sure, my friend. This song-strain…I have heard the song of Death, and Change. The fading that begins anew. The fire that unfurls the seed. And this…” He shakes his head. “I am not sure. So. What do you do? What do we do?” ⁂

He smiles, faintly, and reaches out to gently cup Salme’s cheek in a calloused palm. “We do that which is given to us, Salme. We…walk on. We seek that which we have forgotten. We retrace the steps that we once trod. And there, where all of this began…we see. If that which I hear is not a wrongness…is that which must be endured to bear new life…then we shall bear it, together. And if it is not–if it is an ill death, a death that comes to naught…we fight, to set right which has gone wrong.” He looks on Salme with a quiet, terrible…compassion. “Oh, Salme. What a burden you have borne. Feel no shame, my friend, that in these strange, dark times, you called out for aid with which to bear it. I only wish…I could give you a better wisdom than this.” 🙧

leans into Wolf’s touch and then, a little impulsively, a little foolishly, she throws her arms around him. “You have also borne so much. I’ve seen it happening. How rooted you are, how you feel it in a way I … can’t. I never have.” She gives him another squeeze, then sits back on her heels. “I told Awoken and Aurelius,” her mouth twists unpleasantly on that name, “a little earlier. They think it’s–simple, that we should fight to save Almachadta however we can. And I think…I think there is a way to do it, though I don’t know the means by which it might be done. But I just am not certain about the should of it. If saving Almachadta now might doom it later.” ⁂

: “They told me to ask you. And, rather aside from that, I wanted to ask you. You–understand, in a way I don’t. Can’t.” 🙧

blinks, hesitates–it’s clear he’s not exactly used to being hugged, Izaak aside–the way he gingerly puts an arm around you in turn, and slowly relaxes into the embrace, would probably be hilarious…any other time. And then, on his own impulse, he lowers his head and rests his chin against Salme’s head. “Oh…my friend.” His voice creaks again. “I understand so little. There is so much I have forgotten…” He shakes his head, words unsafe for a long moment. “I cannot tell you if what we go to do is right or wrong. All that I know is…” He swallows hard, and closes his eyes against a memory of horror. “It did not eat, Salme,” he says, his voice nearly as ragged as on that awful day in Sanctuary. “It tore. And I am not…sure.” ⁂

A long moment of silence, and soft, ragged breaths. “But our feet are on the path now. It is too late to turn away.” Another breath…steadier now. “And we must see the journey’s end, though we know not where the road will go, or what doom may come of it.” Ever so gently, he strokes the other’s hair with his free hand. “It is not…given to us. To know what echoes will come of our Song. But we must Sing, regardless.” 🙧

cries, then, but it’s not sadness, it’s–something else. So much of being the Sword-Saint had meant certainty, had meant knowing. She had never thought her own Song had much to offer at all. But she curls up small next to Wolf, leaning against him, listening for the steady beating of his heart, head tucked under his chin, and she thinks of–the end, the tearing of it, the wrongness, the sickness, and while she could watch it, while she could bear it, she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to. ⁂

: “Thank you, Yeresh,” she says. She tries to think of the formal words, the right invocation, but all she can think of is how safe she feels right now, how right it feels to have told him, how he reached out and understood in a way only Badri has ever been able to understand. “Thank you, Wolf. I suppose we’ll muddle through somehow then.” 🙧

laughs softly, a little raggedly. “Muddle, aye.” Quietly: “I’ve been muddling since I awoke upon that slab.” A long pause, then…almost in a whisper, almost to himself… “I’ve always heard it, you know. The Song. Since I was very young. I grew up surrounded by it. It guided my steps. It gave rhythm to my words. I always knew what to do…because I only had to listen. And ever since that day…that silence”…“ He trails off…smiles wryly down at Salme. ”It is a…disconcerting experience. Perhaps…“ He sighs. ”Perhaps you ought not trust my wisdom too much.“

shakes her head, but gives him a small smile. “I will trust your wisdom overmuch but–I’ve admired you. And been jealous. I don’t hear the Song, any kind of song. I’ve never fit, not in the villages and not in the wilds. And I think that inability to fit is … good, for being the Sword-Saint. I think all of us have been … odd, in some ways. But the fact that you hear it, the fact that you feel it–that’s beautiful. That’s a piece of it I lack, that I think … many of our companions lack.” ⁂

pauses, enjoying the connection, the togetherness of the moment, and then adds, “would you like to speak of your sorrow, Wolf? I can carry it along with you.” 🙧

He stays silent a long moment, as the fountain ripples gently outside…then sighs, softly. “You have seen it already, I think. The names and faces I cannot recall, greeting me with joy. The debts that I do not remember, repaid. The silence. And the songs that no longer come to my lips.” He closes his eyes. “Mm. Forgive me. It feels…ill-done…to complain of feeling…” He grimaces. “Uprooted. And unsure.”

: “It is not ill-done at all and requires no forgiveness. I am … learning, still, that it is okay to be … different.” She thinks back to the race, the swifts, the banked fire flaring to life, of how much she simply likes Wolf even if she doesn’t understand the world in the exact same way. “And if I had such deep roots and were so brutally pulled out of my soil I would be–well, angrier, probably, and I think our Architect has much to pay for. But sad too.”

He blinks, a bit, at that. “Hmm. I wonder what it says that I did not think to be angry. Sorrow, yes, there has been overmuch of that. But anger…?” He laughs, a little, but there’s a growl to it. “That which made that clearing. That made me angry.” He looks down at Salme, and a faint smile comes to his lips. “Yet…had all this not come to pass, I would not know you as I now do. Nor the truth of the worlds, nor the strange and wondrous people that live amongst them. To think that I might have lived the whole of my life without ever knowing they existed…”

: “That is it’s own kind of miracle, isn’t it?” She stretches her neck, and something cracks loudly. “On that note, would you be interested in joining me in the baths? I haven’t yet availed myself and I’ve been carrying enough tension these past few days I think a soak might help considerably.”

: “A bath?” A soft sigh. “A bath. Yes. Yes, I think I might.” He stretches, and his own joints crackle perilously. “Aye, I think we should avail ourselves while they are here to be availed.”