2024-10-09 Watching And Waiting - Henri
Oct 26, 2024 18:42:21 GMT
Andy D, Orianna Èirigh, and 1 more like this
Post by Henri Fitzroy on Oct 26, 2024 18:42:21 GMT
By all accounts, Henri should be packing up the few things still strewn about his room. The few jackets he has acquired over the past few months stick out from the wardrobe, their arms beginning to show signs of wear and age. Slacks and shirts lay draped over the posts of his bed or a chair in the corner; tossed aside in a not-uncommon fit of laziness or hurriedness, or both. And atop his desk, amongst parchment and ink and a fabulous silver pheasant feather quill, are the ruby figures.
The rose rests in its crystal vase, as brilliant as ever. Each morning, Henri turns it in the light so that it catches the rays just so, and speaks a few words to the Archwyrm Throdrazz. Not many, nor for long, but enough to start the day. An observance about the weather, or about a particular event of the day, or a holiday that has come. Never further ahead than a day, nor older than the previous night, but a note about the present: a buoy in the swells of time; a lighthouse on the cliffs of possibility.
The sun has risen over the tops of the nearby buildings though, and the rose is not what has caught Henri's attention, but the bonsai. It is just as brilliant, just as gorgeous, if not of a different sort due to the thickness of the gems that make up its trunk and leaves and branches. Normally it rests on the window sill, watching the world go by. Today, it is surprised to find itself moved.
By all accounts, Henri should be packing up. Cain is waiting for him. But he cannot tear his attention away from the bonsai. Time has been kinder to it than to most of its ilk, but it has still left its mark. Dust streaks the tops of the ruby branches. Emerald leaves rest darker along the edges as wood smoke draws its fingers around them. The crushed garnet dirt is uneven and messy. The amber box is scuffed and in need of a polish.
Prestidigitation would make short work of it, but something draws Henri to clean it by hand. The small corner of a handkerchief is enough for the bulk of it, to remove the age of months, but the smaller areas require his calling force a silver thread to carefully poke the fabric through. The work is slow; meditative; and save for the low din of patrons of the Four Fair Winds, entirely silent.
Perhaps it is just procrastination, but something nags at him. The cleaning, the careful caretaking, soothes him in a way that few things tend to. Even flirting is exhausting after a time, the demand of needing to be consistently on something that he does not always regret leaving for a quiet room and a cold ale.
Perhaps I should ask Florian to teach me the finer points of gardening, he muses quietly to himself, smirking lightly at the thought. Though I doubt most gardening has so many gems to work with.
Finished, he leans back to inspect his handiwork. It certainly shines better than it did, the light filtering through translucent emerald to rest on ruby, but it isn't perfect. There is still something amiss. Idly, he drags a finger along one of the branches, stopping when it catches on a burr, frowning.
The tree has been growing, he realizes, collecting crystal just as its kin do in the deepest caves of the Underdark. Slowly, to be sure; slower than any other plant he knows of (though he knows of very few, another question for Florian), slower than most would have the patience to care for. For one with a foot in Infinity, though, such things are trivialities.
It would need to be pruned, he realizes.
Some branches cut, to make room for new growth.
The dead or dying wood removed in service of the whole tree.
Someone needs to take care of them. The words from the Architect float to the front of his mind. The words of his oldest friend, the words of his longest friend. Not all possibilities can come to pass. Not all things can be Infinite.
Henri reaches out, eyeing the bonsai with a newly critical eye, and snaps a piece off.