#fullyfunctionalapprentice

I make my way through the streets, over bridges until at last I am on the road that leads into the forest. After the warmth of the streets, the shade of the trees is cool and refreshing, but I am just as much on my guard here as in the city. I’m well acquainted with what the woodlands may offer in their defense and step carefully, wrapping a sense of harmlessness about me like a cloak.

It isn’t long before I find one of my favorite trails to follow, noting the tracks of the other animals who have used it before me. No humans, at least not recently, and that is always a good sign. It may be that my gathering can go quickly and I’ll be able to return to the shop before sunset. That is my plan regardless, but it would be nice to do so with a full basket.

As I find my favorite herbs and flowers, I pause occasionally to simply bask in the silence. Out here, silence is nothing like the silence of the city, where there is always something to remind one that, not so very far away, there are people. Here, there’s the whisper of wind through leaves, the sudden sharp rustle of creatures over the ground, the distant call of a bird. I find it calming and think that perhaps I should come out more often, rather than wait till I need something.

I continue, deeper into the forest, though by now my basket is almost full. Still, there is one spot in particular I always like to see-- a little spring falling over a course of rocks on its path to the sea. I’m still some distance from it when my senses pick up on… something. I pause, tentatively pursuing this sensation. I nod to myself as it resolves into the familiar. At least, as familiar as Turel can ever be.

I’ve met him occasionally in these woods, and even shared meals, but I never actually expect to run across him. Even so, it’s always a pleasant surprise when I do. As I enter the clearing of the spring, I glance about, focusing on the familiar details of the landscape and finding amid the trees Turel’s form, sitting and looking expectantly in my direction.

I offer a wave and as I draw near, he extends his own hand in greeting. Once I’m near enough, I set my basket down to take his hand. My fingers are dwarfed by his, but I’m far more conscious of the care he exerts with the gesture. I can’t quite place why, but this is not quite like our usual greeting.

His eyes never leave mine, and I feel as though he’s taking in everything about me, looking far beyond the surface to the cluttered mess of my soul, and for a moment I consider drawing away, unable to bear the scrutiny. Instead, I feel him lift my hand to his lips, placing a warm kiss to my knuckles as his gaze strips me bare.

It’s such a gentle gesture. Reverential, even, but it leaves me entirely undone. I can feel tears stinging at my eyes, my mind rebelling at the notion that I could deserve such gentleness, such consideration. I choke out a little sob, but instead of running away, I watch as he takes my hand, turning to press another kiss to my palm. His eyes are closed this time, but that doesn’t make the gesture any more bearable.

I’m beyond being able to run, and instead drop to my knees, my hand still held with infinite care. I do turn my face away, but there’s no hiding the fact that the tears are streaming freely down my cheeks. My thoughts roll into a vicious circle of whys, the noise in my head far louder than any marketplace.

“You do deserve kindness.”

I don’t hear the words so much as feel them reaching in to soothe the turmoil of my mind. The whys have been answered, and even if I’m not sure I can believe the answer, I have a moment of reprieve. I rub at my eyes with my free hand, embarrassed at the display of emotion, and feel a gentle tug on my hand.

I glance up, feeling very much the idiot, entirely lost and out of sorts as Turel offers a patient and kind smile. A gesture with his free hand invites me closer, and soon I am settled in his lap, head resting against his expansive chest.

Jinana has been finding more time to be in the forests around Vesuvia of late, wildcrafting herbs for the shop and goods for the kitchen. This time of year, one may find king boletes, hen-of-the-woods, and even chanterelles amid the trees and mosses, and pine nuts abound.

Of course, there is another reason s/he has been making the time to explore the wilds, often with Anjali in tow (when the sky does not promise rain). S/he never quite knows where or when, but sometimes s/he will encounter the peculiar giant of a man s/he once found amid the falling rain, sitting silent and still as a stone.

Turel is a craftsman, a maker of things, his huge hands capable of finer and more delicate work than one might expect; Jinana knows just how delicate and fine that touch can be. S/he isn’t quite certain how to define what is between them - it is something born of the strange magic of being in wild places, and the way two people can sometimes read one another’s unconscious cues. Very often they will go with less than a handful of words exchanged, but communicating all the same.

There is something about him that is so soothing to hir, his energy a deep and steady current, in such contrast to the restless, chaotic energy that crackles through hir being. But when they are together, it’s as if hir own energy slows its pace to match his - the way a heartbeat might, or breathing.

