The Briar Patch (BP): Ch. 1 - What Once Was There

Chapter 1: What Once Was There

"Don't wander too far."

Hair a frosty wintry blue was ruffled by yet another gust of wind. The Seeker frowned as the gusts kicked up a veritable sandstorm, the grit obscuring his vision.

But his diminutive companion seemed untroubled by the buffeting winds, nor the stinging dust that it kicked up, lost in his thoughts as he stood there and listened to the ghostly whispers dancing across this desolate land.

Though whatever he was listening for, it clearly wasn't him. Vye appeared not to hear, and were it not for his keen eyes, he would've altogether missed the barest of nods. A mere dip of the head, that indicated the other had indeed been listening.

Zeal stared with thinly masked exasperation as the other then proceeded to do exactly as he had warned him against. The Shol was growing too accustomed to having his guard around to "take care of things".

This particular lead had them searching for the charred remnants of a grand Willow Acacia, at the base of which would have a minor depression leading to a grotto.

Likely another dried up thing of the past, Zeal scoffed, crossing his arms.

This whole thing was a waste of Time. But he'd been on stranger assignments before. So long as he was payed, it didn't matter who or what.

That being said, he still had to do his job, and the little Shol had not been making it easy for him.

Vye wove through the scraggly brush with startling ease and he grimaced, eyeing the ample thorns that adorned the vines, before following suit. The Seeker crouched low to crawl between the spindly twigs, but it did little to prevent him from getting scratched up. Yet somehow his companion slipped through this little hindrance of long dead vegetation without a snag.

Biting back a curse as a particularly spiteful barb dug into his arm, Zeal climbed to his feet, pulling out burrs and loose thorns.

His duties went much smoother when his small companion had more than a healthy dose of caution and skepticism, wary to the point of estrangement.

It was how he found him.

A desperate little thing hiding in the shadows and searching for someone, anyone really, who had what the Shol himself lacked. Who could keep him safe from the monsters that roamed. And not merely beasts, for often Times the real monster came not in fangs and claws.

And that person just so happened to be Zeal.

One who would accompany him to find the "briar patch", as he'd called it. It was all he would go on about when they had first met. None would, and neither would he, had it not been for one encounter of very unusual circumstances.

Now though, having grown spoiled and complacent in the continued sense of security and safety provided by his personal guard, he was exhibiting the child-like wonder and curiosity that his kind were so known for in the past, and so utterly prone to. They were a very trusting sentient by nature, and lifted from the shroud of fear, were curious to a fault.

But this lack of natural wariness meant many needless perils for the young Shol, and it had kept Zeal on his toes, lest his charge's curiosity get the better of him.

As things were, it was too late to go back on the contract. Not that he wanted to. If anything he was quite satisfied with the arrangements.

While their deal promised a veritable fortune in coin, there were things in this world worth far more than simple currency. Which brought him to the other part of their little pact, worth more than the actual promised coin of his payment.

A personal, and if he played his cards right, endless supply of "liquid gold", or so it was known in its colloquial name.

His mouth twitched. The little vagabond had no understanding of the sheer affluence at his disposal. The resource and power of his worth.

Nor the concept of. Not at all surprising considering currency was a foreign concept to their kind.

When he first met Vye, all the Shol knew was that many sought out this precious nectar that he had, and that it could be exchanged for exorbitant quantities of metal chips of which were heavily coveted by everyone for reasons beyond him.

Zeal himself was no exception, though he had at first declined due to the rather questionable nature of this long term venture.

Not that he was complaining then or now. This was a potential gold mine that he would not squandor.

Speaking of which.

"Vye."

The small head turned.

They had arrived in a small clearing deep amidst the dried and cracked brush they had crawled through. The wind and sand would not reach them here.

"Payment."

A pause.

Zeal didn't miss the flicker of fear. Couldn't blame him either.

From what he'd gathered, Vye witnessed the Harvest firsthand. And, as improbable as it seemed, survived.

How such a small, and comparatively harmless, creature could have done so whereas so many others of his kind far more adept had fallen, were beyond him.

Despite being so far into the wilderness, his small companion still scanned the vicinity nervously.

Reassured that they were indeed alone, he nodded and padded over. With another nervous glance around, Vye settled himself on a depression in the sand.

Slowly, he removed the hood, nimble hands working deftly at the bandaged binds beneath with practiced ease. As the woven bamboo cloth fell around his neck, several broad leaves unfurled and sprung up, now free of their restraint. Vye's eyes slipped shut and the foliage parted to reveal a single bloom, its petals still green, but tinged with dainty pastel pink and yellow hues. As the leaves shifted, Zeal caught scent of its light fragrance, wafting up, soft and enticing.

