Landing on emerald blades, that stretch on forever, Molly inhales the smell of fresh-cut grass and well-tendered Forms. The fragrance releases something in the centre of Molly’s light and her shoulders relax. Twisting the kinks out her neck, from a day lent over her desk, Molly feels the pinch of her hair still trapped in a bun.
Tugging it loose, she allows her dark curls to tumble passed her shoulders. Then checking no one is nearby, she slips off her sandals and tiptoes onto the green carpet. Her light feet make no dent on the hard-emerald blades. In this moment she remembers her first feel of the Form of Grass, thirty-thousand years ago.
Breathing deeply, she lets out her breath and in the same moment stretches her legs forward, her arms out and her wings up. Spinning round she delights in the cool air flowing over, under and round her as she whirls and leaps.
Normally, her light would empty itself of the minutiae of mortal life and fill with the Long-Blue, Night-Stage and the Forever-Sunrise. But this time her light fills with the memory of a figure dancing across the grass. Lucie Morning Star, the brightest of all creation beckons her on, wanting to show her the way. But Molly wasn’t made to follow the brightest Star and now she stumbles at the memory.
Thirty-thousand years ago, Molly thought she could follow Lucie. Lucie who rose high above all creation on Night-Stage. But Lucie fell. She fell into the Wild, never to return. A wave of loss and fear, washes over Molly’s light when she remembers that moment. But she shoves the memory away, reminding herself she couldn’t have done differently. Lumini are what they are made to be, only mortals have choices. Messy and chaotic choices that need ordering.
Slowing her pace, Molly walks into the Garden of Forms. Where everything that was or is or will be is grown. Molly remembers her first time here as well. She’d just run away from Lucie and her brutal words. Thirty-thousand years ago, among the Form of all things Molly had stopped and seen Everything, and Everything had a place, and Everything was in its place. She’d found peace in that order, knowing things that are made cannot choose to be anything else.
Reaching the Always-Orchard, Molly furls her shining wings and wanders among the ancient Form of trees. Her eyes drink in the many shades of Brown and Green, and her smooth fingers caress the rough bark of Oak and the silky skin of Birch. The Form of every bird tweets, chirps and coos in the branches of the trees, flitting and flying and soaring high in the Edge of the Light. The slow pace of the trees, their whispered mutterings and the sense of time standing still calms the fire in Molly’s light.
But something still feels out of place, and Molly worries that it’s her. That there is a shadow, at her light, an uncertainty that will smoother the light of Everything around her.