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[Arahim]

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Song burst upon him like a field of dreamed flowers suddenly sprung to life. Opening their petals to a sky and sun that could only exist here, in this right now, in fragrant, clamorous unison. Impossible to imitate. Redolent, and heavy with an emotion whose complexity, and bare honesty threatened to overwhelm...


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Arahim scrubbed his hands across the coarse fabric of his kilt. They were both dirty. Sticky with sap. Bits of grass and dry soil clung to the heels of his palms where he had propped himself up when he needed to stand and gather more materials. Likewise, his knees were stained green from shifting position and perching in what seemed like supplication as he continued to work.

With the greatest of care, he wound single strands of ivy into one another until pliant vines became sturdy and retained a perfect shape. Using his thumb and forefinger as pincers, the plant's waxy leaves were pulled away from the tightening circle and set along the outside edges as adornment. They lay in such a way as to seem free and natural. The sharp angles of the ivy lending the garland a thorny look.

Near a dozen young maple leaves lay in a semi-circle before Arahim, their bright red sides facing up, and each still had their stems intact. He chose one at random, though not quite...

He chose one that felt right, and rolled it gently between his fingers so as not to bruise the delicate skin. Coaxing the leaf into a cylinder with insistent pressure applied evenly from its tip to its stem, he set each one aside in their order as he repeated the process. Every stem of every tube was curled into a hook. Every finished product displayed their color on the outside.

Vibrant.

A red so new as to stir the blood.

Where the smooth tangles of ivy gave way to grooves, and empty space, Arahim fit the crimson leaves, slashing the crown in swathes of fire. The contrast drew the eye, and bid it to travel the circumference.

That was its secret, and its power.

His now, was in finding the courage to make it his gift.

[Cezanne Abella]

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“Odd dreams of late.” Arahim shook his head, almost as if to clear them from his mind. “You were in them. Always crowned in flame.” He lifted his gaze to her finally.

Cezanne watched his dark eyes quietly. They were clear, for the first time since she had arrived on his doorstep this morning. Something akin to madness had clouded them all day, and he'd spoken in riddles and references to the past. A past, come to present. Memories revisited – old ghosts returned, unbidden.

But here in this place, discussing the cleansing of Ashencrosse, Arahim had found his wits again. He stepped back and unfastened his roughly worn leather pack. Carefully, he pulled out a small garland, woven of ivy and fiery red maple leaves. He knelt before her on the ground, and the pixies around the Mother Tree hushed their tinkling laughter and song, hovering quietly to watch.

“Crowned in flame.” Arahim repeated, and placed the garland at Cezanne's feet and backed away a step, still kneeling. His gaze was still upon the garland a moment longer before he lifted his eyes to her.

She knew these leaves. And she recognized the gift that lay in the very creation. It was a gift she would never – nor could she ever – refuse. She knelt too, and took up the circlet, placing it on her brow with careful reverence. When she rose, so did he. And Arahim smiled with a clarity she was relieved to see.

Wordlessly, they traversed the wood that spanned the distance between this place and another, not so far away, where their homes lay silent. So short a distance, and yet the land there was so different. Rife with discord, out of step with the land tended by the Mother Tree. The earth there had been excised from the world around it, and left to die. To consume itself, as madness does.

Upon the steps of the Theatre, the two paused, and Cezanne turned to him. The veil had again descended to cover him over, and she forced a smile, trying to hide her concern.

“Thank you, Arahim.”

“Till soon...” Arahim grinned, childlike, his gaze vacant.

“Aye, till soon.” Cezanne paused as she turned to her door and spoke without looking back. “Give Sylvan my regards, and a kiss to each of the children.”

“Of course!” And with that, Arahim loped easily around the stables and back toward his own home.

Cezanne watched as he left, and shook her head as a sigh caught somewhere deep within.