Findel's Embrace

Faro heard music. He turned. Sitting on a mossy rock beneath a tall eucalyptus was his father, a harp cradled in his bosom. Slender, strong fingers played upon the strings, the vibrations ringing. Tirlav played with skill that surpassed anything Faro had known possible. It was not like his meager melodies, but harmonies and countermelodies at once, a flow of the spirit unhindered.

Tirlav played a last ringing cord, and turned to Faro.

"Son," he said.

"Father."

Tirlav looked past him, and Faro turned to see. The center of the grove canopy was open to the sky above a gaping hole, branches withered and snapped at its margins. There was no steam nor water. The hole that had been the Wellspring was thrice its former size, the edges collapsed. It took Faro a moment to realize what was missing; Findel's malir was gone.

"Findel?" Faro asked.

He felt downward. It was harder now to perceive, but the great fissure had collapsed, its immense weight sealing it. Compared to what it had been, the barest trickle of Current rose from the gaping sinkhole, yet there was much above, still spreading and falling over the land and sea, but it was dissipating.

There was no answer from Findel. He turned back to his father.

"What happened?"

"Most of the others have already gone. He has kept us here, back to the beginning."

Tirlav motioned around the grove. It wasn't just Findel. Many of the malir were gone. At least. . . Faro was confused. He could still see the twisted growths, but there was something missing. Tirlav stood up, the harp still cradled in his arms. He was looking eastward.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"How did I survive?" Faro asked.

"Your roots."

Faro looked down. At once, he saw himself, but he also saw. . . he had rooted into the slope more sideways than upright, and where he stood also stood a malir, its bark scalded and its branches snapped. There was no pain.

Tirlav started to walk.

"Where are you going?"

Tirlav looked back.

"She's crossed the boundary. There is still Current flowing there. I want to go too, while I still might." Tirlav pointed again, and it was as if his finger directed Faro's mind as much as his eye. His gaze extended beyond physical sight, the whole of Findeluvié and the Mingling laid bare in that receding flow. There was an eddying of the Current, far in the northern Mingling. At first, he thought it was another vent like that of the dhar, but it wasn't. It was as if the Current was flowing into it, not out. He could not see beyond, or where the Current went. What power so drew it, he could not fathom.

There were Vien there, Inevien who had grasped the Current of Isecan. Even as he watched, one passed within, vanishing without trace.

"What is it?" Faro asked, but he knew.

Vah'tane.

Tirlav started to walk again.

"Wait," Faro said, suddenly afraid.

Tirlav didn't look back.

"There is not much time left."

"But it is so far."

"This is not flesh you see. I must go while there is yet Current."

"Please!" Faro begged. Tirlav stopped. Faro looked down at his roots.

"Please," he said again. "I want to go, too."

Tirlav smiled and held out a hand.

"Then come, son. He isn't stopping us, anymore."

Hesitantly, as if unsure that the ground would support him, Faro stepped away from the scalded roots of the malir.

THE END. PLEASE read the thank-you chapter that will come out in three minutes after this drops.