Rowan rolled the garnet-soul between his fingers for several hours like a loose prayer bead while arguing with himself about the smart thing to do.
He'd pondered once more tossing it into the abyss of the black pond, but his stomach twisted when he thought about watching the heart-stopping beauty of the seed sink beneath the opaque surface.
Then he'd considered the dutiful option of handing the seed over to Ciprian and begging for forgiveness. As much as he might try to deny it, the Order would consider the soul a threat to be disposed of. He was absolutely certain it was more than human.
But he refused to believe that made it bad.
Whatever this soul was, it had cried out to him for help. Was he supposed to ignore it just because it was different? He was the Caretaker. Transformation was his thing.
When he thought about it that way, the only answer was to plant the seed to see what he could make of it. Today was a day of new beginnings. The box of shortbread on his table and the ribbon he'd tied around the end of his braid confirmed it.
Heedless of his obligation to the Order, Rowan decided to plant the seed right there by his patio where he could watch it from his bed. He buried it in the dirt next to his bench where he liked to feed the birds and sang to it just as he sang to the souls of the fallen disciples, the ritual melody of rebirth flowing freely from his chest. Afterward, he finally got to share his berries with the wrens that flitted down to hop around the patio, pecking in the cracks between the stones for insects.
"Maybe today is the day I will fly away with you." Rowan sat still on his bench as he tossed berries to the wrens.
Now he sang for his own pleasure, feeling the warm vibrations flow outward from his center to his fingers and toes. The birds, always a diligent audience, gathered closer. He leaned down and held a berry between his fingers to a bird that had hopped boldly near his feet.
It tilted its head at him, tiny eye flashing in the sun. Rowan sang in encouragement, and emboldened, the wren snatched the berry from his fingers before it flittered off to a nearby bush. Rowan almost smiled a real smile, but so many years of disuse had permanently damaged his ability.
He nibbled on a piece of lemon shortbread as the birds chirped, taking a break from his own singing to listen to what they had to say. When the wrens had finished with the berries, he crumbled a piece of shortbread and sprinkled it on the ground, not ready for the birds to leave him alone quite yet.
That night he slept with his patio doors open. From his pillows, Rowan watched the play of moonlight outside until he couldn't tell if he was dreaming or awake. His vision slipped in and out of this world as he drifted, and he thought the ground by the bench pulsed every so often with a garnet heartbeat.
The next day, he tended to the souls in the garden, singing to them and urging the spark within them to quicken and release. In the evening, he sang to the soul by his bench. When he was done, he shared another piece of shortbread with his friends before retiring. Again, he slept with the doors open, even though this night was colder than the last and he had to curl up under his blankets to keep from shivering.
Rowan did this again and again, until he was out of shortbread and his dreams became fitful. When he sang to the souls in his garden, he could sense an echoing response from under the ground. But when he sang to the garnet soul, he felt nothing.
On the morning of the fifth day, he visited the garden just after sunrise. The souls had finally emerged from the dirt in a row of fragile seedlings. He reached out to the seedlings with his spirit, and under the caress of his magic, they unfurled and stretched, the shoots giving way to a pair of leaves, smooth and perfectly shaped in green velvet.
He hurried to his patio, hopeful that the garnet seed had also responded during the night, but his heart sank when he saw the dirt over the seed was as bare as ever. Rowan couldn't explain this desire that had taken root in his heart, to save a soul that others would have destroyed. It held the potential for danger, yes, but also the potential for something unknown. A true rebirth.
The desire see it through was contrary to his promises to the Order, to act only to protect the fabric of this reality from the unraveling of Disorder. He even recognized that it had become something like an obsession.
But he didn't care. Why should he keep his promises to Ciprian when the man couldn't return the favor? How many years had his Master, the so-called True Core of the Order, been promising to give him the souls of his dead sisters?
Harvesting them had been his first act of magic at the age of four. Ciprian had found him there, in the rubble of his home, mother and sisters slaughtered by a single creature of Disorder, one fresh soul-seed clutched in each of his small hands. Ciprian had plucked them away, and used them as collateral ever since.
Rowan sang to the garnet-seed all day, until his voice gave way and all he could manage was a hoarse croak. That night, even the heartbeat pulse of red vanished from his liminal vision as he stared at the spot by his bench with tired eyes. Unable to bear it, he pressed his face into his pillow.
Feeling desperate, the next morning he dug up the garnet-seed and planted it in a large, clay pot which he then dragged clacking and scraping through the open patio doors into his bedroom. He couldn't sing, so he whispered to the seed, infusing his words with as much magic as he could muster. He dozed there as he sat on the floor of his bedroom with one arm draped over the pot. He rested his cheek against the clay rim and whispered as he drifted in and out of sleep.