Today it is cool and misty, and Jinana draws hir shawl more closely about hirself as s/he casts hir glance over the trees, looking for distinctive fungal formations. Ah, there… a mass of delicately frilled shapes clustered at the base of a tree. S/he slips hir gathering knife from hir pocket and bends down to harvest the fruiting body of the mushrooms.

When s/he rises again, s/he is only mildly surprised to find that s/he is being watched with silent interest. Jinana smiles and offers some of the bounty s/he’s just gathered; there’s plenty about. But Turel declines with a gesture and a small smile; instead, he beckons hir to follow. Intrigued, s/he does.

It’s a fine walk; they cross a couple of small streams, and Jinana mentally marks the location of a few persimmon trees. Right now their fruit will be astringent, but as fall deepens they will sweeten. They come to a part of the forest where firs congregate, and Jinana gathers some of the fragrant needles for teas and bath herbs.

Turel hunkers down at the base of a stand of trees, indicating little cleared spots in the leaf litter, probably the work of animals. Jinana, too, peers down at this. Summoning hir mage hand spell, s/he pushes the debris aside with a gesture. Beneath, s/he can just see three paler objects poking out of the dirt. Curious, s/he uses the same magical force to dig them out.

They are small white truffles, growing amid the roots of the trees, a true treasure of the forest. Jinana indicates with a tap to hir lips and a small wink that s/he will preserve this secret.

They spend some time in companionable silence, absorbed in the hunt for the elusive fungi. S/he takes only as much as s/he and Heron will be able to use; the delicious life-span of a truffle is finite, after all.

With the bounty secured in hir gathering basket, Jinana takes a moment to sit back against the trunk of a tree, watching ants trailing their way across the roots. S/he had almost forgotten how soothing and restorative it could be just to sit quietly in nature; humankind has tried so hard to distance itself from such things. Spending these brief times with Turel has re-taught hir the lesson that even a magician - perhaps especially a magician - is at their best when they take a moment to reconnect with the natural world.

Closing hir eyes, s/he reaches out with hir othersense, feeling the life that surrounds hir. The tree at hir back, hundreds of years old but thrumming with vigor, sharing its strength with its fellows through some mysterious web of connection. The ants’ nest below the ground, seething with activity and purpose. Squirrels, birds, insects… it is a vast jeweled net of living things, each with their own energy.

And s/he feels Turel’s energy, familiar to hir now, at once entirely harmonious and very different to that which surrounds them. S/he has not asked, but s/he suspects that, like the tree, he is a being of centuries, and perhaps more. Human, and perhaps not human… but human enough.

It is his energy which announces his approach, for his step is very light for one of such size. He seats himself next to hir, and Jinana leans lightly against his side, letting the contact ground hir in every way. S/he fancies that s/he can feel the wild magic that swirls and leaps within hir coming to rest, settling like water in a bottle. 

They stay like this for a time, a sort of meditation. When s/he opens hir eyes again, s/he feels calm, refreshed, even invigorated. S/he sees that while hir senses were elsewhere, a large mantis has taken up a position on Turel’s knee; seeing hir move, it spreads its wings in a defensive posture. The absurdity of it makes hir laugh, and this proves too much; the insect takes sudden flight.

It feels good to laugh. It feels good to be out of the city, in the greenness and the mist, away from it all. It feels good to be right here, in this moment, resting against the calming solidity of Turel’s body. He seems somehow more solid, more real than anything else, in a way that Jinana cannot explain.

Turel’s quiet answering chuckle is less a thing heard than a thing felt. Moving with a certain deliberation, he lifts one hand, gently running the backs of his fingers along hir jawline. The gesture is a question, one that Jinana answers by rising to hir feet, standing before him. S/he reaches out and tips his chin upward, bending down slightly to place a kiss upon his lips - he is so large that were he to kneel, still he would tower over hir. It is only when he is seated like this that s/he can reach him at all.

It is because of this difference, and because of Jinana’s own inclinations, that he yields to hir in these things. Jinana knows perfectly well that this is but a thing permitted, because it suits him to do so. But there is something thrilling in feeling such strength held in check, in commanding that strength for hir pleasure, however temporarily.

S/he runs hir fingers along Turel’s jawline as s/he pulls away, then grins and makes a particular gesture, speaking the words of magic under hir breath. S/he rises easily from the ground, levitating hirself to where s/he can be seated upon a nearby branch, more than hir own height off the ground. Smiling, s/he beckons with one hand.

