Drip, Drip, Drip …

Ripples undulated slowly across mirrormere in perfect circles, undisturbed by twig or leaf they inexorably spread to seek the outer bank. Mist there was, and indeed always would be, hanging over the bank- or was it that the bank lay suspended in the mist? One lone tree was all else that braved the shore of mirrormere. Devoid of company the two existed almost out of time. The tree gnarled with age, twisted in slow tortuous war with the mist. Striving to reach the water whose perfect surface was as unaturally smooth as the tree was excessively twisted – both lingering in an ageless fog reminded of the passing of time only by water condensing on a leaf, forming drops and falling … drip, drip

Plink!

The drop shattered. Shocked and stunned it fractured into a thousand smaller drops and covered the bottom of a goblet. A hand stretched from the goblet to a man and to the man the goblet slowly moved. He stood for a moment, contemplating the scene. His dark green eyes captured the shape of the mere, the posture of the tree, and revealed this information to a pristine intelligence housed inside an equally well formed head. Holding the goblet closer to his eye (disturbing as he moved a long rich velvet cloak, emerald green in hue, embroidered with golden runes of great power) and examined the liquid held therein. Then slowly and carefully moistening a finger he transferred a taste to his crimson lips.

Salt, thought he, Then ‘tis true and indeed I have found that which I seek. A tree that doth drip salt water (thus subverting the natural order of distillation) and a mere that is still, yet not clear, concealing all knowledge of it’s depth under a transparent exterior. Ah terrible fate, why hast thou driven asunder two so? Cruel fortune that maketh even trees weep! I shall right this wrong and these two shall unite, e’er long!

Thinking this thought (though in the stillness thoughts were truly as loud as words and one should beware lest they be overheard) he then threw back his hood, letting blond hair fall over his shoulders in a fountain of gold. He raised his hands, and with his index finger drew the sign of power in the air. Blue fire traced from his finger nail as he did so and for a second the symbol stood clear for all creation to bear witness to. This done he sat down exhausted and waited. Waited for the change to take place.
First, but slowly, the mist drew back from the tree and hovered over the mere occluding it from view … while this occurred the tree also experienced change. Branches hardened by age began to bend and in a smooth flowing motion the tree straightened, stretching it’s branches into arms and the twigs fingers, straining after centuries spent in a crouch. The toughened sinews folded across a chest as broad as the trunk once was, as a yawn dies away. Then the man crouched, iron leg muscles tensed to spring – and spring he did, jumping clear into the air and landing easily in front of the mist.

Which draws our attention to the mist! By now it was obvious that the mere had changed and the mist remained only around what had been its centre. As the two men watched, a figure walked forward from the mist, which flexed and followed, forming itself to fit the figure. And such a figure!
Skin as black as ebony covered a firm form, sinuous as the dunes of a southern desert, lips dark as rich red wine toyed with a perpetual smile and forced the observers eye to leave lest they break with contagious joy. Not that there was much escape, for on evading the mouth one encountered her eyes. They shone as a star in a cloudless sky. Piercing with an intensity that could search any soul to its core, but an intensity free from malice or anger. An intensity of Hope realised in Love.

Ubinstral (for we should use the name the man in the cloak was know by) smiled. From his seated position he saw the two embrace. He sighed contentedly as the couple rediscovered the warmth of each others arms, the texture of her dress sending minute sensations through his finger tips, the latent power throbbing from his arm though her touch …

… But then he left, and if one so wise saw good reason for this action, how could we linger?

© 2007 Simon Lidwell