I was born of a seed.
Or, so my father had told me. From a very young age, my father always said that I was different from everyone else. He told me that, even though I'd been born just as they were, I was special; he told me that I was the son of gaia and that, with my mother's help and guidance, I would go on to do great things -- wonderful, amazing things. I didn't understand it then, but I trusted my his words.
I was still a sapling when my mother called me to her aid the very first time. I hadn't heard her voice, some shrill cry of a damsel in distress -- but I could feel it. I could feel her anguish and sorrow, stabbing into me like a dagger. It was a sharp, resonating pain in my chest; it made my heart ache, my head burn, and my body sore. It was a pain so intense that it invaded my dreams, marring my vision with images of barren, desolate wastes submerged in the filth of the damned.
"Father," I murmured as I sat, awakened with my hand clutching my chest over my burning heart. "It hurts."
"I know, son," he replied smoothly, gently palming the side of my face. "We're leaving."
"To help mother?" I asked, my expression pained.
He smiled. "Yes, Emeril."
___
I knelt down, lightly padding the dry, crag-covered earth beneath me. A vivid pain shot through all ten of my fingers at the very touch, causing me to wince. I'd never seen anything like this before -- it was so very different from the depths of the lush forests that father and I called home, or the rolling plains we sometimes frequented. I stood, brushing my fingers against my palms; I could feel each withered, lifeless grain peeling from my flesh, falling back to the desolate soil in a fine veil of dust.
"Why?" I all but whispered, my words devoured by the harsh, billowing winds that claimed these forsaken lands as their own. I turned my head to the side, looking up at my father. My eyes were wide with confusion, red and wet with a pain I'm still unable to describe. "Why would someone do this to mother, father? It. . . It hurts."
"Well, Emeril," the boy's father began. When Emeril, sensitive boy that he was, encountered natural anomalies, no matter what kind, Saphir always found himself trying to re-explain the phenomena to himself even as he attempted to formulate the words and reasons to give to the boy for the things he encountered. Sometimes, he was successful; other times, he found himself reverting back to the same old Terran excuses for logic that had governed his tenure as Peacekeeper. "Not everybody . . . well, very few people, really, can feel your mother the way you and I can."
He had debated with himself for weeks --months-- about bringing his beaming boy out from Sanctuary and into the real world. A part of him had wanted Emeril to grow up to be as much a part of nature as the bear or the honey badger: a stranger to society, to a world of rigid ideals, doctrines, and ideologies. Yet something about the boy never understanding what a . . . toilet, or an inn . . . or a lightning rail was unsettled Saphir, made him wonder if there was not, yet, some balance to be struck between the natural and civilization (the unnatural). Saphir had, of course, grown up in cities (or just outside of them); it was, perhaps, the very reason for his devotion to Nature and the Natural through Gaia, but there was something about seeing Emeril interact with nature, bonded with his environment as an organism bonds with its ecosystem, that almost spurred Saphir on to envy: the boy did not need a narrow buffer of ideas to justify his interactions with his homeland. He was like a fish in water who did not need to ask: "What is water?"
And, as such, Saphir feared greatly for the boy. The excursion to Arnim Tor, while a trip that promised to be perilous, would be a necessary step in getting the boy where he needed to be in order to confront the straits of moral ambiguity that would await him when he finally chose to emerge as a natural-born citizen of Terrenus. At least with desecrated land, there was no question of blame or fault; the one who desecrates the land almost certainly meant to do it and can be punished accordingly. Not so with the vast majority of crimes committed on the well-blooded continent; most times the people charged with correcting the slip-ups and minor mistakes were just as corrupt --if not more so-- as the people who committed the deeds in the first place.
"And even I had to learn how to feel her." He struggled to put it in terms the boy would understand. "It's hard for them to know that mother actually exists . . . in the same way that a bird will occasionally run into a glass plane because it does not perceive anything other than the sky. Except . . . well, in this case, mother is the pane of glass, and the sky is what other people call 'desires' . . . or 'progress' . . . or 'my goals,' and the bird is, um, what other people call 'my Self.'"