Turel rising from a seated position is a sight in itself; it almost seems as if he will never stop rising, until finally his full height is reached. He steps over to where Jinana reaches hir hand out to him, palm-up. He takes the hand in his, where it immediately seems lost. He presses his lips to the flower of henna on hir palm, looking very slightly up at hir with amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Jinana laughs in return, the sound becoming a sigh as he places a kiss on the inside of hir wrist. His eyes on hir are unblinking as he works his way up hir arm in a slow, steady trail of kisses and caresses. S/he has become accustomed to this unwavering gaze, the way he regards all things. S/he loves watching the way those eyes change with desire, their darkness deepening.

Turel reaches hir shoulder, the side of hir neck, and as he draws back to choose the next part of hir that he will give his attention to, Jinana leans forward to kiss him again. S/he parts hir lips, feeling him answer the deepening of the kiss with tremendous gentleness... but no lack of heat.

When s/he releases him once more, he continues his journey down the other arm, ending at the matching henna-traced flower in hir other palm. He then begins anew at the henna that graces the top of one foot, hir ankle, traveling up hir leg, his hands pushing up the fabric of hir skirt before him. Teasingly, Jinana keeps hir thighs pressed together; s/he knows what he wants, and he knows the game they are playing.

Only when Turel has made his way back down the other side does Jinana relax the tension in hir legs, allowing them to part. His huge hands skim up hir thighs, over hir hips in the bunched-up fabric of hir skirt. They come to rest at hir waist, long fingers wrapping around hir ribcage. It isn’t hard to feel the strength in those hands, and s/he gives a small shiver of delight.

“Lie down,” she tells him. To hir surprise, he brings hir with him, lifting hir effortlessly from the branch. Cheeky. But he lies down on his back on the mossy forest floor, and places Jinana so that s/he straddles his chest, his hands moving lightly over hir legs. S/he leans in once more, savoring a long, unhurried kiss. Then she lifts hirself up, bunching the skirt around hir hips and waist as s/he kneels over him, slowly bringing hirself within reach of his waiting mouth.

Turel’s lips are full and soft; his tongue is like an instrument of divinity. He explores hir differently with every caress, seeking out every source of pleasure. Jinana tucks hir skirt into place so s/he can thread hir fingers between his locs, hir hips starting to move of their own volition.

S/he tips hir head back, moaning softly; he needs no further encouragement, no verbal cues. His lips and wonderful tongue move with hir, giving more when the movements of her body demand it, backing off when s/he lifts herself away, drawing it out a little.

But it feels so good that s/he sees no reason to deny hirself for long, and the difference in their sizes frees hir to grind hirself against his face with abandon, moaning aloud with pleasure. His soft answering sounds are so deep that s/he feels them resonate through hir body, and this, too, adds to the sensation. S/he has no idea exactly what it is that he is doing with his tongue, only that it feels incredible. S/he grips the long locs of his head, lost to both moderation and reason as she feels hirself rising and rising, a split second of weightlessness… and then the great breakers of orgasm roll over hir, drowning hir in pleasure. S/he can hear hir own voice crying out, startling some small creature that dashes away through the underbrush.

But that isn’t the end of it; Turel is both patient, and very clever. His hands rest on hir hips, encouraging hir to stay, to take hir pleasure from him again… and again. When Jinana is finally released from the grip of ecstasy for the third time, she can feel hir legs trembling almost uselessly to either side of his head, barely able to hold hir up. After giving a final few kisses to the tender skin of the insides of hir thighs, Turel assists hir to rise.

Jinana laughs at the wobbliness of hir own legs as s/he untucks hir skirt, letting it fall to cover hir once more. S/he seats hirself on the soft moss, urging Turel to rest his head in hir lap. S/he bends down to kiss him once again, upside-down; the sutras of the art of love say that the greatest pleasure of the kiss is when both may kiss the fullness of the lower lip. Jinana cannot resist sinking hir teeth into the plumpness of his lower lip, just a little, before raising hir head again.

Of course, he has been holding his own desire in check, while s/he rode him to hir satisfaction. S/he thinks that s/he would very much like to see him bound in silken ropes, to leisurely play the games of endurance that s/he favors... but alas, the wilds are not ideal for such things. Still, there are other diversions to be had.

“Touch yourself for me,” she murmurs with a smile, arranging the locs around his face with gentle fingers. “I want to see.”

S/he is fairly certain there is nothing s/he could say or ask for that would shock Turel. He gives hir the impression of being… not jaded or weary, but well-experienced, one who has seen it all and still finds wonder in the world.

It’s a lesson s/he could stand to learn.

Jinana bends once more to visit soft kisses to his cheeks and forehead, sharper kisses to his lips and chin, as he eases himself from his clothing to hir view. S/he runs hir hands over his chest, amused by how tiny they appear upon him, feeling the very slight raising of the skin over the tattoos beneath hir fingertips.

