[Lyssoryl]

As Aeron touched her temples, she put her hands on the back of his.

"Please be careful with my brain" she said, smiling up at him with nervousness in her eyes. "It's true I don't use it all that often, but I'm rather fond of it all the same."

For Lyssoryl, sleep came like the drawing of curtains close by her face, a soft darkness closing in from the sides until it filled the world for her. She found the darkness stifled her and she made a waving motion, as if brushing away a mosquito, and discovered that there were leafy branches in front of her. Pushing them aside, she could see once more.

She was at the edge of a forest, looking out at a wide meadow of thick moss. The Suns shown from an angle that indicated early morning, casting brilliant golden light on the wildflowers that bloomed amongst the moss in a splendid profusion of colors; sky blues, fiery crimsons, buttery yellows, dazzling whites and rich lavenders. Across the meadow the forest began again, with a variety of trees in contrasting shades of green. Swallows darted in euphoric patterns, chasing invisible insects.

It was a scene of intense beauty, so much so that it raised an ache within her. And yet, there was something unsettling about the scene. Perhaps it was how the trees opposite her spot moved- like powerful animals stalking pray, or like the last wave a foundering ship sees before sinking. In fact, now that she looked, the air was much too still to explain their movement, and in any case they did not move in unison as one would expect of things moved by the same breeze.

In the middle of the meadow, and somewhat to her left, there was a mound of white flowers, and a small figure sat atop it doing something which the distance made indistinct, despite the amazing clarity of the air. With hesitating steps, Lyssoryl left the forest and approached for a better look.

She had to approach quite closely before the figure made sense to her, and when it did clarity came suddenly. Lyssoryl was startled to see that from her closer vantage point the flowery hill wasn’t flowery at all. Rather, it was a great mound of skulls. They gleamed a clean eggshell white, as if each had been polished with a loving hand, and they grinned at her in a manner lacking all restraint. On top of the mound she saw a duplicate of herself, sitting cross-legged and working a long leg bone with some sort of small metal implement. The woman looked up, showing black eyes with no whites, orbs like yawning graves. “Just a second dear, I’m almost through,” she said. Her voice had a slight echoing quality to it. She went back to work on the bone.

Lyssoryl stood transfixed, until the woman looked up again. She examined the bone with care, looking for imperfections, and Lyssoryl could see that she’d made it into a flute. She held it to her lips and blew gently, producing a beautiful dark sound, like a nightingale trapped in a cave deep underground. She ran artfully through several scales, then took the flute from her lips and absentmindedly polished a few specks of bone dust from its gleaming surface.

“Who are you?” Lyssoryl stammered.

The woman considered carefully before replying. “It is important for you to remember that things come undone. In every tender blossom, in every beautiful echoing note lives the shadow of decay.”

“Will you not answer me?”

“It is a kindness I do. You do not ask the right questions, yet I give you the right answers. I shall repeat my kindness twice more.”

“Is this a place I have seen, or will one day see.”

“It is important to remember that things come together. In every reeking corpse, in every wail of woe lives the spark of unborn dreams.”

“I’m not certain I understand. What is to become of me?”

The woman smiled with brilliant white teeth.

“This is the right question asked at the wrong time. And so my third kindness is this- Shed a tear for the burgeoning life of spring, and smile fondly in autumn’s dying light. There is no truth, there is no pain, but there is something else which you will not know but you will feel, and then all will be well.”

Lyssoryl felt something brush her arm, and turned in surprise. Behind her was an apple tree, each fruit a burning globe of fire. Cautiously, she extended her hand to pick one, ready to jerk back at the first feeling of heat, but she found the warmth to be just tolerable, so she pulled the globe loose with a jerk. There was a shower of sparks, and she sat up with a start.