Theea
There it is.
The Mathair.
It looms before me—vast and ancient and unbearably still. The kind of stillness that makes the world around it hush in deference. I stop a good distance back, boots sinking slightly into moss that gives with a shudder. The air smells strange here—rich and heavy, like wet soil and overripe fruit with something sharper curled beneath.
As I pace in a circle around the tree, memories bubble softly to the surface. Not unpleasantly, but there is a certain edge to it.
When I was small, barely tall enough to reach mom’s waist, both she and dad brought me here. We didn’t go close then, either. My dad held my hand too tightly, making sure I didn’t get too close, and my mom kept her voice hushed and careful, like even speaking too loud might wake something best left sleeping. I remember staring up at the tree’s impossible height, wondering how anything could be so old, so alive. I'm glad to see it again.
It feels even bigger now, instead of smaller like it should. Like she’s grown in the years since I’d been here, or that I’ve grown smaller instead of bigger.
I stop in my tracks, just in time to watch a young man rise from where he’d been crouching in the moss. I catch a flash of blood in his palm—it’s not a far leap to assume he’s making an offering for his quite curious request—
“Find what?” The question blurts out of my mouth before I can think to stop it, and right away, I cringe. “I mean,” I clear my throat, “not that it’s any of my business. Sorry.”
The Mathair.
It looms before me—vast and ancient and unbearably still. The kind of stillness that makes the world around it hush in deference. I stop a good distance back, boots sinking slightly into moss that gives with a shudder. The air smells strange here—rich and heavy, like wet soil and overripe fruit with something sharper curled beneath.
As I pace in a circle around the tree, memories bubble softly to the surface. Not unpleasantly, but there is a certain edge to it.
When I was small, barely tall enough to reach mom’s waist, both she and dad brought me here. We didn’t go close then, either. My dad held my hand too tightly, making sure I didn’t get too close, and my mom kept her voice hushed and careful, like even speaking too loud might wake something best left sleeping. I remember staring up at the tree’s impossible height, wondering how anything could be so old, so alive. I'm glad to see it again.
It feels even bigger now, instead of smaller like it should. Like she’s grown in the years since I’d been here, or that I’ve grown smaller instead of bigger.
I stop in my tracks, just in time to watch a young man rise from where he’d been crouching in the moss. I catch a flash of blood in his palm—it’s not a far leap to assume he’s making an offering for his quite curious request—
“Find what?” The question blurts out of my mouth before I can think to stop it, and right away, I cringe. “I mean,” I clear my throat, “not that it’s any of my business. Sorry.”
there is defiance in being a d r e a m e r
