[Solo] A Path to Summer

[Less]

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.”

[Less]

[Super rough draft]

He found her in The Garden.

She was in the Winter quadrant, seated on a bench that overlooked a vast, placid mirror pool. The ground was pristine with snow, and there was a chill on the air. It should have been colder, by all rights, but the enchantments that maintained the artificial seasons within the bounds of the park-cum-holy site had been wrought with a degree of comfort in mind.

It always surprised him how beautiful his mother was. She was full of figure, with skin the color of teak. Her hair was a burst of autumn color- leaves in russet and yellow, orange and crimson. She kept it tied back to fall neatly to the small of her back. She didn't look away from the pool as he made his silent approach and sat down beside her on the bench. He couldn't help but feel like a little boy, awkward and uncertain.

“Oran,” she finally said. They'd been gazing at the pool in silence since he sat. She reached out, laying her hand gently on his shoulder, but then pulled it back when she felt him tense at her touch.

“You're angry.”

It was delivered as a diagnosis, as angry were an ailment with a simple cure. To most members of The Seasonal Path, the faith within she was a high priestess, it was. Mastery of emotion was one of the first paths walked, and it was one that Lioran had never even set foot upon. He continued staring at the mirror pool. There were so many things he wanted to say jostling against one another to get out that they got caught up and stuck, unable to fit through his mouth .

“Do you remember when your brother fell in the pool?” She was using her parable voice, the same gnostic tone that had brought so many Fae into the fold of the Path and kept them upon it.

He did remember. He and Sylvas had been young, so young he wasn't sure how old they'd been. The Garden had been their favorite place, and why not? They could tire themselves out playing hide and find in the tall forest of Summer and then race through Autumn, scattering fallen leaves in their wake before they arrived in Winter to build themselves a palace out of snow. Two little boys, impossible at that point to tell apart. One the planner, the other a creature of action. No, Lioran, the tower should go there. The moat needs to be deeper. The walls need to be thicker.

They had abandoned building that day. They were scooping up handfuls of snow, packing them down, hurling them at one another. Their laughter rang throughout the park, but not even the most devout would deny them their fun. They were twins, and among the Fae, that meant something. They were one soul in two bodies, a living lesson in the divine. Lioran was chasing Sylvas, and Sylvas tripped, stumbled, fell into the mirror pool.

It was much deeper than it looked. His twin had disappeared beneath the surface of the cold water instantly. A few faint ripples were the only mark of his submergance. Lioran had screamed, shouted. He could feel the cold seeping into him as it seeped into Sylvas, could feel the panicky pressure of a last lungful of air burning in his chest. It was the only time in their lives that they'd experienced so profound an empathic connection. Without thinking, he dashed forward and dove into the water.

Neither of the twins could swim.

Members of the faithful had heard his cries. They dragged the boys out and commanded the water from from their lungs. Coughing, gasping, shivering, they had awoken together in the snow beside the pool and instinctively embraced.

“The difference,” he whispered, dispelling the memories, “Is that this time I can save him.”

His mother didn't reply. She watched the still surface of the water as if she were waiting for something. Her hands were folded in her lap.

“Of course.” The words tasted bitter. “You don't think I can.”

“Oran.” She sounded tired. As fragile and brittle as an autumn leaf. “It isn't that-”

He couldn't help it. He wasn't even sure how, but he was on his feet, towering over her. His voice rang out, echoing across the pool. “Then what is it? Don't you want him found? Why aren't you doing anything?” The words exploded out of him, and the mob of his thoughts followed. “If it were the other way around I'm sure you wouldn't have any doubts that Sylvas could save me. Do you think he'd let you stop him?” He pressed his hands to his face, letling the heels of his hands dig into his eyes until he felt a dull ache. That pain was all he could do to anchor himself in a storm of frustration.

“Lioran. Son. Look at me.” Her words were ragged, just barely holding together.

As he peeled his hands away, he could see that she was standing too. He had been taller than her for nearly a decade now, but something within him shrank when he saw the fury in her eyes.

“Of course I want him back. Do you know what I do, every night, before I try to sleep? Try and fail, I might add.” She took a steadying breath. “I go into his room, and I sit on his bed, and I look around. I can tell you every book on his shelves in whatever order you want. I can tell you how many cracks there are in the floor. I look around, and I think. I try to imagine where he might have gone. I try to understand why he would have left.”

She was still standing, but she was trembling, and it had nothing to do with their surroundings. His anger fell away as he beheld her. He wanted to hold her, but he was afraid. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, she continued.

“And now, my other son wants to leave. Should I sit in your bedroom too, Lioran? What should I count? What should I memorize?” She fell against him, sobbing, and he curled his arms around her. “How can you even ask me to lose you? How, how, how?”

She couldn't continue. Her words trailed away off into more sobbing. She sobbed into his chest, and he held her in his arms, wishing he could think of anything to say that would transform this weeping woman back into his strong, wise mother.

“It was hard the first time you went off on one of your... excursions. You were only gone for a week, and I kept telling myself, 'This is what you taught him. He's a child of Spring. He has to find what he wants.' But I would close my eyes-” She inhaled sharply, exhaled. “I would close my eyes, and I would see you twisted all the wrong way at the bottom of a ravine, or swollen and black from some poisonous plant. But then you came back. You told me what you'd seen, what you'd done.”

She lifted her head, reached up to smooth the leafy tangle atop his. “You were always in your brother's shadow, always following his lead, but for the first time I could imagine the man you might become. And then you left again, and I lost sight of the man. There was just the little boy who couldn't swim. My son. My sweet, beautiful son. Every time, I worried a little less, but this...”

