Where Stones Bloom

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished;

All nature exulted the end of her reign.

Dry fens and parched fields were by its waters replenished;

Therilion’s bare branches didst bloom once again.

The tall, lonely mountains, now no longer despondent,

Cursed glens in dark forests, forsaken no more.

New streams wound unbidden through dunes dry and desperate;

Bright coral now flourished o’er pale ocean floor.

For the hero of yore from the grave made his journey;

E’en death could no longer his vengeance postpone.

And all peoples rejoiced who were freed from her fury,

When Ael Aren’s savior laid waste to her throne.

Whither does she wander, the cruel Queen of Ael Aren,

In halls of the living or vale of the dead?

Some whisper in secret that her pow’r will awaken,

And the world once again shall fall to her dread.

The great river now flows from the sea to the mountains,

Where stone drinks her waters and life fills the air.

But beware when rocks bloom and blood runs like a fountain—

These heralds resounding of coming despair.

~

The last words of the ballad drifted from Nonahir’s lips and seemed to settle upon the forest itself. For a moment, all lay still. The birds, who had fallen silent when the ballad began, remained perched in quiet reverence. The dissonant chorus of nature was hushed—the buzzing of insects, the croaking of frogs, the chattering of squirrels, and the tapping of woodpeckers. Even the leaves in the high canopy held their peace, unmoved by the breeze.

It was only when Nonahir opened her eyes and looked around that the woodland chorus crept back to life, as if stirred from some dreamless slumber.

“That was…” Calen’s voice, so sure and steady in all matters, now wavered. He looked dazed, as though the song had cast a spell over him. He blinked and, for a rare moment, found himself at a loss for words. “Well, there is simply no word for what that was,” he managed at last. “Beautiful? Incredible? Extraordinary? No. None of these serve it justice.”

“Come,” Nonahir said, and there was a glimmer of mirth in her eyes. “You can conjure up the proper words as we walk.”

“I must have heard that ballad a thousand times growing up,” Calen said. “Yet never like that. Are all your kin so gifted with song that the whole world stops to listen?”

“Yes… and no.” She extended her hand for him to take, and he joined her on the path. His hand enfolded hers as though she were but a child. “All of my kind are musical. We were sung into being, and by song we shape our existence. There are those among us who sing to the trees and they open their boughs to form our homes. Some sing to the earth, and its fruits spring forth to sustain us. Others sing to the waters, which yield their bounty freely.”

“Fascinating,” he murmured, his excitement barely contained. “In Ael Aren, we have singers too—minstrels, bards, chanters, and the like. Some are even of passing talent, but nothing like… like…” He fumbled for words once more, his thoughts scattering. “Confound it! Do you see what you do to me? With mere words, I have captured the wonders of lands beyond imagining. My books are studied in every hall of learning from here to the Crags of Vurkhjud. And yet in your presence, I am as inarticulate as an unlettered pauper.”

“You’re rather charming when you’re flustered.” She glanced up at him and a playful smile tugged at her lips. “We are nearly there. Just a little farther, and—” She stopped so suddenly that Calen, still holding her hand, found himself pulled to a halt.

He turned to her, perplexed. “What is it?”

“Shhh!” Nonahir whispered, gently pulling him down to one knee. When Calen made to question her, she pressed a finger to his lips and hushed him again. “For once in your life, be silent!”

He obeyed, his voice falling to silence as she stood, listening intently. After a long pause, she spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “Do you hear it? There is something… amiss.”

“I hear nothing,” he replied, frowning.

“Of course not,” she murmured. “You humans are always listening but seldom hearing.” For a fleeting moment, a look of hurt crossed his face, and she realized she had never spoken harshly to him before. She rolled her eyes and softened her tone, amused and perhaps a little fond. Mortals, she thought. So quick to love, yet so easily wounded.

“Yonder, there is an old willow,” she said, pointing toward the river’s course. “Wait for me there. I must go forward alone and scout the way.”

“Nona, what is it that you heard?” he pressed her.

“Now is not the time for explanations,” she replied, taking his face between her hands and gently kissing his brow, weathered by time’s touch. “Go. I will not be long, and all shall be explained when I return.”

Reluctantly, he rose, sweeping the dust from his knee. “In that direction?” he asked, feigning confusion.

A quiet laugh escaped her. “Yes, you dear fool. That way. Now go.” She gave him a playful slap on the haunch, as one might give a stubborn horse.

