Moon on city neighborhood. Breeze talking through silver leaves. Sounds plain? Maybe, but I assure you it's as/more beautiful (and more gentle) than anything you've seen of late.

Rowan tree. The berries flushed bright lipstick-red, leaves flashing silver mirror bellies towards the moon - Rowan's a moon-tree anyway, a special one. It knows its name well. Thus: a friend to wizards, who strain themselves often in naming things, and so are grateful when something knows itself well.

So: the Rowan, under the moon, standing tall, trunk flaring as it approaches ground - like the hips of a woman. Smooth bark and the soft susurrus-sigh of leaves. The earth is raked neatly around curling roots - and the roots curl, neatly, around a girl, pale in the moonlight, face opening like night-blooming flower up towards the stars. Late enough so that, metronomic, her chin dips towards her chest in heart's rhythm. Her hands on her knees, palms up, like flowers too - orchids, with thin filament-petals. Wizard's blood thump-thumping tribal drum style in the hollow of her throat, in her wrists. That's why she's out here, of course: soaking up the holy moon-light, and paying her respects to the stars and the tree. Meditating like she's on consecrated ground - which this now is - wizard's home where great works are done.

It crumbled to ash, she says, in the language of trees - speaking with the soft sigh of breathe, the way her soot-dark lashes brush her cheeks. How lovely, how subtle, how sad. I'm sorry. It was really beautiful. It was so helpful. But it got burned out - I'm sorry.

Don't worry, the tree - speaking soft like a mother. It's all right. There's more where that came from - I have branches to spare - but you... and your star...

The moon shines, a pearl button sewn into the black satin sky. Is there still an aurora? The pop of radiation on skin? Can it still be felt? Is it really gone forever?

The face falls into the hands (flower closes) - and is there crying? No. That's done, and done and done, and Nita is still aching, but she can't cry anymore. Instead she just pinches at the bridge of her nose. Remembering.

I'll miss him.

Ah... says the Rowan, sighing. I understand. He is not lost to you forever.

But the night is so huge, colored sulfur by streetlights and - it seems - so empty... and how can she possibly forget him? She talked to a star, hot, salt-white, laughing, her friend. Called by a stupid kiddy earth name because they couldn't manage the long one... her friend.

Without thinking, she asks, will it always be this way? Will it always hurt this much? I don't...

You need not do this, the Rowan says gently, if it pains you so unbearably.

And there is that choice, isn't there?

But the thought - the very thought of abandoning this new world, of stars, of trees, of magic and danger, that colors the world more vivid, that calls to something hot in the back of her mind that wants to rise to the occasion... how can this be abandoned?

The fire of the forge was hot - too hot to waste. She is fuel, now, for this new destiny, and even if she burns up in wizardry...

No.

She's done something.

I can't give this up now.

Grieve, Liused says, And do not forget. And your friend will be grateful.

The moon is white as salt and high, high in the sky - round and open, bright enough to read by (this - from experience). An open eye to another world. Nita knows the taste of moon dust now, and the taste of her own tears - and does not find them sweet enough to weep forever. The night is sweeping the dusty world and all she knows is that she has friends that she must not forget to love.

END

6-28-06