Crystal spires sang skyward as if trying to escape the press of inky jungle on all sides. There was no reason to their placement, at least, no reason that a mind that was not Fae would ever grasp. Streets wound about the towers, turned back on themselves like so many stony serpents devouring their own tails (and befuddling members of other races at every erratic turn). There was something organic about the sanctuary city, not unlike the accretion of coral or the slow, dripping descent of stalactites, but nothing like them either.

Some sections of the city teemed with life as colorful and confusing as the arcane architecture. A woman with hair of living flame called out from behind her market stall, barking her wares: first kisses, keys that fit no lock, socks that would never be damp. Children ran in packs, some flowing like water, others creeping like vines, their laughter and shrieks melding with the general furor of trade.

On the whole, though, Donnalaich was remarkably quiet for a city. Vast tracks of the shining spires and archways lay empty, inhabited only by memories. The Fae had been reclaiming their city for centuries, but were not numerous enough to fill it. Only recently (at least, in a span as time as long as the life of a city) had others been allowed to take up residence, but even with their numbers, the jungle jewel seemed eerily empty at times.

From the heart of one of these disused districts rose a pentahedral monolith that dwarfed most of the crystal spires. It was all of stone, so black it seemed to drink in the light. Each of the five sides was graven with a symbol in an ancient dialect of the language of the Fae: fire, water, earth, air, wood. The steep, sheer sides met in a polychromatic dome that resembled the stained-glass seen in some lands, but it was to stained-glass what Donnalaich itself was to common urban sprawl. The different colors were each huge sheets of precious stone, ruby and topaz, emerald and sapphire, amethyst and diamond and opal. One piece on its own was impossible, representative of the sweat and blood of a legion of miners, but their were several dozen pieces, all uniquely shaped, all perfectly fit together.

Within that dome was an apartment. There were no walls, in the strictest sense; instead, there were screens of rare silk harvested from jungle plants that were older than most nations. The screens stretched in flat planes to divide the space into rooms, and as sunlight shone through the jeweled dome, an ever shifting display of opulent color danced upon them. The largest, central room was walled on all sides by the prismatic screens. A sitting room, of sorts, it was fitted with simple furnishings that bore a stark contrast to their surroundings. Each chair and table was a single piece of gleaming obsidian, and each was unique, a subtle work of art in its own right.

Two figures occupied the sitting room. One was using it for its intended purpose, posture perfect on one side of a sofa. If one didn't know better, they might assume him a statue, merely another remarkable aspect of décor in a fantastic place. His flesh was utterly smooth, as if he'd been sculpted from a single block of copper-colored marble. His form, too, seemed altogether too perfect to be real. Broad shoulders, strong arms, an enviable chest- all of him clad in azure silk trimmed in gold. His head was bald, gleaming, polished stone, but most remarkable of all were his eyes. The irises resembled cut, faceted gemstones, the color of which was impossible to tell in the ever-shifting light-show that the sun and dome produced.

His name was Daru, and he was watching another figure who seemed, in many ways, his antithesis. Where he was packed with muscle, the other figure was slight and willowy. Where his skin was burnished, nearly dark, the other's was the palest shade of green. Rather than nothing at all, the other's head was crowned in a shaggy mess of moss, leaves, and twigs that might have seemed common-place on a forest floor but were rather appealing as a surrogate for hair. He wore a simple vest of woven vines that exposed most of his torso, and leggings of soft brown cloth. In contrast to the solid, unmoving nature of the sitter, the forest Fae was nothing but agitated movement.

His name was Lioran, and he was pacing. And ranting.

“-not an emergency. Not an emergency? What then, I ask you, is an emergency? Why even have a portal if you're just going to keep it locked up? Not an emergency. He's been gone for months. I swear on the first seed, they will see me again, and next time I won't take 'no' for an answer. They won't know wha-”

“Lioran.”

Their voices, too, could not be more unalike. The ranter's was lyrical, evocative of wind passing through reed. The sitter's was deep, an echo of a voice within a rocky cavern that the world had forgotten. Hearing his name in so grave a tone, Lioran drew to an abrupt halt and wheeled to face the living statue. “What?” Sharp, thorny, quick as a lashing vine.

“I know that you're upset, but I hardly see the need to take it out on my floor.” Placid, solid, dry as salt-crusted limestone. His hand fell to rest on the sofa beside him. “Sit. Please.”

They were one another's oldest friends. Both were children of privilege. Daru's lineage was noble, direct descended from the ancients who had raised the first crystal spire. Lioren's parents were both priests of The Seasonal Path, a religion that was young but popular. Together with Lioran's twin brother, Silvas, the three of them had been inseparable as youths.

Years had passed, and for Daru and Lioran, friendship had given way to something else. Pieces had fit together in ways that neither had expected, and they had eagerly explored every configuration they could imagine. They were hesitant to name what they shared, afraid of bounding it, determined that giving it rules would make it real, and as every Fae child learns, it is only real things that can be destroyed. Lioran studied Daru for a moment, and then went to him. He eased onto the seat, and then into strong, stone arms.

