I didn't even notice I was outside until the cool air hit my face. Mother had moved so quickly that, for a moment, she was just a blur, and then suddenly, the whole world followed suit. The rush of speed squeezed the breath right out of me, but oddly enough, it didn't hurt. She was gentle, as you would expect, but there's only so much this frail body can handle when it comes to G-forces.
The wind roared past my ears, so loud it drowned out the sound of the window shattering. Mother's speed was a steady blur, just long enough for me to gulp in a deep breath. She held me close, my head nestled against her shoulder, and I couldn't help but gaze upward.
But instead of the familiar blue, the sky was a vast ocean of green leaves, bathed in a golden light, stretching endlessly above us. Among the towering branches, I could just make out the outlines of buildings, like ancient sentinels hidden within the green canopy. As my eyes traced the branches back to the massive trunk, I saw where the leafy expanse came to an end. Beyond it, the sky turned dark, a canvas for a river of stars, glowing like tiny suns. This celestial river wound its way down from some distant place, painting the sky with a brilliant, curving line of light, only to fade as it arced upward again.
Surrounding the starry river, ribbons of light—like a kaleidoscope of auroras—danced and swirled in every color imaginable. The entire sky was alive, a breathtaking symphony of motion and color, constantly shifting, never still.
The contrast between the sky and the shimmering green leaves of the tree was nothing short of stunning, a visual symphony of colors that took my breath away. Or perhaps it was just Mother accelerating again, because the air in my lungs was once more trying to make a hasty exit.
As Mother tilted sharply downward, I lost sight of the sky, my view now filled with the world below. Turning my head to the side, I caught sight of the building we had just escaped from—a colossal monument of white and black stone, carved with precision into the side of a mountain. Towering, symmetrical structures rose high, their grandeur unmatched by anything I had ever seen.
Between these massive edifices sprawled lavish streets and open plazas, adorned with amphitheaters and luxurious sitting areas that seemed designed for both beauty and comfort. The buildings themselves were masterpieces, covered in intricate patterns and engravings, their architecture reminiscent of ancient Greek design. Yet, these towering structures—some easily over a hundred meters tall—would have been impossible to build in those times without the marvels of modern engineering. The fusion of the classical and the impossible made the entire cityscape feel like a dream, or perhaps a glimpse into some forgotten era of greatness.
Winged statues of dragons stood sentinel at most entrances and open spaces, their fierce poses capturing the eye and adding an air of mystique. The roofs, gently sloping and blanketed in grass, seemed to blend seamlessly with the environment. A few of the roofs, tucked beneath the shadows of taller buildings, were adorned with glowing blue plants, casting an ethereal light over the scene. The entire cityscape was a masterpiece of harmony, where nature and architecture danced together in perfect, symmetrical order. Nothing seemed out of place.
Well, almost nothing. The wind carried with it a whisper of sand from beyond the mountain, scattering it across the smooth stone paths. Elegantly dressed cleaners moved with precision, sweeping the sand away, though some of the higher walls bore the subtle mark of a battle with the elements, dusted with a fine layer of grit.
At the mountain's peak, a tower soared above the rest, commanding attention with its ornate splendor. Every inch of its surface was adorned, not a single undecorated spot to be found. Engraved pillars and statues adorned the exterior, telling stories of forgotten times. The tower rose to an impressive eighty meters, dwarfing the surrounding structures. At its pinnacle, a colossal wooden dragon lay curled in slumber, its tail draping down the side of the tower in a graceful spiral. Whether it was a carved tree, an ancient living dragon, or something else entirely, I couldn't tell. The ambiguity only added to its allure, making it the most enigmatic feature of this breathtaking place.
What little air I managed to pull into my lungs is forced out again as Mother begins to slow down. With a few powerful beats of her wings, we descend gently, as though cradled by the air itself. When she finally sets foot on solid ground, I realize we've landed on what appears to be a balcony—though calling it a balcony doesn't quite do it justice. We're in a room crafted from the same pristine white stone as the grand building carved into the mountain, but with one wall conspicuously absent. It's not just open space, though; there's something there, something invisible, that's making the gem on my forehead tingle with energy.
The space is expansive, with only a few pieces of lavish furniture scattered across the gleaming white marble floor. The marble is inlaid with intricate patterns of black stone, creating a striking contrast that draws the eye. Even here, nature weaves its way into the very fabric of the room—beautiful flowers climb the walls, arranged like living paintings. Where one might expect sealant, there are slender roots instead, as if the house itself is alive, pulsing with a hidden energy. Behind the stone façade lies a network of roots, a hidden life force that seems to permeate the structure. I suppose mold isn't much of a problem when the mold is an integral part of the house itself.