Saphir paused and tried to collect his thoughts around the boy. He was continuously astounded by Emeril's patience with him in this regard.
"Well, and in the 'metaphor'--" He had already taught Emeril that metaphor meant a convenient lie. "--the 'bird' actually breaks the glass. . . . We've already talked about metaphor and how it's difficult for some people to talk about what they mean. It's painful for me to talk about this . . . but I guess I owe it to you to be honest."
"The hard truth is that some people think they are more important than the world they inhabit; your mother is an integral part of that world, so she can be caught up in their pipe dreams. The saddest part is that . . . even though your mother loves them all . . . they can't feel it. She won't retaliate against them full-force because of that love. She chooses to suffer, hoping that they will realize their folly before it's too late."
"And we are blessed, Emmie," he continued. "Because we're given the privilege of defending her even when she will not defend her Self. We can feel her pain and stop it, and find the self-important people who wanted to bend her to their will in the first place. And this is how we can show her our Love."
Emeril's mind struggled to make sense of what Saphir was explaining. Knowledgeable of nature as the boy was for his age, there was still just so much that he didn't know and couldn't fully comprehend. The desolate plain before him, a blemish upon his mother's gorgeous visage, which seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, as far as his doe eyes could see, was one of them. And even though he'd pulled his fingers from the withered earth, the naked soles of his feet and the pads of his toes still drummed against the withered earth; his flesh molded against the as hand acrid dust, aching with a pain he knew wouldn't subside.
Unlike his father, Emeril had never needed to learn how to feel his mother's pain or joy. It was something, as far as he could remember, he'd always possessed. From the moment he'd opened his eyes for the "first time," however long ago that may have been, and saw Saphir's calm, warm smile, he could feel Her. When Emeril breathed, it was because She was gently easing the air past his lips and into his lungs. When he drank, it was from Her teat, much like an infant not yet to be weaned. When he ate, it was because She had already labored the meal, tenderizing it and making sure it was suitable for him to digest. And when he slept, it was only because her could feel Her, everywhere and nowhere, nakedly holding her child in a delicate, nurturing embrace.
She was every much a part of him as he was of Her.
"I understand, Papa," the boy sobbed, wiping away the tears that had stained his face with the back of his hand. When he spoke again, his tone was washed with utter dedication. "We'll protect mother."
Emeril didn't even wait for his father to take the lead. Instead, the boy started in a slow gait; he could see the silhouette of a massive, ebony structure peeking out from over the horizon. There. That had to be it -- his mother's excruciating pain pulsed the most notably there. It was as if She, Herself, was placing each step that the young son took; as if her fingers were wrapped around his ankles, dictating where each nimble foot would fall.
A flash of light radiated from one of the seeds embedded in the bracer coiling about Emeril's wrist, magnificent and seething with druidic magic; filled with life. And then, very casually, it peeled from the bark and descended into one of the many spider-webbed crags beneath him.
Glancing to his side, he called to Saphir lightly. "I love you, Papa."
When Emeril began walking, Saphir briefly took to the ground on both knees. The ground, like a reptilian skin, stretched around his body warmed by the sun. The desolation, like a black rock spread far beneath the surface of the land, seemed palpable, to possess a thermic heartbeat of its own. In his mind, he recited:
Mother Gaia, I pray to you; I ask that you keep the boy safe.
His intentions are true and all that he does is for you;
I pray that you watch over him, Mother.
Gradually, as the boy walked, a resplendent aura, laurels of light and holy blessing, began to flourish above Emeril's head: a fitting crown for such a prince of peace. Saphir followed at the boy's heels, flagging left at a distance of approximately five feet.
"I love you too, Emeril," he murmured, as though afraid to let such an admission propagate in a place like this.
"When we come to places like this, it can be tempting to believe that Mother has nothing at all to do with them, but it's important for us to remember that she's here, even here. Remember the aspect of the Wyrm, Emeril? The one that devours and takes? Places like this one are where the Wyrm has reigned rampant, usually for years. The Wyrm, in itself, is not evil. It acts according to its nature. The inchworm inches; the Wyrm eats."