“I miss him,” he breathed, squeezing his eyes closed. They were not as rich as Daru's, perhaps, but Lioran's eyes were unique as well- the colored part resembled finished hardwood, dark mahogany, complete with a grain.

“I know, but you know how you are. He isn't here to think for you. You need to calm down. You need to breath.” He had snaked an arm around the slighter Fae, and gave him a surprisingly gentle squeeze given his earthen bulk. “I miss him as well, you know. He was-” Daru's etched features winced at his first choice of tense, and he quickly corrected. “He is my friend-” Anticipating Lioran, he extended an index finger and pressed it to his lips. “I know, he's your brother, and I don't understand, no one understands, please, let me finish?”

Lioren considered biting the silencing finger, but thought better of it and pressed a chaste kiss to it, nodded, and, difficult though it was, listened.

“Silvas is Silvas, just like you are Lioran. If he wanted to be found, no doubt their would be an elaborate, methodical trail of clues to follow. There isn't, though. Which means that he wants to be away. Aren't you always telling me that our desires are who we are? That pursuing them is the path to who we are meant to be? Well, Silvas has chosen his path. Have faith that it will bring him back to us.”

Lioren considered the words. It didn't take him long at all to reject them. Dragging Daru's finger away from his lips, he gave his hand a squeeze. “If that was what this was, I would be cheering him on, you know that. But... I saw his rooms. The things he left, the things that were missing. It isn't just some sabbatical or some research trip. Something is wrong, Daru. I feel it, I know it. He needs my help.”

Daru sighed. The sun was ending its journey for the day, lending a ruddy hue to the dazzling display. He pulled away from Lioran to sit up once more and regarded him. His handsome, graven features were a blank tablet. Slowly: “Well then, what will you do?” By his tone, he was afraid of what the answer might be.

Stillness didn't suit Lioren. Most imagined plant-life as still, inert, but it was always moving, always growing, never failing to be more than it was. His hands fell to his hips, and his lower lip caught between his teeth. He hadn't wanted to ask, but...

“I was hoping you could speak to your father. About the portal. I'm sure if he said something-”

“Lioren.” Daru's voice was soft but firm. “I can't.”

“I know you have your own aspirations, and that you hate asking him favors, but-”

Daru sighed again, and his gaze dropped to the ground. He seemed to be studying the dying color pattern intently.

“What?” Three quick steps brought Lioren before him, and he used a gentle touch to tip Daru's chin upward and force earthen eyes to meet verdant. “You aren't telling me something. What is it?”

“My father,” he said slowly, carefully, aware of the manic edge in Lioren's pleas and the desperate glint in his eyes, “Would not cross your parents in this matter.”

Silence dominated the room for long heartbeats as the lovers beheld one another. Daru watched realization blossom across boyish features, then watched those eyes, so much like polished wood, harden even more.

“I see.” He folded his spindly arms across his chest, still staring at Daru. His voice was a grove in autumn, the harsh whisper of wind over bare branches.

Daru frowned. “What good would it have done to tell you? You would only have tried to sneak into the portal chamber and activated it yourself, and then, for all you know, half of you would be here and the other half would have ended up ancients-know-where!” Each syllable had been louder and surer than the first, and by the end of it, he was standing too. Lioren was just slightly taller, if far less imposing, but he didn't shrink an inch.

“Oh, yes, you were lying to protect me from myself!” His hands had clenched into fists, bringing dark green veins to stand out against his thin forearms. “Thank you, Daru. Thank you so much.”

As the sunlight waned, wisps of silvery light appeared suspended in the air to cast illumination about. Lit internally, the chamber's colors were nearly normal, and Daru's ruby eyes were finally discernible. “Has it even occurred to you that I would miss you?”

Small muscles behind Lioren's cheeks stood out as he clenched his teeth. “Yes,” he hissed. “That's why I asked you to come, but-”

“But I wouldn't abandon my responsibilities for you, and that makes you angry.”

The slighter man jabbed a finger into Daru's chest so hard that there was a faint report of wood-on-stone. “You make me angry, because you always think you know best. I only asked. I knew what the answer would be, but I asked anyways because I will miss you too.” He was visibly shaking, as if the anger vibrating in his gut had physical presence enough to affect his form.

Daru stepped to him. Gently, he took hold of each of Lioren's wrists, and Lioren allowed him to. They stood like that in silence for the span of a long moment. Even more gently, Daru stood up just-so on his toes, enough for his lips to graze Lioren's. When he pulled away, his mouth a tight, straight line, he couldn't speak. He released Lioren's arms one at a time.

It was as if a spell had been broken, or maybe cast. The rage drained out all at once, leaving the sylvan Fae feeling tired and empty. He managed a thin smile and reached out to let the tips of his fingers brush against Daru's cheek.

“We will just have to have faith,” he said, without a shred of malice or irony, “That my path will bring me back to us.”