with a reverence unimpaired

Parts of it certainly might, yup. The tulmhainar agrees with a nod. When folks say that a place seems to have a magic of its own, where waters run crystal clear all year long, where the harvests always seem to yield more than you need...those are usually the signs of a tulmhainar burial. For a long moment, the tulmhainar just regards her. Her tenseness, the clear skepticism on her face, the way she has refused his drink, held her arms, and watched him as if he might grow spikes to impale her at any moment. So as she tentatively agrees despite all of her worries with the caveat she not forget anything, she damn near almost breaks the tulmhainar's heart. With a surprised peel of laughter, the tulmhainar shakes his head, stretching out a hand for Amalia to take. Forget? Ohhhh I see. Leaning back with another laugh, he shakes his head gently. I don't eat the way you all eat. In talking about the past you are sharing your memories with me. It's those that I eat, not the original ones. I mean, I'd take the originals too, but most folks don't really want to give up their happy times. I take sad ones and bad ones on occasion, but as you can imagine they don't leave me feeling too good.

There is nowhere like that in Amalia's experience, no magic land of bounty and green, except perhaps the Oasis. The Hollowed Grounds are dead and dying, an ecosystem trapped by past mistakes. It is heart-wrenching to think of such a great thing dying, collapsing under the weight of apathy and ignorance and its own hunger... but what must the cost be of feeding such a thing, an entire world in a microcosm of bent space and magic? When he laughs it is a kindly thing, though Amalia starts at the sound. But he is a gentle creature, old and wise and wonderful, and does not judge her ignorance. "Oh," she answers softly, somehow more confused than before, though a great deal of the tension eases off her shoulders, out of her bones. Relief makes her shiver, a half-laugh leaving her lips. Of course a thing beloved by Mort could not be evil. She was a fool to doubt. Drawing a breath, the girl sits down, one hand sliding carefully into the tulmhainar's wizened one, another wrapping back around the glass of lemonade. "What... do you want to know?" She will make a poor snack, she thinks: her life is bland, an empty canvas of broad, dull strokes. Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.

He patiently lets her mind sort and suss through it all, waiting with a patient grin on his leathery lips. Giving her hand and affectionate and understanding squeeze with all the familiarity of an uncle, or grandpapy, he offers her a smile as she sits. Closing his eyes, the world around them seemed to shimmer with vibrancy as he did so. Anything you like, though I know that's a big way to kick off a story. So how about favourite foods? You carry some sweet smells with you, we could start there. Then dreams mayhap, childhood memories or so, just whatever comes into that mind of yours.

Amalia has never had an uncle, or a grandfather, or any significant male family member of which to speak- but she has had a grandmother, and in the tulmhainar's voice and touch she thinks she can see a little of her nani, the wisdom and the patience that made everyone love her so. Inhaling, she takes a sip of lemonade, trying to find a starting point. He suggests baking, and the girl smiles, nodding gratefully. "Well, as far as I can remember my family has run a bakery - Devas Bakery, in the Settlement..." And so she begins to weave her tale, speaking softly of her grandmother, her childhood, her triumphs, her songs. She tells him of her loves and dreams, the wishes she has seen come true. She tries to omit the darker moments, though they creep like ivy across some scenes, unbidden and unwanted but impossible to quell. But Amalia does not want to hurt him, now that she knows she is safe. And so she paints a sunlit picture, hoping it will satiate the world to whom she speaks. Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.

Indeed as she speaks a rosy picture seems to appear around them. It isn't so much an image though, as it is the feeling that Amalia is describing. It is the pureness of the memory itself and it tangles around the pair like golden smoke. Every now and then the tulmhainar interjects to ask a clarifying question or to beg for more detail. Sometimes it is simple things—the description of someone's voice—other times though, his requests are strange—what colour was the bedding? how many paces to the door?—and with each narrative mouthful the tulmhainar seemed to appear younger somehow. Healthier.

It is strange and wonderful, to see her memories laid out like paintings, coming to life around her in smoke. She answers the creature's questions dutifully, growing brighter and more relaxed with each word, easing into the role of storyteller with surprising aplomb. The tulmhainar, in turn, grows younger, more alive, wrinkles and lines falling away as he becomes steadily more robust. When she finally runs out of memories to give, Amalia sits back and sighs. One hand pulling absently at a lock of tawny hair, she looks around contentedly, taking in the landscape and enjoying its vastness, the serenity of this place. Turning dark eyes back on the tulmhainar, the baker lets a shy smile cross her lips, hopeful and nervous and eager for an exchange. "Will you tell me about yourself? Where you came from, and how you came to be here, and why you were so hungry if the fae take care of you?" Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.

