Tales of Xyanthia: Part Two

This is a dual collaberation story with DarkRen and myself, as mentioned in my previous entry. The first part of the story is HERE, if you haven’t read it yet. His sections will be in Violet and mine will be in Blue.

In the quietness that follows, as he struggles to grasp the meaning of the vision seen, there comes aloft on the wings of flight, the smallest butterfly, exquisite in the bright coloring. Lazily it glides through the air, silent and calm, certainly not a creature to fear, and as it flutters downward. If it were not for the woman who came, if it were not for the pale pink of the silk she wore, were it not for the scrap of fabric left, perhaps it would not appear odd; yet this small creature pauses, the wings slowing, a small lift and descend.. lift, and descend, as the body rests upon the silk.

With no forewarning, the butterfly again finds the wind and as it rises higher, it circles, and then hovers, just out of reach of the man. Swerving slightly, the wings briefly caress the book held within the strong, lithe fingers. A rustling breeze stirs the grass before it makes its way towards the pool, all the time in the world it seems, as it flits along.

As his attention is taken with the butterfly, again the stillness envelops him. Is that a harp, or a hum, or a lute, or merely the trick of imagination? For certainly it could not be that voice again, an entreaty in the dulcet voice, ‘Find me, love?’ .

“Who.. where..?” He speaks in but a whisper, his head turned in a dart to left, then right. Yet the source of the sound does not allow itself to be seen. And when again he looks toward the pool the butterfly has gone with nary a trace. Though it seems impossible it is all known to him.. in a way expected. The book titled Xyanthia is drawn in close to his chest, arms crossed over the weighty book. He must know, thus he runs.

Away from the waters, so familiar. But toward another place. A place he knows will be there. Though it is a place of fiction he knows that when his flight ends he will look upon it. Approach and feel solid surfaces resisting the press of his fingertips. But those thoughts soon fade as he runs, his mind allowed to clear. Through emerald wood he moves swiftly, feeling the pleasant, softly scented air caress his cheeks and play with his hair lightly. For a short moment feeling his heart grow light and soar within his chest.

And as he runs, the scrap of fabric that was left behind, seems to float from where it laid upon the ground. It turns end upon end until there is little ability to see the form and shape it was, almost liquid in substance, before it melts into the air. The surface of the pool shimmers, a thousand diamonds might possibly equal the brilliance of the sight, though no one views, no one sees. Upon this crystalline-mirrored plane, a single, perfect, sterling silver rose rests. Again that shimmer of light, one that is so brilliant it could possibly blind the human eye; the pool again returned to the calm blue depths, yet next to where the man had spent his time in thought, a rosebush grows, the self-same sterling silver, rosebuds perfect in their moment before the first bloom.

Farther through the deep emerald wood he travels, the book held close, and yet it seems to grow warm to the touch. Of course he might not realize this, as intent as he is in his measured pace, farther from where he saw the vision, yet closer to the place he seeks. His pace slows as he reaches a glassy incline, he spies the splash of color as wildflowers gently move with the wind, daffodils, lavender, lilies, bluebells, and a host of others surrounding him with each footfall forward. As he gazes about, his eyes drift to the bluebells, their tiny forms seeming to nod to him, and suddenly the wind rustles the grass at his feet and a small, meandering footpath seems to beacon. Hurrying to follow before the wind hides the secrets hidden in the flowers, he carefully walks forward. The touch of leaves against his hair causes him to raise his eyes and trees surround him, the flowers behind almost lost in the shadows, light glimmers through the leaves and for a moment he pauses, listening carefully, that lyrical voice whispering, “Jamieth..”

He turns towards the sound and steps forward cautiously, not wanting to make any sudden noise; the wind blows again, leaves dance before his eyes, teasingly, light shimmering from above and falling across his path. He turns again and sees a living archway, constructed of tall sterling silver rosebushes, to his left. Stepping quietly so as not to disrupt the birdsong that is heard in the distance, he makes his way to the rose arch to walk beneath. In the distance the sound of a brook, bubbling and cheerful is heard, did the sound come from there or from the one that might wait within?.

“Yes.. the arch to Jamieth.” he murmurs lowly to himself, the book allowed to lean away from his chest as he pauses just shy of the arch, letting him look at the silver lined title. His eyes grow wide as he sees that it glows with a subtle illumination. And he can feel that soft heat radiating from it. Xyanthia, shining with its own inner light. And when he slowly enfolded it against his chest again, he could feel the warming heat caress him. Comforting in this strange, yet wonderful place. His eyes half closed he steps forward slowly, taking the last few steps needed to pass through it.

He knows no fear as he can feel the air about him ripple and distort. He need not see to know that the ether wraps about him like stray strands of silk that flutter aimlessly against his body. And he knows, as the sensation falls away that when he opens his eyes he will not see what was past the arch. He knows he will see a place that is different, so different.

He pauses, and then opens his eyes..

DarkRen has posted part three, the link for that one is HERE