"But if we eat too much for too long, then we get sick -- and this is a place where Mother is sick. You remember the aspect of the Wyld? The opposite of destruction is creation, even though, as we know, the two walk hand and hand and cannot be separated into true 'opposites.' The Wyld exists to balance with the Wyrm, and you and I help the Wyld to establish the balance in places where its presence has been neutralized. We become part of the natural cosmic order, establishing equilibrium when the primary order --as it does and must-- tends too far toward disorder. Through our secondary compensation, we become like mushrooms breaking down a fallen log or jackals breaking bones to free the marrow inside."
"We should thank your Mother for giving us the privilege of such a purpose before we get too far ahead of ourselves." Saphir palmed a seed, one that would, one day, grow into an ash tree if left to its own devices.
Spoiler:
Indeed, Emeril recalled the tale of the Wyrm as if he'd been told it yesterday. The savage beast who was innately savage; not evil, simply lacking the capacity to care outside of its own needs and survival. The young druid could easily see how such a creature could thrive in such a wretched, barren waste; it reminded him of yet another saying he'd heard, one that his father vehemently abhorred: survival of the fittest. And it was through his own perception of what was and wasn't, with very little persuasion from his father, that Emeril had come to detest such a ideology as well.
Childish as it may have been, Emeril liked to think that love was what helped all of his mother's creations survive. The rabbit sacrificed itself to the wolf so that it could sustain itself out of love, just as Gaia allowed the tender rabbit to feast of her green-fleshed bosom. It was out of love that mother gaia had shielded Saphir and Emeril so feverishly from the machinations of the industrialized Terrenian world, and it was that very same love that drove the two druids to protect her. Love is the true key to unlocking all things; hatred is but a metaphor.
Their journey to the heart of arnim tor, a land riddled with fire and darkness and plagued by acrid rot and disease, was long. Emeril's bracer had, at random intervals, continued to embellish the seeds embedded across its bark, and drop them thereafter. The essence of life that coursed within them only continued to swell once it had detached from the source, ripening like the seasonal fruit of a plentiful harvest. By the time the father and son duo had reached the first of several hundred stairs leading to the entrance of the forsaken citadel, hundreds had already been relinquished to the malnourished landscape.
Noting the presence of the living, one of the two skeletal guards lurched forward, moving to the edge of the stairs in an awkward gait. Its spear, rusted and gnarled -- yet still easily sharp enough to sunder the most resilient of flesh --, pointed toward Emeril. "You are not welc--"
"Be sated, Wyrm," the boy interjected, raising his hand, fingers sprawled to expose the luminous seed comfortably nestled against the flesh of his palm. "You have feasted heartily." Punctuating the boys statement was a single, sinuous vine. It crept along the staircase like a serpent to its prey, ensnaring the undead warrior by the leg. It scaled further, circling the appendage of bone and sinew, until it had restricted the poor creature's body entirely.
Emeril could feel its pain, and with a light pinch to the small seed, itself, the power of life and creation ripped through the tortured spirit's figure. Its soul, which had been enslaved to the necromancer within the deepest bowels of the citadel, was freed. The blue, ethereal flame that marked all He'd claimed was washed away. A radiant pillar of light erupted from the decimated earth and into the skies, and within this husk could the silhouette of a figure -- perhaps a man, perhaps a woman -- be seen rising. And just like the magnificence of an explosion, the lights flickered away. "It is time for you to rest," he spoke freely, openly, his words no longer hindered by the sadness of his mother's pain.
Emeril could already feel her rejoicing.
Last edited by King; 05-10-2012 at 06:02 PM.
The second skeletal guard reacted almost . . . comically to its partners' interrupt by the leaf boy. Its initial reaction was to lower its spear toward the child, as though Emeril's words bore thorns that could penetrate its very soul through the air. It edged away from the boy, retreating two steps as though in trepidation --though the actual motivation was more akin to confusion-- and, consequently, made room for the tardy Saphir, no less than three paces behind the child at all times.
