The Briar Patch: Ch. 15 - In Winter's Wake (Pt. 1)

The blizzard had been unrelenting last night and the ground cover had gained a good couple feet of snow.

Lockes slowly made their way across the white expanse, steps soft and wary. For the hidden pockets and tree wells caught many a passerby, even the sure-footed.

It was the fresh fallen snow that was most treacherous, for it's innocent pristine appearance was most convincing in its deception. Soft as all virgin snow was, and deceivingly sturdy besides.

How strongly it held, until one found firm footing, abruptly giving way to a hollow that spanned anywhere from a shallow pocket of couple inches, to yards across in a yawning cavernous abyss.

Yet weak though it may seem at the most inconvenient Times, so too was it resilient just the same. There was no hurrying through snow for it but hindered movement. The faster one moved, the more it sapped them of their strength. Everything came slowly, indifferent, cold, and measured.

Many underestimated the white ground cover at their own expense, and how dearly they paid for their ignorance. There was no help to be had out here in the wilderness. No societal convenience or ready succor to coddle their hurts.

A mere sprained ankle was enough to cost a life, for it delayed travel and to be accosted by the unpredictable storms of the high altitudes was a death sentence for the unprepared. Supplies would run low, and they would either eat, or be eaten.

Rarely was it the former.

Worse still were the wells. Many a victim by careless slip ended up in a tree well, where they would stay over Winter. For the steep snow gave no leverage, and could not be scaled, nor could it be made to budge.

Come Spring, Lockes oft found the branches of the towering pines sheltering an unwilling companion. So immaculately preserved by the frost, one would think them simply asleep. But such was a slumber they were never to wake from.

It was a frightening notion to many of the living. The eternal. Death was so final, and oft came abrupt and without reason.

But the dead were dead.

Never again to stir.

Unlike the shades of the Bluepine's memory, whom though passed, wouldn't stay there.

Lockes shuddered. Though they had the entirety of the Alps to roam and the valley to wander, ever were they confined to the prison of their mind.

The sleek sheen of ice pathed forth, but Lockes knew better and gave the river a wide berth. 

Here the river veered far into the bank, a pocket that was alarmingly deep. But the difference in the frozen eddies, and that over solid ground were scarce visible. The slow moving froth of the entangled swirls mimicked the snow perfectly, and in the white expanse that but stretched on in every direction, it was easy to become muddled.

For those who were unfamiliar with these parts, and even those who were, it could prove a lethal mistake.

A dangerous trek, and Lockes would not be so foolish as to claim safety in experience, for what did the past measure up to against Nature? Such boasts but encouraged the naive illusion that one understood, and conquered, when in reality there was no surpassing the limitations imposed by the materialization of the Prismatic Arc.

Nay. Lockes lived because they were vigilant, cautious, and respectful.

The Bluepine meandered down the hill, weaving between the brush and hesitating at the treeline. 

The day before they had trekked up to the vantage point at Ebonspire Ridge. So named for the pitch black bluffs, nigh impossible to scale, steep as they were and perpetually coated with a sheen coat of slippery ice. Unless save, one knew the terrain almost as well as one's own palm.

There was a small underpass tucked away in the scraggly wind-beaten brush. If one were to follow it, would find the sinuous path ascending and coming out on a small flat amidst the obsidian spines, towering high above Whitegrove.

While beautiful, as most Shols did, Lockes preferred a different scene day to day, and thus on a whimsy, followed the bend left.

Still, Lockes mused, In spite of the treacherous terrain, every morning they would without fail, rise with First Light to follow Sol as they made their great journey across the sea above.

Not for the sake of necessity, nay, after all the Solar warden's radiance, meek though it was in the Alps, was sufficient if that was all the dark Shol desired.

It was the crisp air, the sting of the icy wind as it howled, rustling through the evergreens above.

In this they felt a twinge of sympathy for the Reaper, grudging though the thought may be to take pity upon one of his kind.

Nonetheless, to be cooped up with naught to occupy him but the smarts of his wounds--it seemed such a vulnerable and pitiable situation.

Well. That wasn't entirely true.

Zeal had nothing to be engrossed in, save the fruit of the efforts of the Coty that he accompanied. Vye had certainly been busy, absorbed in trying to find the Reaper a distraction. Unfortunately, it was to no avail.

Though Zeal seemed to believe otherwise, Vye clung to his side. Every morning they extended an invitation, should the Coty desire to venture through the Alps, forage, and learn their trade. And every Time yet, the young Shol refused despite the eager gleam and disappointment that said otherwise.

Vye opted out not for a lack of interest, but concern for their comrade. Not that the Bræmbel Shol could alleviate the boredom nor expedite the Seeker's recovery, but it's the thought that counts.

In a difficult Time, they would be there for the Reaper. 

