#leon writes

Ariel Kingston

Ariel had been imagining this moment for almost a year. At first, it was a faint what-if while they were teaching one of the younger Wundersmiths, Cathaoir Corcoran, the Art of Weaving. Then, it was something that they thought of more and more often, and it became serious.

Wundersmiths hadn’t been around a long time, only about three or four generations. Almost everyone (even some Wundersmiths) still wondered if their cycle was going to be around forever, or if it was simply a short phenomenon that they were lucky to see. Ariel wanted to create something permanent. Something that would last, and show the legacy of Wundersmiths, even if they would fade into the past.

Something that would show what they had stood for.

Ariel stood in the vast chamber of Van Ophoven, a stately but empty room often used for the few formal functions and traditions the Wundersmiths hosted. Ariel remembered Emmeline Van Ophoven, a Wundersmith who’d been old when they’d been found. She’d been larger than life to that ten year old, but she’d taught them well.

She’d taught them Weaving first.

Ariel was excellent at all of the Wundrous Arts, as were all of the Wundersmiths (except Cathaoir Corcoran, but he’d come along. After all, they were only nine), but they especially delighted in Weaving.

Ariel started with flowers, magnificent magnolias and sunflowers rising high. With them, Weaving was a dance, a joyful, ever-evolving one like the ones that swept through the city on Morningtide. From their fingers sprung roses, dahlias, and the carnivorous white pitcher plants (which they’d been taken with as a child), fully grown and in full bloom.

Next, they moved onto the trees they’d always imagined after hearing folk tales by the fire, before he was brought to the Wundrous Society. Starting as small sprouts, they led them up towards the ceiling with his fingers, as elegantly as a conductor of an orchestra. The trees were silver and gold, with leaves that changed color when Ariel tilted their head.

For the last piece of their plan, they walked around the beginnings of the garden, and where their feet stepped, stepping stones were left. They shimmered like stained glass, but were as hard as diamond.