The darkness would take us all. And, honestly? I didn't care — not as the warmth of the midday sun kissed my skin and the air was thick with the fragrance of blooming flowers. The earthy aroma of the soil beneath my blanket mixed with something sweeter, an almost intoxicating symphony of loam and honey. The birds sang a gentle lullaby from the branches above, their melody rising and falling in time with the rhythm of my breaths. I closed my eyes, letting the warmth seep into my bones and forgetting the other Eremos resting nearby. A low hum thrummed through my veins, urging me to act, but the reason I needed to do anything at all faded into the shadows at the edge of my consciousness.
The memory of why we were here—why everything hurt, why there was an impossible tightness in my chest—flared up, but not sharply. Its edges became smoothed, like a story told by someone who loved you too much to dwell on the trauma. I remembered running—through the dark, through the claws of some shadow-thing—and the brief, blinding violence of escape. The rest was a blur of flight and the odd, weightless triumph of survival.
How had we gotten here?
I delved deeper into the foggy sea of painted glass pictures that was now my memory. My body jerked as a flash of raging flames danced across my mind. My breath hitched at the crushing weight of loss against my soul. Then, the world exhaled its sorrows and lifted the gray shroud of despair to reveal lush fields where moon lilies bloomed in defiance of the sun—and, in contempt of the inky shadows that threatened to suffocate their beauty at dusk.
We pitched camp the first night at the edge of the field, the air crisp with the scents of jasmine and fresh rain. The lilies glowed in the moonlight like fallen stars. Sleep had not come easily, but our exhaustion finally heeded its call. The next day, our pace was sluggish as the field stretched endlessly before us, the flowers whispering secrets and promises of peace. Late that afternoon, we crested a hill that revealed a grove of trees nestled in its shallow valley.
I recalled rushing into the shimmering emeralds and golds of the trees' canopies with newfound energy. Plump, golden fruits dangled from the boughs of the trees and dripped sap like honey onto the lush woodland undergrowth. Makeshift shelters sprouted like wildflowers, covering the earth as we eagerly bedded down for the night. Even the sable tendrils of void that crept upon us as the hold of the darkness on Asteryia grew stronger appeared less menacing — wistful, even — as twilight settled over the grove. I chose a spot near the heart of the grove, my blanket sticky with sap before I even had a chance to rest upon it.
It all began innocently enough. Pais, with his mousy curls tangled like roots, plucked the first fruit. "Looks like a golden pear." He sniffed. "Smells like sweet wine."
"Don't eat it, Pais," I warned. "It could be poisonous."
One of the younger and more naïve Eremos, he just waggled his brows as he took a bite. Juice ran down his chin as his eyes widened. "Tastes like sun-warmed nectar from the heavens!" He reached for more as many of the others followed suit.
I kept an eye on the others for telltale signs of poison, hesitating for a few brief moments before reaching for a nearby branch. My stomach growled as I plucked one of the gilded fruits from a low-hanging branch. I hesitated, turning the fruit in my palm. There was nothing threatening about it—no spines, no menacing odor, just a pleasant weight and a faint, tart scent that set my jaw on edge. I bit into its flesh, expecting bitterness, or poison, or at the very least disappointment. What I got was sweetness, clean as water from a glacier. It coated my tongue and spread through my body like liquid sunlight.
We all plucked the fruit in handfuls, some stuffing them in pockets, others eating them right from the branch. No one questioned; no one cared.
That night, the exhaustion finally caught up to us. I'd dreamed then, or maybe I hadn't. The memories were slippery, as if someone had mixed oil and water in my brain. I recalled shifting colors and the sound of laughter. Faces flickered in and out. The dreams were like stories, ones I had lived and forgotten, or ones I'd never had the chance to know—I wasn't sure which.
The next morning, the Eremos were different. No one talked about the previous day; if they remembered it at all, it was in the dreamy, disconnected way one remembers a fever. Even I became softened, unhurried. Everyone laughed more and shared what little they had with joy and abandon. We lingered, uncharacteristically, as if we all wanted to stretch the moment for as long as possible.
That was where my memory faltered.
I struggled against the honeyed chains of the passing days from my mind, but the weight was too heavy.
How long had we been here—days, weeks?
I yawned at my efforts to remember. Later, when the hunger for movement returned, I would figure it out. Or perhaps not. I really didn't care.
A rustle stirred the leaves, and I lazily turned toward the sound, expecting to see a fawn or bird scuttling nearby.
It was neither.
An older woman, wild and weathered, with skin like polished bark and silver-gray hair cascading down her back like vines, approached. My heart remained steady as she padded closer on bare feet. My breathing remained calm even as her mossy eyes narrowed, meeting my gaze. I didn't hesitate when she pressed a succulent red fruit against my lips. My mind raised no alarms when she placed a cool hand on my forehead and whispered, "Awaken, wanderer."
...