She pauses for a moment, and I feel her grip tighten just slightly as her wings fold around me, shrouding me in darkness. In the quiet, I can feel her arms tremble, battling the overwhelming urge to hold me close, to never let go. A soft sob escapes her, followed by a slow, deliberate exhale. She's calm again.
Mother gently lays me down in a small bed draped with green fabric. The softness envelops me, and I catch the faint scent of soap lingering on the sheets. As I look up at her, standing over the crib, I'm struck by her sheer size. She towers above me, her wings wide and commanding. She must be at least two and a half meters tall, with a wingspan that nears three.
I take in the sight of her two horns, curving upward at a forward angle, and her wings, which I had only glimpsed in motion, now fully spread behind her. The feathers darken to a rich green at the tips, adding to her imposing presence. Yet, despite her formidable appearance, there's no doubt in my mind—this is my mother, in this strange and wondrous world.
She just stands there, staring at me, as I meet her gaze. Her eyes, a vivid green, are rimmed with dark circles, bloodshot and weary. Is that a tear forming in the corner of her eye? When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with emotion, soft and almost a whisper. She leans down to kiss my forehead, her lips warm and tender, before she begins to gently caress my head.
I reach out my hand, small and clumsy, and manage to grasp two of her fingers—it's all my tiny hand can hold. A quiet smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, and for a moment, we simply stay like that, connected. I can sense how much she needs this, this fragile moment of peace, and I hold on as tightly as I can.
I pull my gaze away from my mother and take in my surroundings. The room is dimly lit, the warm, yellowish glow softening the otherwise cold, stone walls, making them feel just a touch more like home. At the foot of my bed, I notice a large, imposing door that seems to lead somewhere important. Beyond it, a pathway stretches out, inviting exploration.
The room itself is spacious, a grand, square chamber with a step down into the center, where a cozy living area is arranged around a fancy coffee table. The design is elegant, almost regal, with the open space inviting both comfort and awe. On the opposite side, the room opens up further, with another step leading down to the balcony where we first arrived.
My eyes wander to the decorations on the walls, and I can't help but marvel at the striking contrast in the art of this culture. Everything crafted by sentient hands—these walls, the engravings, the paintings—is awash in vivid, bold colors. Gold, black, white, green, blue—the primary hues are so intense they almost leap out at you. This vibrancy creates a stark contrast with the nature that coexists alongside these structures. The natural world here is contained yet wild, with an organic, unpredictable beauty, while the buildings stand rigid, defined by sharp edges, precise calculations, and deliberate intent. It's as if the chaos of nature and the order of man have come together in an unlikely harmony, each accentuating the other's presence.
This art speaks volumes about the values of this culture. Beauty, wealth, and a deep sense of order—both with nature and within it. It's admirable, really. These people seem to grasp the essential truth that nature is integral to existence. It's a lesson humanity has had to learn the hard way, more than once. Every piece of our technology, every advancement, has been inspired by nature's own ingenuity. The moment we start drawing lines between what is natural and what is not, we lose our way and get lost in self-righteousness.
By living side-by-side with the most exquisite and unique expressions of nature, with life in all its myriad forms, we can learn from them, just as they can learn from us. It's about finding balance, living in harmony, where both man and nature thrive together.
If only we had understood the importance of interaction with even the simplest forms of life. Understood how sacred our shared nature is like these folks. Then again, a massive glowing tree could have helped with that.
As I settle into my new bed, a sudden commotion outside catches my attention. I turn to look at my mother. She hasn't budged, still standing there, frozen, her gaze locked on me. Is mommy okay? I want to ask, but words aren't exactly my strong suit right now.
The shouting fades into silence. After a moment, the sound of wings flapping fills the air, like a flock of giant birds taking flight just beyond the wall. Then, the door swings open, and a tall, slender man steps into the room. His horns curve sideways, but the wide doorway easily accommodates his entry. He closes the door slowly, his head turned away from us, facing the door instead.
With a quiet click that seems unusually loud in the heavy silence, the door shuts. He lingers, his hand trailing over the handle, as if trying to stretch out the moment before he finally turns to face us. His hand droops off the handle, and he tilts his head back, eyes searching the ceiling as if looking for answers up there. He speaks, his deep voice resonating powerfully in my ears, but even the strength of it can't mask the note of hesitation I catch.
