[ The furrow of Viktor's brow smooths with surprise, relief. Even on the Source, life persists just as it ever had, wherever it can. It should not be so shocking. Gardens, well planted, will thrive even if left unattended, growing wild in ways you never expect.
And as to the farm's former human residents - he chooses to believe that they were among those rescued, folk who will be happy to see their flocks well when they eventually return. Who will not struggle to feed themselves as they reacclimate to their own home, who might share a harvest with neighbors, with friends they'd made amidst all this harship.
That anyone could look upon his star, glimpse these pockets of things doing and being in spite of everything, and still find this existence wanting is so utterly baffling. ]
What a happy surprise, mm? [ He allows a smile while Emet-Selch tests his work. It is more than sufficient, he knows - a master botanist would not settle for less - and cannot help but snicker at that considering hum. ] Perhaps there are many such hidden gems left to find back home.
[ He nods along to Emet-Selch's advice he flattens his palms against the earth. Easy to find the seeds amidst the dirt. Little dots of potential, not quite yet kinetic, there humming against his senses.
He shuts his eyes, focuses, finding the thread of one. It is almost nothing to dig metaphorical fingers into the make of that first seed, and just as Aepymetes had pulled his own soul apart to read its story, so too, now, does Viktor unravel thread. Except here, rather than merely read, he takes that spark of potential and guides it up the line.
Roots unfurl, life emerges, pushing up through the earth into sprouts. Viktor lifts his palms, and the growth follows, little firework bursts of green and brown as stem turns to bark and leaves explode along its length. He repeats the process with two more plants, then pauses to fashion stakes for them out of aether repurposed from nearby excess earth. Those, he sets by hand, and resumes growing as he guides each vine upon its support.
He is silent through the whole process, still not quite skilled enough to make conversation as he wades half his consciousness into the weave to Create most effectively. And also, simply enjoying the act of Making far too much to split his attention. It is, he thinks, not unlike being devoured by the work of embroidery. Each movement, done with care, with intention, requiring focus, but so rhythmic as to become rote.
Plants grow, winding upward, and finally, Viktor arrives at the most exciting part: fruit. He spares Emet-selch a beaming smile before he proceeds, proud of the work he's done, delighting in the familiar color of Lominsan grape vines, lusciously dark when set against Lakeland's sea of pale violet.
How impressively easy, how pleasing it is to grow, watching seeds become something lush and eager to be coaxed to fruiting. It is work he feels almost meant for in a strange way. Viktor hardly notices how heavy his limbs become as he feeds his own aether into the first plant, guiding buds to flower, then flowers to clusters of fruit. Larger, larger, larger.
As he lets the plant gorge itself, his mind wanders. There is, he thinks, a hopefully not-too-distant future where he tends a garden, one he can call his. There, Emet-Selch sits at a table, sips his lunchtime tea, watching him work as he complains about some new and complicated matter Sharlayan has set in their lap. Some bit of business that will call the two of them to the far reaches of their star once more.
Their future, Viktor thinks, a little dizzy.
He has been acquainted with his limits before. Near more times than can be counted, in fact. They are old friends at this point, he and his breaking point, met briefly before he is wrenched back, ever pulled to heel by Hydaelyn.
Except, Hydaelyn isn't here anymore.
Clumps of green ripen to wisteria colors cast with a silver sheen as they continue to swell. And that is where Viktor finds his limit, in the wrongness of the color, in the glow. Time seems to slow, then, pulled out infinite, like the moments captured between Nabriales's palms. Viktor turns to Emet-Selch, but the action takes more effort than he expects. He extends a hand, palm open, meaning to grasp for the greater pool of aether, except-
Except the hungry plant he's fostered has him. And it is not he who guides growth, but the plant that pulls him along. Viktor feels himself go thin as the grape vine siphons him nearly dry. The world spins and hums, vibrant and beautiful, an explosive riot of colors as everything around him becomes thread, more gleaming and gorgeous than dragon fire, more blinding than a Warden's Light. ]
I feel w-weak.