The bud itself was rather plain and had a raw green pallor to it. It wasn't ready yet. With all their traveling, Vye hadn't had the Time to tend to his foliage nor ample Time to photosynthesize. Circumstances being what they are, they were lucky to see a single bloom.

A general trend in the Shols, were that those whom had seen themselves tenderly cared for, and whom bathed in much love, had much more potency. From their aroma, to their pollen, nectar, fruit, and leaves. All of it served a variety of purposes that varied with the individual Shol.

It was mesmerizing, how the fragile bud bloomed, the sepals peeling as it rapidly matured, petals gently opening. The floral scent was much stronger now and Zeal knelt down, a vial ready in his hand.

Vye shrunk away from him as the Seeker knelt down, but ultimately forced himself still, and to keep the flower open. It still unnerved the Shol to allow the other close enough to partake of the precious golden nectar within. It was one, if not their most vulnerable of superficial anatomy, never mind the symbolic nature of the act itself being one of utmost intimacy amongst the floral sentients.

Zeal had inquired about it out of passing curiosity before, and Vye had likened the exchange to be akin to having another brush the unprotected surface of one's eye. Such was the absolute trust one had to have in another, as to permit let alone tolerate this contact.

While eyes and buds were anatomically different in just about every conceivable way, they were both undeniably delicate and of unparalleled sensitivity. A vulnerable and exposed part of the body.

Giving one's nectar is, by nature, a delicate exchange.

The depth of which few, not of the Verdance, understood.

Flowers were a very delicate part of a Shol, and excruciatingly simple to damage.

But sensitivity aside, Shols are not capable of reproducing through the conventional biological means of most creatures. Rather, newly born Shols sprouted from the collective seeds, planted in the shallow damp earth of a grotto, fed by the fount of a nearby pure water spring or siphoning into deep underground veins.

Which may likewise explain the lack of non-plantae reproductive anatomy, as the capability for sexual reproduction was unnecessary in their repertoire.

This was the most intimacy that the diminutive race partook of. To receive of such was a privilege that told in that which words could not, the depth of the fondness that the Shol held in regards to the recipient.

An intimate act to be shared with a scant, privileged, few.

And Zeal was not one of them. At least, not for the reason it should've been.

His hand he rested against Vye's foliage, the contact as much to steady it as it was to convey where and what he was doing.

The first Time he had reluctantly blossomed, Zeal hadn't been gentle enough, though having little and less familiarity with Shols he'd thought it plenty. Needless to say it ended as a severely negative experience for the both of them.

How bad could it be? He'd heard the stories, seen others snort and mock the floral children as overly sensitive creatures.

Creature who knew not of pain, could tolerate little of.

Likewise did he carry the same mentality when he had told Vye that he would be gentle enough.

A misjudged nudge jarred the bloom, damaging the sensitive flower during harvesting.

The reaction was nigh instantaneous, with the Mandragora Effect of Vye's piercing shriek resonating and echoing in on itself very nearly enough to shatter Zeal's bones.

Thankfully it hadn't been anything permanent and the bleeding, for it had only ruptured the multitude of more superficial vessels, stopped shortly after the resonance of Vye's pained cries had died down.

Hours later that is.

The bruise of ruptured vessels on his surface took a good week to heal, with the flesh still tender in some areas with varying amounts of collected fluid that had oozed out into the surrounding flesh. It would be yet another week before his body recovered fully.

The excruciating pain had been enough to solidify his resolve to be much more careful the next Time around, though it would take much more before Vye trusted him enough to let him within even the sight of the bud.

Zeal himself had been instilled with a healthy respect for his charge, heeding his words with more care when, in the rare instances, that he spoke.

That was another thing about Shols.

Their affection they displayed in scrupulously crafted floral arrangements, be it of a simple chain, ring, an adornment of sorts, or a full arboreal arrangement.

They didn't speak much, and instead, tended to mimic the noises of surrounding fauna. The concept of words seeming just as foreign and airy to them as currency, and in their own Rings, the most of vocal communication came in excited melodic snips, cheeps, squeaks, or the occasional bark. This is not to be confused with song. Shols loved song.

Zeal's touches were feather light, no sudden movements that could startle the other, or the flower would curl back into a bud, the nectar that had slowly oozed out to pool in the bloom itself reabsorbed.

It had taken much coaxing and consistent gentle handling before Vye's flower would bloom in his presence again.

Shols were not normally so wary and were in fact rather docile even when blooming. But that was in a different Time, a different place, and with one whom they held in high regard.