As if the man was one of their Circle. One of their own. A kindred fellow that for the young Coty, he may very well be.

What an odd twist of Fate.

The sole surviving member of the Bræmbel Ring, perhaps the only other Shol in existence, and the most crucial piece in this morbid game that they played called Life.

For them to end up with one of the very creatures directly responsible for their demise and the decimation of all their Fairy Rings. For their survival to now rely upon them so heavily.

What an odd twist of Fate.

Lockes wasn't sure whether to laugh or scoff at the irony.

The severed Shol followed the frozen currents and eddy, whisking along the frozen stream beside them. They stooped scrape at the banks seemingly at random. Yet these intermittent forages couldn't have been by pure fancy, for the Bluepine would straighten up with yet another find to tuck away into the folds of their fiddles. 

By their will, did each tendril unfurl, the appendage grasping the Bluepine's find and curling back up to rest amongst the rest of the fronds. 

Lockes had built up a steady rhythm. A couple paces, a scuffle of snow, a small delight to stow away. And thus did they repeat.

Until they felt their needles bristle. Lockes froze, a hand hovering just above a patch of clovers laying dormant beneath the fresh snow. Just inches away, the innocent patch of greens lay beneath a smooth cover of snow, as if untouched.

But Lockes knew better.

A shudder crept through them and immediately a wary set of eyes scanned at the surrounding brush.

They themselves weren't out in the open, and with so much ground cover there was plenty to conceal oneself in. The same could be said for any would be hunters on the prowl, but most any creature knew better than to test a Shol's patience and sought quarry elsewhere.

But that was neither here nor there.

Whatever this was, it wasn't 'most any creature'.

Severed though they were they yet breathed the aether, and it was after all the first lesson a Shol learned that would bear them throughout the span of their long lives, that one did not see with their eyes alone.

Few knew that coties, though born with the anatomy, were born blind.

Helpless and sightless were the little seedlings, conceived within the darkness and warmth of the Fairy Ring. Yet it wasn't until they touched the Prismatic Arc that they were able to siphon the strength to scrabble out from their Earthen womb, pushing forth and bringing with them a tender splotch of color, just as their predecessor had done before them.

Those who could not see with more than just their eyes, remained dormant until they could do so.

So long ago had it been that the Bluepine reached out for the aether, and though severed from the Verdance, they would do so again with the help of their dear Crier. 

It was through borrowed eyes that they could still see the Prismatic Arc, and in the scant of what remained, Lockes felt the gentle breath over the land, carrying on in the curling zephyrs. 

Everything which existed 'twixt the light of the Stars, had a presence.

Where the neighboring clump of clovers lay, just beyond their hand, there was naught.

And that was perhaps what was most perplexing of all.

The clovers were physically still there and yet--they had vanished. Whatever Life they once bore, though they were green still, their aether had gone. It was alive in name only.

Nothing of nature could've done that, at least in the Alps.

And it also wasn't here. 

Not anymore.

A sense of dread slowly filled them, and slowly Lockes drew back, retracing their steps through the brush and making haste towards the den. They couldn't shake off the steadily growing sense of unease, and kept casting apprehensive glances back, straining to feel what little they could of the terrain miles ahead, through the Verdance they had been so severed from.

Lockes grit their teeth, hoping that this was simply paranoia. 

Why, after all this Time, would they come back? Had The two of them been tracked? Surely Zeal couldn't have been so careless as to leave a trail.

Driven by fear, the Bluepine couldn't shake off the distrust they had suppressed for so long in favor of companionship.

Unthinkable though it was what with how gently Zeal treated Vye--and the extent he was willing to undergo for his charge--was this perhaps staged?

It was what the dark Shol had believed upon their first meeting. That this was nothing more than a ruse to lure any of their surviving brethren out. A clever ploy, and tragically not the first.

But even that was far in the dark Shol's mind now.

Deep into whitedew where not even the Sherpas dared roam, unhospitable as the Highlands were.

In the Bluepine's long years, there was only one to have dared to ascended this far up the Alps, deep into Whitedew territory.

And only one who knew of Lockes's existence.

Poem: Doll's Dance

Naught will avail this Time worn tune,
Sung by a doll who asks a boon.

Who danced to the pull of strings so weary,
As if ever so very merry.

Strings that were strung, by choice of course.
Taken with the vise of loneliness and remorse.

In a world colored by fear, and in each hand,
Carried dreams once vivid, now but dust and sand.

Pitiful, perhaps, but what's it to you?
For it is thanks to you, that all this is due!

"Not I!", they may proclaim, aye, so very true.
And the doll nods along, so filled with rue.

For they are but a doll to dance and sing.
It is never another's fault, so blind they enjoy being!

And so the doll turned heaven ward,
And over the stars, she said, her last word.

Goodbye, dear friends who never were,
And a love that was callous, never soft for her.