[ His spool reaches its end. His arm, too heavy to lift, falls limp to his side once more as the plant before him erupts with monstrous new growth. There is no bright burst, no horrible noise or calamity. Viktor simply falls, the vines sprawling out to embrace him, twining over legs and arms, warm and familiar - his own aether, made green, embracing him, as twilight fades to dark. ]
on my hands and knees begging myself to write shorter tags christ fdsjafd i'm so sorry
And as to the farm's former human residents - he chooses to believe that they were among those rescued, folk who will be happy to see their flocks well when they eventually return. Who will not struggle to feed themselves as they reacclimate to their own home, who might share a harvest with neighbors, with friends they'd made amidst all this harship.
That anyone could look upon his star, glimpse these pockets of things doing and being in spite of everything, and still find this existence wanting is so utterly baffling. ]
What a happy surprise, mm? [ He allows a smile while Emet-Selch tests his work. It is more than sufficient, he knows - a master botanist would not settle for less - and cannot help but snicker at that considering hum. ] Perhaps there are many such hidden gems left to find back home.
[ He nods along to Emet-Selch's advice he flattens his palms against the earth. Easy to find the seeds amidst the dirt. Little dots of potential, not quite yet kinetic, there humming against his senses.
He shuts his eyes, focuses, finding the thread of one. It is almost nothing to dig metaphorical fingers into the make of that first seed, and just as Aepymetes had pulled his own soul apart to read its story, so too, now, does Viktor unravel thread. Except here, rather than merely read, he takes that spark of potential and guides it up the line.
Roots unfurl, life emerges, pushing up through the earth into sprouts. Viktor lifts his palms, and the growth follows, little firework bursts of green and brown as stem turns to bark and leaves explode along its length. He repeats the process with two more plants, then pauses to fashion stakes for them out of aether repurposed from nearby excess earth. Those, he sets by hand, and resumes growing as he guides each vine upon its support.
He is silent through the whole process, still not quite skilled enough to make conversation as he wades half his consciousness into the weave to Create most effectively. And also, simply enjoying the act of Making far too much to split his attention. It is, he thinks, not unlike being devoured by the work of embroidery. Each movement, done with care, with intention, requiring focus, but so rhythmic as to become rote.
Plants grow, winding upward, and finally, Viktor arrives at the most exciting part: fruit. He spares Emet-selch a beaming smile before he proceeds, proud of the work he's done, delighting in the familiar color of Lominsan grape vines, lusciously dark when set against Lakeland's sea of pale violet.
How impressively easy, how pleasing it is to grow, watching seeds become something lush and eager to be coaxed to fruiting. It is work he feels almost meant for in a strange way. Viktor hardly notices how heavy his limbs become as he feeds his own aether into the first plant, guiding buds to flower, then flowers to clusters of fruit. Larger, larger, larger.
As he lets the plant gorge itself, his mind wanders. There is, he thinks, a hopefully not-too-distant future where he tends a garden, one he can call his. There, Emet-Selch sits at a table, sips his lunchtime tea, watching him work as he complains about some new and complicated matter Sharlayan has set in their lap. Some bit of business that will call the two of them to the far reaches of their star once more.
Their future, Viktor thinks, a little dizzy.
He has been acquainted with his limits before. Near more times than can be counted, in fact. They are old friends at this point, he and his breaking point, met briefly before he is wrenched back, ever pulled to heel by Hydaelyn.
Except, Hydaelyn isn't here anymore.
Clumps of green ripen to wisteria colors cast with a silver sheen as they continue to swell. And that is where Viktor finds his limit, in the wrongness of the color, in the glow. Time seems to slow, then, pulled out infinite, like the moments captured between Nabriales's palms. Viktor turns to Emet-Selch, but the action takes more effort than he expects. He extends a hand, palm open, meaning to grasp for the greater pool of aether, except-
Except the hungry plant he's fostered has him. And it is not he who guides growth, but the plant that pulls him along. Viktor feels himself go thin as the grape vine siphons him nearly dry. The world spins and hums, vibrant and beautiful, an explosive riot of colors as everything around him becomes thread, more gleaming and gorgeous than dragon fire, more blinding than a Warden's Light. ]
I feel w-weak.
[ His spool reaches its end. His arm, too heavy to lift, falls limp to his side once more as the plant before him erupts with monstrous new growth. There is no bright burst, no horrible noise or calamity. Viktor simply falls, the vines sprawling out to embrace him, twining over legs and arms, warm and familiar - his own aether, made green, embracing him, as twilight fades to dark. ]