The Briar Patch (BP) Ch. 11 - The Enigmas (Pt. 1)

There was nothing to do.

Just what had Lockes done in all their years of solitary survival? It was maddening. Long had Zeal learned patience, endurance, to persist in the most grueling spit of earth, or wait for the prey, still as death even as as others were drove to brashness by the itching of anticipation, like the bite of a summer mosquito.

Yet never before had he been left in such idleness as this. Where there was no chase to be had. Naught of peril nor treacherous terrain. There was no purpose, other than the slow healing of his wounds.

Even the pain would've been a blessing, for it meant a distraction.

Everything he had done before, had a purpose, even the waiting. This was just unnecessary.

Muffling a deep groan, he turned on his side and glared at the cheerful fire flickering in the pit.

Vye glanced over nervously at his companion. Lately, Zeal had grown quite restless after a few cycles, with little and less to distract him.

"... bring it to the center and--" Lockes halted, the Coty's mind was elsewhere. They followed the glazed over eyes to the Reaper.

The soft warmth collected in their palms dispersed into the atmosphere, like a small bird that had found its wings.

Of course.

At this rate they would have a repeat of the previous day.

Unable to bear the monotony any longer, Zeal slipped out of the hollow while the two Shols were sleeping.

Snow was thick everywhere with new powder, and it wasn't for another half mile that he came to a decent patch where the snow wasn't quite so powdery and thick over the ground.

The great sword swung in fluid arcs, and despite the sheer weight of the grand sword, came to an easy rest before following through in another swing. It was the arts in all its simplicity, unaltered, enhanced, or bolstered by the aetherical.

The methodical swings eased him, and brought a pleasant calm to his senses. The hunger was finally being fed. His arms heaved the sword up again, the strain of disuse only compelling him further.

But it wasn't enough. Such were but the barest of regimes.

The sword was poised, resting above his shoulder, and in the emptiness of the wilderness away from prying eyes he held nothing back.

The aether surged around him and he shot forth, the light catching on his sword in flashes as it swung. 

He came to a rest, and in his wake not a touch of snow was disturbed. His side smarted and Zeal grimaced, lifting the hem and wasn't the least bit surprised to be greeted by speckles of red. He let the cloth fall.

"Impressive."

The sword stopped just short of the soft of their neck.

Lockes put a hand on the flat of the blade and pushed it away, smiling as they stepped into the open.

"Don't... don't do that again." his shoulders dropped and he rolled them for good measure to loosen the tension, leaning back to stretch the stiffness of his spine.

"Foolish of me to sneak up on a Reaper. I know. But my point is made, you are not yet restored. Come back before something else finds you."

"There is naught here that I can't handle." Zeal frowned. Did the Shol think him so enfeebled?

"True." And suddenly he was knocked forth, a beam of wood striking him from behind--and on his injured side. 

Zeal fell to his knees with a grunt, the pain throbbing deep.

"But you are also injured. Worsen your wounds and you will but lengthen your confinement."

Lockes spun on their heels and left, and grudgingly, he followed.

A blow to his pride, perhaps, but without a firm hand the Reaper would doubtlessly have continued, heavily injured as he was.

And strained wounds, particularly those as severe as his, mended poorly. It was in the Reaper's best interest to let them heal undisturbed.

Still, with little else to occupy the Time, the Bluepine couldn't blame him.

And so they clambered out of the moss nest, waving off Vye's questions as the wood opened up beneath their feet.

Pulling out a heavy stone chest, Lockes blew off the dust, turning an hourglass and working silently.

Vye stared at the scintillating golden dust within as it flowed from one bulbous end to the other, listening to the whirs, clicks, and clacks as Hemlocke tinkered with the box in their lap.

A sharp click caught the attention of the den's occupants and they all turned to the Bluepine.

Who merely smiled and set down the box, tossing over their shoulder, "Care for a game?"

Zeal sat up and the Bluepine lifted the box up. Staring hard at it, Vye could see no difference from how it was before and yet the noises it had made suggested otherwise.

Vye grasped for the box, "Can I play too?"

"Certainly." and they handed it over as the mercenary took a seat beside him.

The two waited, but the Bluepine simply reached for the hourglass and turned it, setting it down before Vye.

"What now?" Vye turned the thing over in their hands a few more Times, looking it up and down, "When do we play?"

"We're already playing."

Realization dawned on him and the Reaper took the box from Vye, and tried the lid--to no avail. He passed it back to Vye, "Didn't know Shols played Enigma."

"Played? Please, Reaper." There was an almost impish gleam in their eyes as vines pulled out box upon box hidden in the hollows of the den, in plain sight but never seen, camouflaged amidst the grains of wood, or in crevices.

"We didn't just play it."

Most were of smooth wood, with a sparse few others of ceramic, or marble like the one in Vye's lap.

"We created it."

A firm hand rested atop the dusty surface of one box, and as if reaching for it, there was a sudden and alarming swell of a multitude of aethor from within.

It felt nostalgic and oddly soothing.

The carvings beneath the severed Shol's hands flared and the crescendo of voices hummed--and a sharp click sounded.

No explanation was offered as this Enigma, identical to the rest of the staggering collection that had been gathered, was placed in front of them.

The two stared with rapt attention, and only upon raising their head did the dark Shol realize the eyes upon them.

Lockes smiled and took the same Enigma up again, but what came was no instruction, and verse by verse did the Bluepine recite from Heart, in a melodic lilt.

The hourglass is turned,
And the sands of Time now fall.
Yet never must we let,
The panic to appall. 

