This story amidst the Tales of the Navel: The Shadow Forest was the result...
What existed before the Garden of Arachne was a blurry memory, punctuated by vivid images. Dyvian didn’t fight these visions the way his arachocratic ladies and relations did. He allowed them to strike his mind, pentrating his thoughts like a droplet of rain upon a pond. He could see the pond in those moments, the spray rising from millions of droplets of water hitting it, changing color. He felt the cool kiss of the spray from where he sat at a table across from Lord Stefan Ashelocke, just the two of them alone with the falls.
Yes, he remembered Stefan. Back when he smiled, loved, plotted, and schemed. Before he surrendered to the arms of his Lady Duessa, becoming the First Marriage Feast. A still icon of beauty, immortal and unchanging standing at the very center in the mazes of Duessa’s garden.
In the visions, Stefan possessed life and color, wearing a midnight doublet which matched his raven hair as he lifted a tile in his slender fingers, placing it in a careful arrangement of waves, wands, crystals, and lightning bolts. It was all part of the game, a symbol of a greater game he sought to impart to his nephew. “Most people simply find a pattern, see it as the pattern. It’s a rare player who creates his own pattern amidst everyone trying to convince him to set the pieces in a pre-conceived design.”
Eyes as rose-purple as a gem or a flower, eyes Damian would one day possess, met Dyvian’s own, filled with mockery at his own wisdom. He allowed his fingers to linger upon the wand he’d just placed.
Dyvian looked down at the lightning bolt upon the bone in front of him, his own hand tingling with images of a pine twisting in the wind. Perhaps a lightning bolt would stroke it. Perhaps a wand would be taken from its branches. He could smell the metallic odor on the hillside, warning of the coming storm. He could feel the splash of water against his face, the first raindrop signalling its coming.
Perhaps these images were impressions left upon the bones by their former owners before their remains became game pieces. Perhaps they were part of message left for anyone who played this game Stefan teased Dyvian into again and again. Perhaps they were simply part of the meandering path Dyvian wandered in his own inner landscape.
Or perhaps the tiles were just telling him what he already knew. It was dangerous to play with the Lord of Mystere, even if he was no more than a memory. Ah, but Dyvian held onto that memory, not wanting to resist it. Why would he? No one resisted Lord Stefan, no one. Even the Lady Duessa, who’d put an end to his games, had once been a violated and adoring victim.
No more. The lady had consumed her former husband, draining his essence, his energy. Nothing remained of Stefan but a statue, a beautiful shell. This was why Duessa told her court and the boys blossoming in her garden. This was what many chose to believe.
Was it true? Stefan had left his imprint on many places in Mystere, lingering in the garden, in the memories of those who’d loved him. No, Stefan remained if you were willing to look for him. To let him into your thoughts.
Dyvian glanced at the pond next to their table, their game, dappled with reflective light. Sometimes the light changed color. You could catch a glimpse of a lost soul, a missing memory with those shifting hues if you looked closely. The fleeting images clinging to the tiles gathered together in each droplet of water, waiting to be found.
It wasn’t a lost memory Dyvian looked for in the sparkling color. It was an ideal, a secret desire. A youth’s fair face, beardless, framed by wavy dark hair, dominated by a pair of green eyes, brilliant as any emerald. Exquisite.
Shameful to imagine any boy being more beautiful than those growing in the Gardens of Arachne. Everyone knew they were lovelier than anything outside of Mystere. Lord Stefan’s sacrifice had released this beauty, this potential in every male who came after him. This strange boy was the culimation of that grace, yet somehow untouched by the garden. Dyvian could see the innocence, an eager willingness to be guided coupled with a hunger vying with any arachocratic lady’s within those green eyes. They tempted Dyvian with their silent longing.
This boy he saw with the waters of the pond was Dyvian’s secret, much as these conversations with Stefan was. An arachnocratic boy might dally with others, but he was destined for his bride. One day a lady would claim him in a Marriage Feast, drinking his life, his vitality, all that he was in an ultimate night of ecstacy. Nothing would be left of him but a beautiful statue standing in his lady’s garden.
Every boy in Arachne lived for that moment, that night, that ecstacy. One day Dyvian would give himself to that passion, aroused and brought to a climax by his bride.
No point in disturbing anyone with his perversion, the secret passion for this green-eyed youth who might be more than any bride could be. A boy who might one day become flesh. The pond was, after all, a portal to the Shadow Forest where all dreams were possible. Who knew what might emerged from its waters if Dyvian wished hard enough? Who knew whom might come to him, born from his own desire.
“A life is the ultimate pattern.” Stefan watched his nephew, weighing his words. “Ask yourself, Dyvian. Just what is the point of the game? What do you hope to achieve?”
“To become one of the few who creates his own pattern.” Dyvian smiled at his uncle. “Whatever he might evolve into.”
Stefan raised a hand over the tiles in what might or might not have been a gesture of benediction. “You don’t disappoint, my dear.”
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