Not the stranger presence and rough handling that saw Vye tense, sharp eyes following his every movement.

Gently he tipped the flower, obliged by Vye's slight consenting tilt, to allow a few drops of a scintillating yet viscous fluid to drip into the awaiting vial.

Only a few amber drops had welled up in the flower, but it was more than he had expected.

Vye was only too eager to pull away when at last Zeal had fully released the dainty bloom and pulled what the Shol deemed to be a safe distance away.

Giving away his precious nectar to this stranger was a necessity, not an act of trust. And it showed heavily, from the minute twitches, to the fear in his eyes, to the expression he thought hidden by his down-turned face.

Vye was afraid of him.

Not that Zeal particularly cared, but it was troublesome.

It always was when the client didn't trust him. More so when he had to do his job. It was, with increasing frustration that he realized how deep-rooted the Shol's wariness for other sentients was.

He needed the other to trust him to carry out his duty. Doubt meant unpredictability. A factor which could spell the difference between life and death should his client hesitate or be disinclined to follow his instruction in a crucial moment, simply because he didn't trust his judgement.

---

It was futile. Chasing after what no longer is.

At the sight of the bramble, Vye's movement quickened, and Zeal had difficulties keeping up as his charge scrambled through the spindly branches, unhindered by the thorny brush.

The vines though long dead, seemed to part for Vye as his tiny form slipped between them so swiftly, yet encumbered his every moment. He winced as another barbed thorn tore through the leather cloak he wore. Moreover pulling away just seemed to entangle him elsewhere.

They found the entrance at the center, and Vye slipped out of view, ignoring the warning to wait a moment, much to Zeal's chagrin.

By the Time the Seeker managed to get past the clawing reach of the bramble, though not without a number of hooks burrowing into him, it was as he had expected.

He abruptly broke off, mid-reprimand as he raised his eyes and saw Vye in an all too familiar posture.

Shoulders drooped, the Bræmbel Shol stepped slowly into the center of the ring of desiccated vegetation, his footsteps making nary a sound nor depression despite the dry leaves that crackled under the Seeker's own soles.

He stood a respectful distance away, off to the side and giving the other ample space.

This was too personal. It wasn't meant for him to see.

This inevitable part of their journey was Vye's alone to walk.

In the scarce chases where their lead found them with promising results, the telltale bramble vines, the grotto, or perhaps even the scattered traces or imprints of Fairy Rings, it was always the same.

Earlier excitement was gone like the wind, and Vye took his place at the center of the dilapidated ring.

The hope and exhilaration had been flooded out by a deep forlorn sorrow that took place not in tears, but in silence. As he always was in this moment.

Life came in a chorus. Death in silence.

He had no part in it, shouldn't have been there.

And the solemn silence made it clear that it wasn't his place to be, or to witness the tender moment when his charge knelt before the dried up Fairy Ring, hand almost caressing the dusty Earth where his brethren had once stood. 

Vye could feel the warmth by which they had sown the fruit, laden with precious seeds, just beneath the surface, the plumy moss that they gathered to blanket the fresh turned earth and prevent erosion, imbued with their magic to expedite their proliferation. The scant traces of aether showed that they had indeed once been here, kneeling just as he had as they helped the moss to grow, a protective cover over the dormant Verdance that would never again raise the Prismatic Arc.

It was a personal moment as small hands dug deep into the earth, desperate as he felt for any residual aethor that may still be there. Any sign that there was Life that still lingered, persisted, mayhaps asleep just beneath the surface. Past the crusty soil till he hit the still loamy beneath the protective covering of moss.

There was none. 

Nonetheless he reached for something. Anything.

Minutes passed.

The moss below their feet had long since shriveled, the Earth dry and cracked.

Vye stood at last. Briefly, the Shol collected himself and turned swiftly on his feet to trudge past Zeal who remained ever vigilant by the tunnel entrance.

Maybe it was the desperation that bothered him so. Evidence was right before him and still, Zeal watched him do this every Time. Every bloody Time. Watched him kneel atop the dead Earth and reach for those that were now far beyond any mortal reach.

Vye clambered out of the entrance and the other followed suit.

It was always like this. The small Shol just wouldn't give up.

Wouldn't accept that which everyone else knew long ago.

Zeal scowled as his companion unfurled the map, already pointing out their next destination, eyes set and bright. Determined and hopeful.

Bur for how long? How much longer would the Shol hold onto this lost cause. How much longer until the strength of that fiery determination waned, and the sharp contrast of hope that made him look oh so vulnerable, was smothered.