With clearer minds we seek
The truth hidden in each seed.
Because only from within,
Do we find what truly we need. 

Though Time ever flows,
and we can but mark its passing.
Like the rise of golden sun,
And the moon that's too soon setting. 

So in each of these Enigma,
Bestowed with precious lore.
For our progeny to come,
And a gift that's much, much, more. 

To tell what we cannot,
For once the future 's past.
And return to Earth we must,
For we have seen our last. 

Yet by all must we remember,
That never is it the end.
For to raise the prismatic arc.
To the future we must send. 

Yet nothing of the future,
Can be claimed with all due certainty,
And heavy is the duty,
And the mounting pressure plenty.  

To the Shols we now sow,
That we hope will one day grow.
To sturdy oaks and pines.
Of a forest we wont know. 

To you of now do I beseech,
To carry on a perpetual legacy,
Of a never ending quest to be,
That can only be but messy. 

No honor to be gained,
Nor name of eternal fame.
For though we bear the flora unique,
We are equal, all the same. 

And now you know the truth,
In all its blazen glory.
For the Earth that's ever turning,
And the stars of endless story. 

But I digress, for I've said too much,
The story has since been told.
And now I leave you stories more,
To guide you--and the world you mold. 

With heavy Heart now does this verse draw to a close,
But it's not the end--at least, not really. 

For in riddles have we ever told,
That which we all should already know. 

That one day we too will be but memories,
Yet ever live on in our endless stories.

The entire Time the dark Shol had been working an Enigma, and fell silent at the end of the verse.

Gingerly it was lifted up for their inspection, and to their astonishment--opened. Inside there held a small woven pouch. Lockes reached into the worn sack, and drew out a small hardy nut.

One that had belonged to Lockes themselves.

A signature seed, Vye realized. A none fertile case and difficult to destroy, they contained a trace amount of a Shol's aetherical signature. This was what that aetherical swell earlier had been.

Gently the contents of the pouch was poured out, and there was an array of seeds, so many more than could be imagined. So many that it must've been a magicked pouch, for the veritable mountain of seeds were more than could ever be fit in the satchel.

"Signatures, the remnants of all whom have read, and told the story. Mayhaps you two will add yours to the pile too." With that they gathered each and every seed, and with the same tenderness, returned them all to the pouch.

The hourglass they placed beside themselves earlier, was turned, and the golden powder within flowed in gentle swirls as they worked it. To the mutual amazement of the Bluepine's audience, the small carving in the upper corner depicting a hand with seeds, could be pressed.

Holding down only a couple of those seeds, Lockes turned the Ring, and there was a soft ticking.

From there they released the seeds and plucked a rose from the Ring, of which held a long unseen stem with--to their astonishment, intricate thorns, and used the thin stick as an insert into the hole of yet another surface, where a carving depicted the young Shol. Like key and lock, they turned it and were greeted by a procession of clicks. To vines around them extended along the delicately carved paths, stretching out in what seemed like a circle of bramble, of whose center there stood their kin.

This continued and they watched the story unfold before them.

In the Verdance who became the Yggdrasill, did a plethora of green arise, and spread about were the numerous seeds, of which arose a thorned rose. A bramblewine Shol, whose proximity therein, grew with wicked thorns of bramble true. Yet despite the fearsome barbs that were, there was but tender Heart, and shying away from vicious tooth and fang, they raised the bramble patch. To shield the precious Heart within and protect their predecessor too. But never would the thorns never hurt kith and kin, for there was a trick they all but knew.

They stared, mesmerized as the small planes of wood that comprised of the bramble covered Heart, parted to reveal an obscured hole, barely wider than a finger.

Humility.

What wasn't obscured, were the sharp thorns embedded in the interior.

Bravery.

Too narrow to truly avoid.

Gentility.

And yet without hesitation, Lockes reached in, finger slowly groping through the tunnel.

Trust.

A grin spread across the Bluepine's face as they apparently found what they sought.

And Warmth.

The digit was carefully withdrawn.

Without a single cut or scrape.

But the box the Bluepine left closed, and reset the mechanisms.

Their turn would come.

Zeal glanced down at the hourglass that had been turned the moment the Bluepine started. It had finished flowing the same instance Hemlocke had finished.

Dark eyes passed between the simple instrument and the smiling Shol sitting across from him. What manner of trickery was this? No enchantments had been woven as it had with the satchel, yet the hourglass unchanged, seemed to flow with varying lengths of Time. That the same hourglass failed to finish in the same length, by the minute ticks of seconds could he could overlook, but minutes long?

"This is one of our simpler Enigmas, but given that neither of you have touched one of Sholian make, I do not expect such proficiency. This was but to demonstrate one of many sorts in which our tales may take on, and how they may be achieved."

The Enigma with the briar vines was set aside, and another wooden conundrum pressed into Zeal's hands.

This one was much more humble in its decorations, and upon it were inscribed a mere carving of an hourglass, its simple borders spanning across the polished surface where a couple circular gears rested. On the larger gear was a large circle, and a depiction of a tree in its center, the branches stretching and forming the borders of the gear, while the smaller one held the sun on the right, and a moon to the left. A separate yet motionless piece, an arrow, rested centered on the gear.

The craftsmanship seemed much poorer on this box, for it had not survived the test of Time so well, and the teeth of one of the three gears was worn, and at odd intervals stinted, or missing altogether.

Again the nonsensical hourglass was turned and set down on the low-rise table.

This one was easy, Zeal grinned, he'd have it open in no Time.