Time was not linear, not as they believed it to be before the Creation….It was as cragged as the mountains of the Mimi Cim Horn, from which his days of youth were spent wandering among, as he wandered now in this open, crooked time and space….endless space. Echoes among the crags of time….Places he wished he could find that were so dissonant with him and yet so harmonious for him to hear….He remembered, each memory echoing from a distant valley or high….He remembered Isole…and still he had not found her….The echoes through the range of time promised him in his mind that he would find her….The pull was so strong, the echoes so deceptively alluring….They spoke of her everywhere.
The air rippled with his walking through it, leaving iridescent shimmers in the pools of time he waded among…..Something moved by overhead.
He felt it before it was upon him, and turned to call up to it. It was vast and great—its colors working to form into whatever it was meant to be when finished, but the dream had only begun, and the great shape sending seismic color waves through the grid about him and the rest had no way of preventing the chaos of color and motion it inflicted….He saw it pass, smashing into the "mountain" silhouetted ahead of him through lines of vivid quality, "….An obervyn," and a chorus of infinite voices agreed with his declaration.
Another manifestation of her….Had he known it was she who had synthesized this world….He had played with the idea in his head, bubble notes of thinking permeating through his form.
"She never chose to leave—not happily," he turned away from the crumbling mountain of time, the "obervyn" tumbling in yielding rings of pinks and purples and blues to green…..He passed his hand through someone's wake, and saw the lines trail from his own mesh of fingers….That "someone" held his hand, and he thought he saw some semblance of a being like himself—and for a moment, as the crags of time were tumbling down here and there, now and again along those ridges he watched what would happen to it….His sight took in what was left of him, or her….Rather he felt it was a they, as in that briefest of physical manifestations he felt so many attached to the hand, all synching into him in a brief spark of acknowledgement before the whole cloud of form drifted away, out of sight, touch, and sound.
He was tired of walking through the mountain range of time, and so clambered out of its incessant drops and builds….He stepped onto plains, where grasses rippled in neat rows of minuscule-width'ed hairs, poking from the meshed grid as follicles out of a computerized limb….He wished only to find her, so close she was….To find out where this "dream" was originating itself from…Maybe there, he would realize her again. "What if that's impossible?…" The others echoed his concern.
He disturbed a field of dancing prisms, fanning their petal-like colors of light at him as stems with only triangles at the ends…He swiped at some, sending these off as though seeds on a breeze….They broke crazily away, and settled not far from where he had batted at them….An idea seeded in his head from one of these strange prism flowers, and he began to kneel, to build with what he could collect and turn by his hands.
He discovered that he could create a garden….He moved onto bordering the intended garden with "rocks" he drew from the mesh by hand, prying these upwards as blocks and settling these together as he saw they should fit….They began to draw upward, expanding outward and along a pathway at his command….He resumed this task, repeating the blocks—laying these, spreading these until they had taken up eighteen at least of the metric-gridded squares, widening in the mesh from which he pulled upward to make his "little" garden….He stood from his final square, having laid the last stone. He looked down at his work, and smiled…They shared their joy with him.
"I need soil and water," he raised his eyes.
He pulled up more stones from the mesh and began to pile a mountain, then broke it with his hands into dirt, grinding it in his fingers to become the soil for his garden.
Somewhere nearby he could hear and taste a river flowing, and pulling its course towards him, Cassius directed its water into the garden where he was finishing the task….The green mesh underneath was now covered in soil—wet, fresh, and dirt-ly—and he began to run furrows into its surface for planting among these. "I need seeds to plant," and he looked up for the prism flowers he had heedlessly knocked away….but though these were gone, she gave him more—and in Cassius's hand formed a flower so large its bloom dipped, withered, and dropped off its seeds with gratitude into his palm….He closed his eyes—he could feel her—and he could feel the seeds drop from his palm, land in the furrows of the garden, feel them grow….The air moved, the topographical borealis lines rippling, and he could almost hear her whispering love sighs to him as the seeds took root in the garden.
It was all so new….and yet the memories forming the flowers in the garden were ancient….He recognized these from his childhood—she might recognize her own flowers from hers were she not asleep….For a moment he forgot what it was like to breath—it was her first held-breath from a labor contraction….They'd had a son.
He considered an experiment, "….Isole….Solan!"
The world rippled with his voice submitting waves from his chest as he called their names, summoning them….and nothing still happened…..The next time he did it with his mind.
Isole….Solan!
Don't wake her! Don't wake her! She sleeps! When the dreamer sleeps, life wakens…..The chaos of voices demanded he stop, but knew they could not keep him from doing more if he wished to…..yet Cassius appeased the voices, and did not call with his mind again for her, nor his son….He lowered down to sit among the flowers in his garden.
He cupped his hands over two blooms, and they arose—white tereshaes into his palms, curling under his hands like coy children giggling under their touch….The craggy mountain range echoed with her slumbering build, forming and carrying forever on….and where did she hide among those if not there in that garden among the shivering blooms?….Time would tell him as it continued to rebuild….He brought his gaze back into his garden.
He wanted a cottage there beside it, and so he started to build again with his hands and memories.
A cottage, a neighborhood, a town, a countryside to travel through to the next one over….He continued to build, and when he realized he wanted a country that would not end, he made it with his own hands and memories still….reveling in this newfound power bestowed to him.