His magic took over, and gradually the whispers changed to words, the words changed to a melody, pushing past his raw vocal chords. He woke up singing a tune he'd never sung before, but which he would now never forget. The bittersweet sound of it made his throat tighten.
Having reached the conclusion that he'd gone mad and not being tired at all since he'd slept most of the day, Rowan left after sunset, crossing the bridge that separated the real world from the secret magic of his garden. He wanted more berries for the birds. With his liminal vision, finding them in the dark with only the light of a half-moon would serve as a much needed distraction.
Instead he walked aimlessly through the woods. Several hours passed before he found that he'd circled back to his bridge. As he crossed, a fog descended on him. It cloaked his magical vision and made him lose track of his surroundings. He felt like he'd been swallowed by shadows. His arms and legs moved of their own accord. The blade of the moon hung overhead, serving as his beacon. He dropped his basket in the yard and blindly trudged to his hut.
As Rowan approached his bed, his foot hit something solid. He lost his balance, and fell face first on the floor, arms sprawling as he tried to catch himself. The air left his lungs as he crashed into the ground. Abruptly, the shadow fog cleared.
With a flick of his wrist, he lit the lamps in the room with magic, blinking in shock at what lay before him. The flower pot lay toppled and shattered on the ground. A man curled on his side at the foot of his bed, one arm reaching toward the front door, the other bent awkwardly behind him. A trail of dirt led from the shattered pot to one of his bare feet.
In fact, his foot wasn't the only thing that was bare. The man himself was naked. The pale curve of his back faced Rowan, who jumped to his feet and reached both hands out in front of him, ready to blast the intruder with his magic.
Rowan's eyes jumped from the man to the pot and back again, and slowly he lowered his hands.
Impossible.
The garnet soul had been non-responsive. Not to mention he only grew souls until they were ready to be released into a brand new body in its mother's womb, something that must be guided by Ciprian or at the very least, one of the Acolytes. A soul could not create its own body. Especially a body like…this.
Rowan approached the body, stepping over the long, smooth legs to examine it from the front. It lay there, still as death. Black hair covered his face and clung to his neck. Now that he was closer, Rowan could see a sheen of sweat covering the man's shoulders and back.
Unsure of what to do, he prodded the new person with his foot, rolling him over so his upper half was face up, while his lower half stayed twisted to the side. He could feel the man's body heat through his boot. Rowan squatted next to the body, and his breath left his lungs for a second time in a small puff of air.
The man's skin was as pale as the moon which had guided him there, but his cheeks were painted red with fever. Thick, black brows arched up over closed eyes that were rimmed with heavy lashes. His nose was fine and straight except for a small bump on the bridge. His lips were full and slack. In short, this man—who Rowan could now tell must be a handful of years younger than himself, at least in appearance—was beautiful.
He gasped again as he took in the slopes and ridges of the slim torso, which rose and fell with shallow, labored breaths. A scar ran down from the center of his collar bone, stretching in an angry pucker of skin to well below his navel. Rowan's own face grew hot as he hurriedly yanked the sheet from his bed and covered the naked form.
He stood, unable to tear his eyes from the motionless body on his floor.
Now what?
If he touched his unexpected guest to move him, he would contaminate him. But he couldn't just leave him there.
Rowan chewed his lip. Was it really contaminating under these circumstances, when he wasn't even sure if the man would live or die? And surely the question of his humanity weighed into the decision. If he truly wasn't fully human, did the same rules of contamination apply?
He'd already thrown caution out the window when he kept the seed for himself. Might as well do it again. Just this once.
Rowan grabbed the man under the arms, keeping the sheet between their skin as a barrier just in case. He'd hate for his touch to ruin this turn of events by damaging the new body somehow. He considered putting him in his own bed, but he quickly realized he needed to do something about the fever, which burned with an unnatural ferocity.
Instead, Rowan dragged the unconscious body to the bathroom and somehow managed to hoist him into the tub. He cringed when the man's head smacked against the back of the tub with a dull thud.
He began to fill the tub with cool water, humming in what he hoped was a comforting way as the water poured out of the faucet. When the water covered all but the man's head, Rowan knelt by the side of the tub.
Deciding to do the only thing he was sure of, he sang quietly, continuing the tune from earlier. Every so often he stopped to dip his finger in the water. Each time he found the water warm to the touch, and each time he'd drain the tub and fill it with cool water once more. Finally, after who knew how many times, the water stayed cool. The red on the man's cheeks had subsided somewhat, and his face had taken on the mask of a peaceful sleep.
Rowan drained the tub, then patted the young man's body dry with a towel, careful to keep his eyes on the wall. At a loss for what to do, he settled on leaving him in the tub. At least for now.
He curled up on the floor next to the tub, wanting to stay close in case the young man woke up. Rowan laughed humorlessly to himself. Even though he'd only touched the man's skin through a sheet, if what had just happened didn't count as sufficient cleansing, Rowan didn't know what did.