~

Nonahir ascended gracefully to the highest branch of the ancient oak at the forest’s edge. From this vantage, she could see the lake that had once marked the headwaters of the mighty River Rimvalhir. Few dared approach it in the dark days, but that was many centuries past, when she herself had been but a fledgling. She had stood here the day the Pale Queen had vanished. In those days, the lake was fed by a series of waterfalls cascading from the deep heart of the Vetvrelorn Mountains.

She had watched as, one by one, the seven falls ceased, their waters stilled as if held by some unseen hand. The earth had trembled, and it had taken all her strength to cling to the oak’s boughs. Within moments, the waters reversed, drawn back as if to their source. A chasm yawned where the headwaters had once met the mountain’s foot. Where the lake had been a source, it now became a sinkhole, drawing the waters of Rimvalhir down into the dark embrace of the earth.

Lirendril, as her people had named it, had been barren and desolate before that day. She had watched in awe as the murky black waters cleared, as though the mountain itself had swallowed up the corruption that had plagued it for ages uncounted. The soil, once fallow and grey, burst forth with life. Prismatic wildflowers, lush green grasses that glistened in the noon sun, and thick bushes heavy with plump, onyx berries—all sprang forth in the wake of the river’s return, as if the land itself were waking from a long, bitter sleep.

Now, as Nonahir gazed upon the familiar landscape, she saw that it had changed once again. The great boulders encircling the chasm, once still and silent, gleamed with the fiery hue of a blood-red sunset. Where once lay solemn stone, there now grew strange crystalline blooms, their sharp, faceted edges reflecting the sun in fierce, prismatic reds.

Where the smooth paths of the ancient streams had once led, their stones worn bare by ages of water’s touch, now bristled with these strange, gem-like flowers. Their roots clung fast to the stone, winding into every crevice, as though drawing sustenance from the very bones of the mountain. The final lines of the ballad stirred in her memory:

The great river now flows from the sea to the mountains,

Where stone drinks her waters and life fills the air.

But beware when rocks bloom and blood runs like a fountain—

These heralds resounding of coming despair.

“Could it be?” she murmured. Closing her eyes, she strained to separate in her mind the ringing song she had heard on the path. Louder now, it was a chorus of crystalline tones that rang like glass. She had to be sure. With four long strides, she reached the end of the branch and leapt high into the air, loosing her wings. They were neither feathered nor scaled, but delicate, membranous, and nearly ethereal in their fine veins. Sunlight caught on the wings as she descended, shimmering in hues of soft green and earthen brown.

When she landed upon the shore, her wings folded seamlessly against her back, their faint, leaf-like patterns disappearing into soft undulating folds. She stepped forward, her bare feet pressing into the soft earth as her eyes followed the lake’s transformed shore.

Ahead, grazing in the shallows by the strange, blooming stones, stood a young doe. The creature paused only briefly to look at her, unafraid, before returning to its grazing. As Nonahir passed, she patted its warm flank, her gaze fixed upon the cursed flowers ahead. Now the song in her ears was so loud she could scarcely hear anything else. It was clear—these blooms were not only ringing but singing, harmonizing as though part of some irreverent chorus.

With one trembling hand, she reached toward the nearest petal, its ruby-like surface shimmering with a beauty that was both seductive and unholy. Her fingertip hovered but a hair’s breadth from the gem-like petal when a chill ran down her spine. Something was wrong.

The flower, though alluring, carried within it a darkness—a curse cloaked in ruby fire. She sensed its power, a thrumming that urged her to touch, to give herself to it. Her brow furrowed, and she wondered if by touching it, she might absorb the curse into her own being. And yet the pull was undeniable, an almost unbearable force drawing her close and unraveling her resolve.

Her hand shook as she prepared to touch it once more, balanced between peril and desire. But in that instant, a piercing cry split the silence.

She spun toward the water’s edge, where the doe now stood frozen, shivering as though gripped by an unseen hand and a single crystalline flower hung from its mouth. Slowly, the doe’s hooves left the ground, its body lifting in a ghastly levitation. Nonahir’s breath caught. She watched in horror as a wound opened, dark and deep, across the doe’s throat. From the gash, blood streamed, red and steady, flowing not down but outward, drawn as if to the chasm, then upward, tracing the lost path of the waterfalls to the mountain’s height.

The blood, bright and unyielding, was summoned as if to a forgotten ritual. Nonahir snatched back her hand, clenching it tightly as her heart quickened, her spirit trembling with terror and rage. The song of the flowers swelled, mocking and jubilant, as if they reveled in the spilling of blood.

It was then that she knew, with dreadful certainty:

The prophecy had begun to unfold.