I glance up at my mother, but she remains fixated on me, seemingly unaffected by her partner's strange behavior. Father, I presume, speaks again, his tone measured as he turns and starts to walk towards the hallway. Mother responds with a soft hum, her eyes still locked on me, though it's impossible to tell who she's truly seeing.
Time drifts by as Mother hums softly to me. She remains so still for so long that a flicker of worry stirs within me. Is she waiting for me to fall asleep? Alright, I'll oblige. The lights dim, and I let my mind begin to drift. Before long, I slip into a dream.
In the dream, I'm seated in a chair, and across from me sits a figure, also in a chair. His hat is tilted low, obscuring his eyes from view. He speaks, but the words are incomprehensible, almost as if they're being spoken in a language I should understand but don't. Stranger still, his mouth doesn't move—yet I hear him clearly. How can that be? A wave of frustration washes over me.
Then, words start to appear above his head, floating in the air. I can read them, but their meaning escapes me. The disconnect between what I see and what I understand leaves me feeling annoyed, as if I'm grasping at something just out of reach.
He speaks to me again, but his mouth remains still. No words materialize this time, yet I somehow understand him. The emotions he stirs in me feel misplaced, as if they're not quite where they belong. A strange, unsettling sensation grips my heart.
I wake up to the scent of food wafting through the air. Yes, I realize with a pang—I haven't eaten in quite some time. That sheep girl was just about to feed me before Mother arrived. As I open my eyes, I see Mother sitting beside me. She's pulled up a chair and placed a table next to my bed. On the table, there are two plates of food, though one is already empty. I turn my eyes toward her, curious and hungry.
I barely catch a glimpse of her gloomy expression before it brightens the moment she sees I'm awake. She picks up a small spoon—comically tiny compared to her large fingers—and scoops up some food from the plate, gently feeding me. Quite the luxurious treatment, really. And no, I don't feel a shred of shame about being fed like this. After all, I am a baby, regardless of what my mind might be insisting.
Go away, feelings of shame, frustration, and desperation. Wait—an image of the hatted man flashes through my mind, and I latch onto that unsettling feeling of desperation. It doesn't belong here. I shouldn't be feeling this. Honestly, I don't care all that much about the situation I'm in. The emotions that feel truly mine are simple satisfaction and happiness. Maybe a touch of shame, just a bit, but desperation? That's definitely not something I should be feeling.
Because I'm not. It doesn't even feel like a true emotion—more like a strange, intrusive thought. It's as if I'm experiencing it from behind a window, distant and detached. I turn to look at my mother. Her face is a study in concentration, and I can tell she's putting in a lot of effort to feed me right now. I mean, that spoon is ridiculously small for someone her size. But it's not really the spoon that's the issue, is it?
I grab her hand and pull myself closer to the spoon. With a determined effort, I shove the spoon into my mouth and start to push myself upright. My back muscles flex as I force myself into a stiff, sitting position, still gripping Mother's hand for support. I turn toward her, eager to see her reaction, searching her face for any sign of an emotional response.
Her eyes widen in surprise. I expected that. But there's something else, too. I focus on her intently—hesitation. Interesting. Mindreading is so useful.
I release my grip on Mother's hand. Thanks to my training on the pedestal, I manage to stay in this upright position, but the surface of this bed is a different challenge altogether. Despite my best efforts, I start to tip backward, though my pose remains unbroken. I end up with my legs in the air. Hmm.
I look at Mother. Mother looks at me.
"Bleh," I say, and that's the final straw. Mother finally cracks. A giggle escapes her lips, which makes me giggle too. Her giggle turns into laughter, and soon I'm laughing right along with her. We laugh together, the sound filling the room, and I can feel her joy and amusement washing over me. So far, so good. I hope this feeling lasts.
Then her laughter begins to fade, turning into soft giggles, then quiet, shaky exhales. Finally, she stops. A single tear falls onto her hand, and she stares at it for a moment before the dam breaks. She turns away from me, her body wracked with audible sobs.
I've seen this before. One of the worst lies you can tell yourself is that bottling up emotions is a sign of strength. An emotional person builds a dam, holding back their feelings to function or to protect their beliefs. But it only takes one small crack, and the whole façade comes crashing down.
The real question is: why did she feel the need to act tough? These people just had a child—they should be overjoyed! But instead, the father barely shows up, and now the mother is breaking down. What the hell did I miss?