Nymphflora Mossfern's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The two joined ponds glowed behind Nymphflora as she waded deeper into the dark. She knew that small stretch by heart now. Every reed, every glowing bloom. But past its light the swamp spread out black and endless. She could not wake what she could not see. She had no map. She did not know how far the water went, or where it ended. Still she walked, because the swamp was dying, and she was made to bring it life. "You keep looking outward," the fairy said, drifting beside her ear. Moss trailed from the tiny fairy's hair. Her green wings caught the faint light. "You cannot hold the whole swamp in your head. Stop trying. Put down one true root. Let the swamp answer." Nymphflora stopped in soft mud. She knelt and pressed both hands flat. She did not strain. She listened to the pull in her chest and let it sink into the ground. "Grow here," she whispered. "Show me where I stand." Moss spread from her fingers in a wide, thick carpet. Ethereal flowers opened across it. Soft mushrooms pushed up and glowed pink and blue. The patch grew and grew, brighter than anything she had made. Then the ground trembled. Stone rose through the moss. A tall pillar lifted from the mud, carved with old runes and wrapped in vines. Faint rings of light circled it. Nymphflora fell back, breathing hard. She had not asked for stone. The swamp had given it. She touched the pillar. Warmth spread through her hands and into her chest. It felt like a marker, like a center. From here she understood. She did not need to map the whole swamp at once. She only needed to wake it one rooted place at a time, and each place would guide her to the next. For the first time the endless dark did not frighten her. She sat at the base of the pillar and stayed. Days passed. She meditated in its glow, letting the peace settle deep. Then brush cracked. Branches snapped and swept aside. Heavy boots pushed through the reeds. Nymphflora scrambled up behind the pillar. A young man stepped into the light. He was tall, with black hair and green eyes, a sword at his hip and a bow across his back. His plain travel clothes were streaked with grey rot from the deeper swamp. He stopped when he saw the glow, then saw her. "You made this," he said. Not a question. His eyes moved over the moss, the blooms, the pillar. "The land is dying. It killed my trees. Then my horses. Three of them, grey, no wound." He looked at her small frame, her leaf clothing, and frowned. "You grow things. I need to know how you stop the dying." Nymphflora rose, heart pounding. She had waited to wake the swamp alone. Now a stranger stood in her light, hunting the same sickness she was made to heal. Her quiet work was quiet no longer.