S/he continues to visit kisses and caresses as he strokes himself, his eyes finally sliding closed to shut himself in with the sensations. Jinana places kisses here, too, with exquisite lightness, feeling the faint trembling of each shuttered lid under hir lips.

He is quiet in this, too, as in all things. His body moves gently against the ground beneath him, cushioned by the thick moss. Jinana watches, fascinated, a part of hir taking note of what causes him to sigh, to move a little faster (though, as in all things, he is unhurried in this too).

The sounds he makes are quiet, but Jinana feels them transmit themselves through hir thighs, through the very ground. S/he watches his face change with his pleasure, until climax crests through his body, too, shuddering beneath hir hands.

Jinana continues to cradle his head in hir lap as he relaxes, still gifting him those little gestures of affection, because it pleases hir to do so. And when Turel’s eyes open again, s/he smiles down at him.

Being caught out in the rain has never troubled Jinana; there is a certain voluptuousness to allowing the heavens to drench you, while drops patter musically upon the leaves and the distant thunder mutters. As the sky opens up, s/he simply draws an oilcloth over the top of hir gathering basket to protect today’s bounty - wild herbs, ground cherries, pine cones heavy with their seeds.

Fall in Venterre can be warm, and so it is today. S/he is in no hurry or discomfort as s/he makes hir way back to Vesuvia proper through the dense forest in rain-wet clothing. It is rare enough for hir to get a chance to escape into nature these days; it is also hir habit to take a different path every time, just to see what s/he might find.

Ahead, s/he spies a great chestnut tree, an elder of its kind, one s/he has not seen before. There is no reason not to investigate it, perhaps to add to what s/he brings home today. S/he makes for it as the rain continues to fall around hir in a soothing susurration. 

Realization washes over hir like the rain: from a distance s/he had thought that the tree was curling itself about a boulder, perhaps, but no. It is a form much more human, though of such a scale that hir brain at first refused to categorize it correctly.

Hir first instinct is to creep quietly past, leaving the seated figure in peace. It seems to be that of a man, though one of immense size compared to hirself. The figure is unmoving, the rain beading off of dark mahogany skin and dripping from the ends of tremendously long, ropy locs of hair.

But the figure is so still, so unmoving, that he does not even appear to be breathing. A dim concern blooms within Jinana, and s/he carefully makes hir way closer. His eyelids, fast shut, do not even twitch when errant raindrops splash upon them.

“Hello?” s/he ventures, quietly, so as not to be startling. There is no response. “Are you well?”

Nothing.

Jinana’s othersense, that part of every magician which is attuned to the root of their magic, gives a strange frisson as s/he comes near to examine the unnaturally still figure. Seated on the ground, the top of his head still reaches the level of hir collarbone. There are several frogs seated in turn upon his folded legs, seemingly unconcerned, and one begins to sing.

A visual examination reveals little else; s/he cannot even see a pulse in the throat. Approaching more closely yet, s/he sees that one massive hand is resting lax upon the earth next to him. It is easily three times the size of hir own, possibly even four.

Jinana slowly reaches out to press hir fingertips to the inside of a wrist bigger than hir own arms. His skin is neither warm nor cool; perhaps the rain is carrying away the heat. And s/he feels nothing else under hir fingers - no movement, no tension... and no pulse.

Yet, the energy here is strange - not that of one dead, but something... slow, in the way that a mountain or a glacier is slow, something deep in the manner of the ocean.

Jinana reaches out with care, placing hir hand over the other’s partially-exposed chest, seeking a heartbeat. Was that one, a single isolated beat? Or was it merely hir own pulse? S/he dares to press hir ear to the still chest, but in that brief moment of contact hears nothing.

Pondering, s/he looks up into the man’s face, so still that it seems carven, the features sculpted as if by a bold hand. S/he reaches up, and very gently pushes a rain-dampened loc of hair away from where it hangs in his face, tucking it carefully behind his ear.

And s/he finds hirself beheld by a pair of eyes as dark as hir own - no, darker yet. They regard hir, unblinking, two fathomless pools. And yet, there is much behind them, unguessed at. S/he realizes that he has been aware of hir this entire time, as undisturbed as if s/he had been a butterfly flitting through the vicinity, alighting upon his arm.

A faint smile softens the strong features, and once again Jinana senses something very old and profound, something s/he cannot place... but in the next heartbeat it is something else, something warmer, something with the same feeling of the life-song in the leaves and the grass.

“Did I startle you?” His voice is soft, quiet, even soothing, yet Jinana can feel it resonating in hir own ribcage, as if the earth itself speaks.