First few days of disorientation, but now discerning the specific dangers as well as the particular enchantments of the princelings. I cradle a slightly broken left arm, narrowly escaping a rather fierce grasp from a feisty one. I caught the soft sound of tiny chains.
My heart is shaking so. The forest shivers. Scorched marks of monsters passing.
A small retreat today. Tried to do too much too soon. Got too reckless, and now an almost fatal wound from a rigged arrow I did not see because I got distracted by the sound of unfolding wings.
It wasn't a cloak or a hood but a tent. It appears and disappears at random parts of the forest. The girl and the grandmother are one and the same. The wolf is a prince fulfilling an ancient ritual that has kept a kingdom alive. Sometimes the prince fails because he fails to see the girl in the grandmother, and the grandmother in the girl. In such times the kingdom falls, and the prince is cursed with forgetfulness and an unspeakable ache in his heart that sends him wandering in the cities that corrode his spirit and taint his senses. He confuses the scent of magic with the tricky scents of mortal indulgence. He hungers for a love he only remembers in dreams.
The forest is crisscrossed with thresholds. Invisible borders much like the veins of a heart.
There is a ghost in the forest.
He was a blue-blind boy and thus could not see her blue heart magic. She wove for him an impossible story that could only become true if he opened his heart instead. But he persisted to see only with his eyes and lost his way through the forest, and lost a kingdom.
He is many forms but is one. He is sometimes all of himself and sometimes only part, hiding behind the eyes of strangers. When the mood strikes him he runs on all fours, singing to the moon. He picks up the scent of my wanderings, following the paths of wildflowers. But he does not know me. I am the blank side of the mirror, the empty cage, the missing door on an invisible wall.
I am the wildflower, hiding in the honey. I am the flash of iridescence on a beetle's wing.
He is the one who stops my breath, grips my heart with a glance. Yet he does not see me even when he looks. He is distracted by all the light spilling from my fingertips.
STORIES are what happen in the Impossible Garden & the Wildforest. They are the overheard conversations, the gossip of the flowers and the trees, the fragments written on bones and stones. They are the secrets whispered by the wind, the tales of the stars, the knowledge earned or traded with the forest dwellers. They are the fairy tales that had been forgotten or never told. They are the rules and the history and how they are repeatedly broken and rewritten. They are the murmurings of magic, the language of hidden love, the wildness beneath every order and the pattern beneath every chaos. They are truths and they are lies and in the end they are real to those who have the heart to see.
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