Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 98: The Gardens of Forgetting: Where Time Fades

Chapter 98: The Gardens of Forgetting: Where Time Fades

Weeks passed.

Or perhaps they were days. Or months.

Time, here, no longer obeyed the usual markers, the rigid measures of clocks or the mechanical rhythms that the outside world imposes without ever asking permission.

It seemed to have dissolved, slowly, patiently, into the warm and vibrant air of Terra Neutralis, as if this land, by nature or by will, had chosen to refuse the authority of measured time.

Here, there was only the cadence of the wind, the muffled rhythm of birdsong, the rustling of leaves, the turning of the light that never struck, the steps that hurried nothing, and the heartbeats that, little by little, had learned to slow.

The world flowed differently.

And we with it.

We still walked.

Not to reach a goal, not to flee, not to gain ground — but simply because movement, here, was no longer a constraint.

We moved forward slowly, without haste, without urgency, as if every step deserved to be lived, felt, carefully placed upon this land that asked only to welcome us.

And in that soft, almost floating rhythm, I realized that we had never lived so much as during this walk.

Never inhabited our bodies so fully, never breathed so fearlessly, never looked at the world with such disarmed eyes.

Each day, life, in its discreet generosity, offered us a new fragment of its miracle — a burst of beauty, an unexpected breath, a presence, a light.

And we were learning to receive them.

Without asking for more.

One morning, as the mist slowly rose above the dew-drenched grasses, and the world seemed suspended in a fragile state between dream and wakefulness, we came across a group of Verdhymnas.

They were immense, majestic stags, with powerful flanks and the bearing of ancient forest gods, whose branching antlers were not made of mere horn, but true leafy branches, supple and alive, upon which flowers quite literally bloomed.

At each movement of their heads, at each slow tilt of their necks, a rain of light, fragrant petals would fall, scattering in the air like a silent blessing.

And their mere passage through the meadow was enough to make buds bloom around them, as if their breath contained spring itself, as if nature, in their presence, suddenly remembered it was made to flower.

One of them approached Lysara.

His step was slow, measured, utterly without threat, and yet carried a quiet authority, almost solemn, like one ancient being coming to recognize one of its own.

He stopped in front of her, his quivering muzzle just inches from her face, and his warm breath gently lifted a few strands of her hair without disturbing her.

She, without a word, slowly raised her hand and placed it on his neck.

And he, simply, without any sudden movement, closed his eyes.

As if that contact was enough.

As if the world, in that instant, was exactly where it belonged.

Sometimes, when the light declined slowly and the sky burned in hues of copper and indigo, we chose to camp beneath the Choir-Trees — immense leafy giants with hollow trunks and roots as wide as open arms, whose foliage formed a waving, almost sacred vault above our heads.

Their presence alone imposed a kind of respectful silence, as if every fiber of wood held the memory of something older than language.

And their leaves, deep green flecked with gold, did not rustle like others.

They sang.

Not by chance, not as an effect of the wind, but in subtle harmony with the stars, as if an invisible thread tied them to the constellations, and each night became for them an opportunity to remember the sky.

When the wind blew through their branches, one did not simply hear leaves brushing.

One heard voices.

Ancient.

Calm.

Protective.

Voices without timbre, without clear origin, but whose very vibration was enough to soothe everything in us that still sought war.

It was like a choir of forgotten gods, expecting neither prayers nor offerings, yet who sang still — simply because something remained to be protected.

We sometimes made camp beneath the Choir-Trees, those silent giants with venerable hollow trunks, whose roots delved into the earth like memories, and whose wide canopies formed a vegetal vault so dense it seemed to hold up the sky itself.

Their mere presence transformed the space.

Everything became slower, softer, as if the whole world lowered its voice out of respect.

Their leaves, long and supple, vibrated with a strange precision, and when night fell and stars appeared one by one, a quiet, almost unreal phenomenon occurred: they began to sing.

Not with words.

Not with sounds one could ever reproduce.

But with a deep harmony, woven into the air, that seemed to converse with the stars above us.

And when the wind blew between their branches, it was not mere rustling one heard, but a multitude of blended voices, slow, low, gentle — ancient, calm, protective voices from a place no one could name.

A choir, yes.

But not human.

A choir of forgotten gods.

And yet still here.

One night, as we slept in the hollow of a quiet grove, sheltered from the wind and the world, I was stirred from sleep by an unusual presence, gentle but impossible to ignore.

Before me, at the edge of the fire’s flickering light, stood a Full-Nebula — a feline, nocturnal, ethereal creature, whose body seemed made of misty vapor and silvery light, as if it had been woven from the moon’s very breath.

It did not move.

It simply observed.

Its silhouette barely rippled, like a flame without heat, and its gaze, deep, ancient, fixed on Lysara, held neither threat nor kindness — only a presence, full and absolute.

It remained there for only a few seconds, perhaps less, then dissipated in a soft sigh of white ash that blended into the night, carried off at once by the wind.

I did not move.

I did not even dare to breathe.

And when morning came, bathing the foliage in a hesitant golden light, Lysara opened her eyes slowly and said simply, as if it were obvious:

— It was a dream guardian. She said my heart is almost ready.

One evening, as the sky turned to copper and the air grew heavier, almost laden with silence, we found shelter beneath the dome of an Auralith.

It was a tree of another nature, another time, or perhaps another world — entirely crystalline, its long, fragile branches forming a dome above us, woven from strands of colored glass, like a vegetal cathedral sculpted by light itself.

It did not shine like a gemstone.

It radiated.

A soft, pulsing light, almost organic, whose rhythm seemed to gradually align with ours, with our breath, our heartbeats.

It was as if the tree was reading us, not our movements, but what we carried in silence, and that it had decided, for a time, to breathe with us.

We did not speak.

There was no need.

Everything in that presence was enough.

And yet, after a long moment of shared stillness, Lysara whispered softly, almost like a confession:

— This place... should be sanctuarized. Defended. Inaccessible to hatred.

I slowly nodded, not taking my eyes off her, the words heavy in my throat before I spoke them, calm and steady:

— Maybe it already is. Maybe it repels hatred by its very nature.

The last creature we encountered that week was a Hyrran, a being as strange as it was beautiful, whose appearance seemed born of an ancient dream or a memory the world itself had forgotten.

It was a kind of terrestrial seahorse, its slender body floating a few centimeters above the ground, as if suspended in an invisible sea, its long translucent fins undulating slowly in the air, imitating with uncanny precision the movement of water, as though the laws governing its flesh were not of this world.

Its skin, thin as an amber membrane, revealed a vibrant, shifting internal light, very much like the crystal that stood at the heart of the oasis — a living glow, not merely decorative, but almost sacred.

It did not flee.

It did not wait for anything either.

It moved forward.

And we, without a word, let ourselves be guided, walking behind it for an entire day, through hidden paths, forgotten clearings, zones of pure light, never losing sight of it — until it vanished suddenly between two bushes, swallowed by the world as simply as it had appeared.

— I think it chose us. said Lysara, her eyes still fixed on where it had disappeared.

— Or tested us. I replied, not trying to hide the doubt in my voice.

She turned to me, her gaze more solemn, and whispered:

— Then I hope we’re worthy.

And I said nothing.

Because in me, at that precise moment, the same prayer echoed.

Made not of words.

But of silence and hope.