RETURN TO THE WONDROUS WOOD
Bartimaeus Windlewood didn’t need to see through the shadows of the forest’s dense canopy to know that the small, motionless bundle cradled in Aldaric’s arms was his friend. Nor did he have to read the expression hidden beneath the brawler’s black helmet to understand that Candle hadn’t survived the airship crash. The realization hit him harder than a drug overdose, and crashed more heavily than the aftermath of addiction. As the darkly armored psion made his somber march into the village square, Bartimaeus could do nothing but stand and watch the almost funereal procession, while all eyes turned to the lifeless kobold in mute horror. Latent emotion crackled through the air like living electricity, and, overwhelmed by that which he could not bear to acknowledge, the former inquisitor began to withdraw into the rational safety of his thoughts rather than face a truth so incomprehensible.
It was then that time itself slowed around Bartimaeus. The pale, dark-haired man’s eyes began to swim whilst the world blurred into a series of ponderously nebulous shapes, as if everything around him were submerged in a thick and viscous fluid. Voices echoed across the perceptual haze, but were muffled by an acute ringing in Bart’s ears, a sound so familiar yet so frightening he wanted to listen to it and block it out all at once. Explanations, apologies and condolences reduced themselves to ambient tones heard from beyond the conceptual fog which shrouded the mind of the thrice-born psion, as if tuning the world out could dull its pain, as well.
Though from the periphery of his vision he detected other shapes nearing, the bob of Calla’s red hair and the understated glide of Meek’s approach, Bart’s mind had already begun to retreat within itself, locking away the senses to make way for his inner eye. The world was a dream, the mind reality; this was the truth that a lifetime of training had taught him in two days. Even now, as he pictured Candle’s measured, lizardlike smile, the idea of the old kobold perking up to provide a reassuring aphorism about balance and equality would be more convincing than the silent bundle of bone, scale and sinew supported only by the strength of Aldaric’s arms.
Candle is dead.
But so was Pillow, once upon a time. And Bartimaeus too, for that matter. Lantern, self-proclaimed prophet of dragons, had resurrected Candle once before, along with an entire village of those who had perished before their proper time. Then there were the giants, whose ancient magics had breathed new life back into both man and dwarf. Rumors of powerful priests whose gods could resurrect their faithful, tales of overcoming the afterlife through demonic possession, and his own experiences with the ungodly power of necromancy - it all had happened before, it could happen again. If there was one thing he had learned from the incomprehensible adventures of the Windlefriends, it was that death was not the end but a beginning, if only one were willing to pay the price.
If only… No.
Shaking his head in a futile attempt to dispel his darkest thoughts by simply dislodging them, Bartimaeus closed his eyes and let his feet tread their own way over the damp, mossy earth beneath him. Such ideas were dangerous, and once the bug was in his brain it was difficult to dig out. With every step he took over the treacherously pliant soil, his dolorous ponderings took him away from his friends and further from the woes of mortal strife. Feeling out his path amidst the clustered lanes, he soon found himself in a forest not of the physical realm but of his own subconscious. Though he had shut his eyes to the world, Bart knew through intuition that he had wandered into a realm of trees older than the mountains, wiser than the wind, stronger than the sea, and more terrifyingly majestic in scope than any material element.
He’s not coming back.
As he trudged languidly amidst the towering, cyclopean sentinels, Bartimaeus lent a metaphysical ear to their clarion call, the harmonic humming of cosmic energy made manifest. Every leaf had a song to play, every branch a story to tell, clashing and coordinating in perfect harmony by the winds of the Maelstrom. No two trees were alike, he noted; colors, shapes, sizes and textures all interspersed in wild resplendency, managing to somehow appear chaotically contradictory and completely complementary at the same time. It was all a lie, of course, a figment of human imagination to clothe and compartmentalize the eternal and infinite nature of the Maelstrom, though that didn’t make its wonders - or its dangers - any less real.
But I can’t let him go. Not yet.
Deeper Bartimaeus delved into the Maelstrom, picking up what signatures he could along the way and categorizing them as if they were variegated species of flora. In the distance he thought he could feel a recognizable yet far-off heat, and while he felt himself drawn to the denser trees like a moth to flame, Bart instead pushed aside the desire to go looking for wildfires and carried onward. Not long afterwards, the warmth receded rapidly, dropping with preternatural suddenness until the frigid temperature caused his breath to form in frozen cloudlets. This place, too, was familiar, but even after the Hellfire Jungle and the Tundra of Suffering were well behind him, still he pressed onward, through the Orchard of Knowledge, over the Bewitching Garden, and well around the Taiga of Madness.
Candle is dead...
Those thriving regions, so fantastically different yet intimately recognizable, were the domains of the people whose lives had touched his, and were amongst his favorite places to visit during the hours he devoted to meditating. This time, however, he sought a different path, down secret tracks scarcely tread. It was a part of his mind he had not visited since his awakening, but now that he had time enough to think, the astral underbrush parted before him, revealing the Wondrous Wood.
But so am I.