And when the inevitable came to pass, would he, given Time, find his fire again.

Troublesome thoughts he didn't want to think about, which surfaced Time and Time again.

Zeal was not the sentimental sort and rarely did he care for more than the weight of a client's purse.

But something about the Shol bothered him. Something akin to guilt.

"Seek out the Shols. With them is the answer."

In their everyday ventures he could see Vye, not just for his asset, but a child too.

Though at Times it was difficult to tell the difference, as Shols were by nature very much child-like in wonder, curiosity, and naivety.

Both curious by nature, naive, playful if not a bit mischievous and a little touch shy, and so utterly trusting. The very wonder by which those large eyes took in the vast world, reminded him of things he didn't care to remember.

But he was also a survivor of the Harvest.

The sole survivor.

Perhaps saying that Shols were a very trusting race, was not quite right.

They were very willing to trust. Wanted to trust. For their kind malice wasn't feasible. There was always a reason, mayhaps one that bespeaks of poor judgement, but a default of poor morality was never a concept nor where one could fall to fault. It was a given. A lack of judgement or a compass astray was not the same as the warmth and kindness that was present in all of Life. Forgiving of mistakes, and a hand outstretched, reaching to grasp another's, meeting them at more than just halfway.

For every light casts a shadow, as was the way of Nature, and which the percipient children of the Verdance acknowledged.

What stood before him now was a timid, shy, creature. Frightened and alone, a mere child who was without his brethren.

Vye could despise him, spit poison and bare teeth against him, scream and cry, and Zeal wouldn't fault him.

And yet. Perhaps what bothered him more, was that he didn't.

Scared, hurt, and with more than just a few scars of both the corporeal and intangible sort.

But after each and every day, be it of a particularly perilous jaunt or a blissfully uneventful day on the road, small hands never failed to reach out to him, tentatively touching the scrapes and cuts, tracing them with salve and succor. The soft pads of Vye's fingers passed over the bruises with such tenderness that Zeal felt that he'd rather take the blow twice over again than these gentle brushes.

The small Shol genuinely cared for him. Be it for want of the kith and kin he no longer had, or due to circumstances being what they are.

Sometimes, after what the Seeker presumed to be a particularly difficult memory, Vye would look at him, eyes searching his for answers. Silently questioning him and asking the pained question without answer.

Why?

During those Times the Bræmbel Shol seemed to be staring at him, but seeing something from a Time long past.

Vye wanted to trust him. But every Time he was left in the darkness behind closed lids, he saw the moon, large and full in the sky. When he looked up at the other, he saw the reaper's scythe.

Why was it that they were so hunted? Coveted by the denizens who lived in their odd world of cold stone and lifeless wood.

Yet he was still kind to him.

Shattered, but not broken, the fire in Vye flickered but burned nonetheless. He was trying to pick up the pieces.

The broken pieces that Zeal knew, would be the same ones to cut him deeper.

So he had humored this unfeasible fool's errand.

Would accompany the small Shol on his journey. Partake of a warmth and love he didn't deserve. And see things through to their eventual, bitter end.

The small mark on the map indicated the Heart of Whitedew Grove.

Now this he had heard before in passing. A valley blanketed in a dense, miasmic, fog of shifting shadows, overseen in stark contrast by a pristine grove.

Travelers were warned not to step off the path into the thickets, when ascending, for there was overgrown bramble that had viciously overtaken the Heart of the forest, following the streams that veined it. No fire, not even that borne of magic, could burn away the resilient vines. The succulent berries beguiled many, and tempted many off the path. Drawn into the entangling brush where the hooked barbs seemed to pull one in, and every every resistance made, meant another thorn digging deep into garb and flesh alike. Where those caught, would stain the vines a deep sanguine hue.

Reluctantly, he nodded. He would do as he was hired to do.

Grudgingly, he would admit to the seemingly promising suggestion, as it was one of few places which remained untouched by Sanctum influence, but there were several rather vital details askew.

Whitedew Grove was several leagues above the miasmic valley hidden between the obsidian spires of the high alps. At such high elevation temperatures regularly dropped below freezing, and that wasn't taking into consideration the lengthy wintry months. Counting those, one would be fortunate to find their blood flowing.

There were only a handful of creatures able to withstand the dense fumes of the valley. And fewer still the aligid climes of the Alps.

Few Shols were able to withstand and weather such a harsh environment, oft preferring the milder and temperate Lowlands.

And--there were no grottos in Whitedew.

At least--he threw a sidelong glance at the Shol. Not anymore.

Not unless the Shols were also gifted in visual enchantments or erecting shielding wards--which they were not.