Even after she has finished speaking, the tulmhainar sits with his eyes closed, reclined in the chair. Only now he is no more than a boy, willowy in the raggedy and dusty clothes that sit on his body like a sack. There is a smile on his face and eventually when his eyes do open, they are still wizened and knowing even without the ripples of wrinkles around them. Sure, if you like. He answers in a voice bursting with energy and zeal now. I am about as old as this world is. At least, when I came here it was still young, still forming and being formed. Pouring himself another glass of lemonade, he lets the chair fall back to the porch with a dry crack, choosing to prop his boots up on the railing instead. We are solitary creatures for the most part, because in groups our magic can do...strange things to the world. He shrugged as if to say you know how to goes. Too much creation all in one place, too many overlapping illusions...But we sing, through time. As this world spins and moves through the solar system, we pass through the trails of songs left behind, and I can hear my kin. I leave them songs too, when the conditions are right. As for being hungry, the tulmhainar laughs and pats his (now) flat stomach. I am larger than I look. My being is bigger than my body, and that makes me a very hungry critter. The Fae do their best, and in turn, I help their woods to thrive.

It is Amalia's turn to listen, rapt, leaning forward on her elbows to catch the creature's tale. "Like starwhales!" she contributes breathlessly in response to his songs, delighted to have made such a connection. It makes sense that this and those should bear some level of connection, both mystical, ethereal, beautiful things. But Starwhales are a reminder of Jyoti, and Jyoti is a reminder of the outside world, and everything she has left behind. Chewing anxiously on her lip, Amalia looks back over her shoulder as if hoping to find the child there. "I should go soon," she says half-wistfully. "I need to get my friends... I don't understand why they threw us in a pit. We would have helped if they explained." Turning back to the tulmhainar, Amalia smiles bashfully at the now-youth. "I am sorry I was so afraid... I wish I could do more for you." And then, a thought: "What about books? History is just written memory passed through time." Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.

The tulmhainar chuckles and shrugs. Likening his kind to the starwhales is not dissimilar to likening men to apes, but he lets it go. She isn't so wrong that it matters. The mention of the pit has the tulmhainar frowning, but he nods with understanding and compassion. You have to understand that the fae are not here to be your friends. They do not want your understanding, not when their strength is great enough to simply take what they want. They are...a race unlike any other. Their history is bloody and brutal, with as much war existing with the other nations as with themselves. Opening his hands, palms up and shrugging again, the tulmhainar takes a deep breath and then stands. Fear is understandable. I should have known what Delah might have said to you and clarified sooner. Though it has only been moments since Amalia finished her tale, already age-lines were crinkling his forehead, and he appeared older than he had seconds ago. Her suggestion makes him cackle merrily, and he shakes his head. D'you think you could have written down all those memories you told me quite the same as when you told 'em to me just now? Books...are good in a pinch. I prefer the real thing though. Which, given his constant use of magic was amusing in and of itself.

DELAH

"ENOUGH." Delah calls suddenly from across the field. She is impossibly small against the towering ring of trees, but still she stands with her head high, arms crossed, defiant in the face of...well, everything..

In places deep
With roots entwined
I live the life I left behind

Embarrassment flushes across her cheeks, and the girl nods her assent. "I suppose books cannot hold everything," she admits, a fairly new idea that the young librarian is just now coming to terms with. Still, to see him already aging tugs at her empathy, makes her yearn for some solution to a problem far older and larger than she. "There are many others in the Hollowed Grounds, though, and I am sure they would help." She extends a hand to take his again, an ardent smile on her earnest face. Then Delah breaks through the tranquility, and Amalia turns in her seat, her brow knitting back into a defensive frown. Amalia thinks of the tulmhainar's words, that the fae are a bloody and brutal people: certainly she can see that clearly in every inch of the savage fae. "I can see why you love it," is all she says, unaware of how little she can possibly understand but desperately trying, at least. Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.

Well, perhaps next time you go a'wandering in the woods, bring a few books with you in case you get captured and you can read them to me. He said with a laugh, offering Amalia a wink and a crooked smile. He doesn't look away as Delah's call breaks through, though he does let the illusion fade. Time to go, Amalia He says gently, great earthen body shifting ever so slightly. As he glances over her shoulder, a pathway of flowers suddenly blooms leading back towards the ring of trees. Come again though, won't you? I'm sure there's more memories in there than what I heard today.

The illusion falls away, and Amalia finds herself back among the forest and the stars - though the world of the tulmhainar still looms ahead, entirely too large for its place in the woods. Jyoti presses against her hand, humming notes of happiness, and the girl smiles at her companion, running hands over pectoral fins. "I will!" And she means it, promises it, her inky eyes warm as she gazes at the ancient creature before letting the starwhale turn her around, back to the real world. The floral path is a kind parting gift, though Jyoti's glow is more than enough to guide her in the dark. Careful to trample as few blooms as possible, Amalia reluctantly leaves the tulmhainar behind, mind still reeling and heart still full from all that she has seen. Amalia Her eyes, they know too much. She'll treat you like somebody but you just can't touch.