He was frozen in place, his arms loosely coiled at the small of her back until she drew away. She seemed to have regathered herself, but he couldn't recognize her face. The expression on it was so foreign, so unlike any he'd ever seen on her. He realized that this was the first time he'd ever seen her vulnerable.

“So yes, I sent word to the portal sanctuary. I told them not to let you go. It went against everything I believe as a priestess, but I'm your mother, Lioran, and I've already lost one son.” Her composure crumpled. She staggered back to the bench and sagged onto it. “I can't lose another, I can't, I can't, I can't...” She buried her face in her hands and shuddered with silent sobs.

Lioran couldn't be sure what he was feeling any more. There was sorrow welling up as he beheld her, colder than the water of the mirror pool and no less revelatory. There was anger- residual anger at her, his father, Daru, himself, and most of all, Sylvas.

They'd been inseparable as children, two parts of the same whole. As they'd grown, though, they'd developed separate interests. Sylvas had walked The Path. He had outstripped the library in the temple by the time he was fifteen. In the last few years, Lioran had been hard pressed to follow whenever he started in on one of his theories, spouting words like “confluence” and “anima” and “numinae”. Still, even though he might as well have been explaining things to a wall, Lioran was the one he'd gone to. And Lioran had gone to him, too: when things first became confusing with Daru, and then when things were fantastic with Daru. Sylvas was just as fluent in feelings as Lioran was in the arcane, but still. He'd listened.

When they were younger, Sylvas had often had nightmares. He was the elder, if by only a few moments, but when he had those nightmares, he would crawl into bed with Lioran, and they would fall back asleep together, as tangled beneath sheets as they had been in the womb. When he was with Lioran, the nightmares went away.

His mother was still on the bench, still hiding her head in her hands. He went to her, and sat beside her again. This time, he didn't feel like a little boy. He let his hand glide in soothing circles across her back. “I wish I could stay, Mother, but... you don't have two sons. You have one son, cut in half.”

She regarded him. Her face was streaked with tears, but slowly, finally, she nodded. Her face was blank, a mask carved of teak. Rising to her feet, she all-but-whispered: “Walk with me.”

He looked his arm through hers and let her guide him. They slipped away from the mirror pool, abandoning the manicured path to tread across the snow through a copse of barren, desolate trees. He could see the terminus between Winter and Spring ahead, just down the gentle slope of a hill. The transition was abrupt, from pure white to vibrant green.

“I can't stop your going.” They had been walking in silence for long moments, and she did not look at him as she spoke. “But I can't ease your way, either.” She had found her priestess-voice again. “All I can do is prepare you as best I can for what lies ahead.”

They stepped over into Spring. The earthy, tangy smell of new grass flooded his nostrils, and was soon joined by the scents of myriad flowers from all across Althanas in full bloom. This was his favorite part of The Garden, warm with balmy breezes, the perfect place to lie on his back and stare up at the sky.

“There are things you don't know, Lioran. You were away for so long. Sylvas... well, you know how he is. He was fascinated with The Ancients. He knows more of them than most of the scholars in Highspire. The Path stopped having answers to his questions years ago, and so he began to look elsewhere.”

Lioran knew that much. He remembered his brother's frustration; after all, he had been the one Sylvas vented to. They continued to eschew the well-trod routes through verdant Spring. He could feel wild flowers brushing against his legs as they walked, still linked at the arm.

“What I am trying to say, Lioran, is that the brother you seek to save may not be the brother you remember. He vanished the way he did because he knew that no one would approve of where he was going, or what he would do to get there.” She glanced at him, pressing her lips together.

“Mother, what is it?”

They had taken the most direct route toward Summer. It was not so harsh a transition between it and Spring; the only real sign, at first, was the sudden warmth he felt bathing his skin.

“He took... a document, from the temple.”

His nose wrinkled. “A document? He stole it?” He was imagining, what? A bill of lading, a list of signatures?

She nodded. “A very old one. It details the first compact between the Fae and the Seasons themselves, at least, that is what we have been told. The dialect is so ancient that translations are very incomplete. He had begged me to study it, but I was worried. His behavior had become detached, even for him, so I made excuses. I never thought-”

“You know for certain it was him? What could he want with it?”

She nodded again. “He was seen in the shrine. Nobody thought anything of it until the next day when he was gone, and the compact along with him. As far as what he wants with it?” She shrugged. “I can't say. He was secretive, these last few months. Withdrawn.”

Every step they took, the ambient heat increased. Perspiration began to shine on both of their skin. They were nearly, he knew, at the heart of Summer now, within a thick forest of ancient oaks that towered above them. They stopped before the greatest of them, so thick that one could walk around it once in the same time it had taken them to arrive from Spring.

“I know that you've never taken The Path to heart, Lioran, but you are more a child of Spring than anyone I've ever known.” She turned to face him and took both his hands in each of hers. “If you're going to find Sylvas, if you're going to bring him back, you will need more than the innocence of Spring. You will need the molten surety of Summer, the calm reflection of Autumn.” She squeezed his hands. “You will need to know the profound loss of Winter.”

He watched her as she drifted into her oratorical cadence. He had watched her speak with such passion many times, but never before had she spoken that way to him. She needs it, he realized. She needs to be a priestess right now, in order not to fall apart.

He swallowed the painful lump that had swelled like a tumor in his throat. “I will try, Mother. I will bring him back to us.”

She smiled, sadly, and held his hand. Together they turned, staring up into the boughs and crown of the tree at the Heart of Summer.