As Saphir moved forward, the ragged edges of a deltoid mantle --that seamless net of olive-green-- shone around his shoulders briefly. His right hand reached into the space between his shoulder and his skull and procured, as though from thin air, a long ironwood polearm of approximately eight feet in length. A curling script that spread from pole to pole made a spell-cylinder of the entire construct, but even in its inert state, the staff seemed to suggest a beneficent freedom; the exposed heartwood at each end bled auric blessings that promised release for the souls of even the most hardened and entrenched thralls.
With a practiced motion, Saphir slid the pole from its extradimensional "sheath" and set it carefully across his shoulders. In terms of length, the staff exceeded his arm span by approximately one foot on either side of his body. He would have seemed like a holy man strung up on his crucifix had it not been for the look of serene joy that courted his features.
He made as though to swing at the skeleton from the right, but feinted rapidly to the left, letting the length of the spear flow effortlessly along his shoulders in a sweeping blow toward the skeleton's neck. The entire polearm seemed preternaturally pliant, more of an extension of Saphir's mind than a rigid weapon or simple tool. Fortunately for the skeleton, it had the experience and prowess to bring its spear to bear even despite Saphir's feint. As the six feet of ironwood came curling toward its neck, the guard laughed at the collision of ironwood against steel (steel, the Black King's calling card!) that should have stopped the strike dead in its tracks.
Saphir's eyes bespoke only mirth as his staff curved the several inches necessary to establish contact with the skeleton's flesh. Where the blessed heartwood touched, a wildfire of divine energies sparked and began to irascibly consume the creature's malefic shell. The purified soul within burst from its temporary chrysalis, a butterfly free to affect the universe with but a flap of its wings once more.
"Mother Gaia, I pray you accept this soul and protect it on its journey home." Saphir murmured, looked briefly to the sky --or to the battlements that rose to greet him and Emeril beyond the stairs. "Remember the rites, Emeril. It's important, because it reminds us to always honor life, even when we're fighting the dead."
Emeril had completely forgotten about the rites! Having been so caught up with his father's words and the pain of his mother, the prayers for the fallen -- and even the forsaken -- had become the last thing he dared to think of. But that had changed. "And with this seed," the spoke, gently kneeling to usher the seed in his palm -- its vine still snaking up to the skeletal remains, wrapping firmly around them -- to one of the cracks of the case of stairs, "I return the Wyrm to you, mother; hold him as you've held me, so that he might finally know a peaceful rest." Emeril paused, closing his eyes. "I pray that you accept this soul and protect it on its journey home."
Rising to his feet as his eyes opened once more, Emeril ascended the staircase while his father dealt with the guard's companion. With each step that he took, the vine to his side began to writhe with life as flowers -- unnaturally beautiful, painted with the most vivid colors imaginable -- burst from the seedlings which, to that point, had been all but invisible. The trailed behind the youth as he ascended the citadel's height like some stairway to heaven, casting a pleasant smile at the flowery appendage that, upon reaching the wyrm, erupted into a massive, lavender lilac, consuming the weary shell entirely within its supple, beaming petals.
Retrieving yet another seed for the soul purified at his father's hand, Emeril enveloped its battered body in a similar luminous vine. The moment that the seed touched the barren earth, flowers decorated its length until, like the first, an enormous lilac eased the remnants into its embrace.
"I wont' forget, father," the young druid assured Saphir. To honor life was to honor his mother; and to honor his mother was the only purpose that Emeril could truly associate with himself. Stepping ahead of Saphir, Emeril pressed his hand against the face of the massive ebony gate before them. A light, barely noticeable push -- carrying with it the hopes and dreams of this land, the love that only his mother could give -- was all that it took to wedge the barricade open for Gaia's two greatest champions.
Their path was clear; their conviction unwavering.
Emeril smiled, even though it was hard to. "We will honor life by showing them mother's love."
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