By Matcha-Royaltea

Two roads diverged in a wood and I-

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

• “The Road Not Taken”, Robert Frost

Lost in the wind, a tempest-tossed petal blown far from its fallen flower, a lonely spirit stands at an invisible crossroads. 

Can you hear the humming? 

A strange soul is beckoning. 

Poor Saoirse, mother to many, friend of none. How could a daycation to the Veiled City go so wrong? But that was just it. Nothing had gone wrong, a beautiful day spent with lovely friends threatened to stretch out into perfect eternity - and ah, that was the root of the problem. It had all gone so well, right up until it hadn’t. Why? Why did it always have to be this way? Why must she always be this way? To tell you the truth Saoirse herself couldn’t tell you what changed for the life of her. All she knew was that one moment she was frolicking with her friends and fussing over them and the next her world fell apart. Wind-tossed petals blown far from any hopeful flowers. That was how she found herself here, stubborn back turned to the Veiled City as she trudged forward with the grief of a bereaved mother but the wilful misunderstanding of a child. If only things were different…

If only she was different.

Where did things start to go wrong?

Captured in a moment - just a moment! And in that singular moment Saoirse had stood alone watching her fellow spirits play, not a care in the world resonating with them. Not like her. They were in her care, daily she toiled and fretted and worried in the sake of making sure everything was perfect for them. And what did she get? A perfect picture of everyone playing without her, having fun without her. While she watched. Alone. Saoirse: Mother to many, friend to none.  

And now those friends were gone. Because she chose to walk away that day.

What was she to do now? Where was she to go? Those times Saoirse ever ventured into the Conservatory (or anywhere, for that matter) by herself were few and far between, tinged with pain and slowly withering petals. She didn’t like being alone. The solitude, it burns, burns like the heat of the noonday sun when summer’s quick, impetuous touch tears away the harvest and leaves the fields barren. Already she felt it scald the back of her head; anxiety burned hot and heavy around her neck, screaming Go back! GO BACK!!! They need you! They love you! Don’t you love them? Despite her kind thriving in the soft places, the liminal spaces, Saoirse felt her essence hesitate to carry her forward. A candle guttering in the wind. Raw and primal and scared. Such a delicate creature, she knew not what to do, overwhelmed by the innate desire to find a friend but torn by her wanderlust.

For that is the nature of living.

“You are… Alive?” 

Saoirse nearly jumped right out of her stripes! Why, who ever could that be? It was not a voice she recognised - and believe me, she never forgot those of her friends’ - so she whipped round all befuddled. Peering down at her was a strange long-necked oddity, swan-like in its slender limbs and vaguely noble air but more reminiscent of a cygnet with the way it awkwardly hovered about. Yellow coneflowers bloomed against the blue of winter, persistently, stubbornly joyful. Yet this stranger’s eyes held a blank look. Not emotionless or uncaring. Simply blank. “You feel it too? You feel alive? You know, I never thought I would glimpse what it is like to… be… until I found my way here.” 

“Hel-lo there, traveller! What brings you here to me, a little old lady who can’t make up her mind what to do?” Saoirse never spoke, she sang. Or rather, hummed. A fleeting lyricality - long-forgotten memories of a past life, maybe? - etched itself into her being, stirring a fragile peace that sought to calm her troubled mind. Not a word left her that Cymbeline could understand, not like human speak. But they miraculously understood every word, those strange vibrations causing the air to ripple in melodious humming. “You are young, traveller. I am old, very old, and I could use a friend. Will you be my friend?” 

Naturally Cymbeline looked very, very suspicious at this offer. Can you blame them? They’d barely escaped getting entangled in the Endless Bluebells, after all.  But against the odds, hope bloomed within them. For, you see, Cymbeline was alone too. No longer lonely, mind you, but alone. Which is not necessarily a bad thing - but they’d like to have a friend as of now. Good company for when they ventured into the great beyond. “You have a marvellous voice,” they hummed back, “your name, what is your name? You should come with me. You and I could discover the world together. You need help deciding what, exactly?”

Was this lonely blue phantom aware of their ghostly qualities, Saoirse wondered? Very doubtful. She could hear the eagerness in their voice, the youthful curiosity and apprehension of wanting so badly to find a friend yet unsure who or what they will find, yet that blank look behind the eyes persisted. A shadow of whom they used to be - but could that be for the better? Now Saoirse turned her sweet gaze upon them, head cocked as she observed the wraith unknowingly responding to her in kind. They appeared to be following her resonance, for what they said made crystal clear sense to her, yet all she heard in the silence of the highway not made by human hands was a sad, eerie wailing. Mourning for something they did not understand. Moreover, they were floating a good few inches in the air, their dainty legs never once touching the ground. But never mind all that. A friend is a friend no matter their size, shape, or ghostliness. “Awwwww. Thank you, traveller. I’m sure your kindness will take you a long way towards your final destination. You may call me Saoirse. Now, then!” she cried as she hopped atop Cymbeline and her little claws went tippy-tap as she whisked round and round them, “what be your name, sweetheart?”

“You may call me… Cymbeline.” How pretty Saoirse was, Cymbeline thought! Nothing like them, still bearing the scars of wintertime the Conservatory could but disguise. A late bloomer, this one. Only now had they grown their winter coat which was absolutely no help to them when the summer sun beat down upon them. No amount of fur could cover up their lankiness, their ungainliness, the shattered reflection distorted in a million crystalline shards of ice. But Saoirse? Her beauty was in her simplicity and that swept Cymbeline away. Clear-cut stripes gave her demure side a bold smile; her delicate paws were graced with claws that allowed her not to hurt others but aspire to new heights, and why, she was wreathed in pansies! Her dark, soulful eyes reflected a love for life Cymbeline themselves wished they could have.  

“Cymbeline? My dear, are you alright?? Cymbeline? Cymbeline?? Hello? Helloooo?”

Goodness! By the time Cymbeline snapped out of it they were firmly grounded once more, having slowly descended to the asphalt and white blocky stripes no mortal could ever traverse. Still with Saoirse clinging to her, by the way. Oh well. They didn’t mind. “You will excuse me, I hope. You see, I am… strange… very strange. You can forgive me if my mind wanders elsewhere?” Saoirse hummed to tell them all was forgiven, perching on their back and combing the slightly unkempt blue scruff with her long nimble claws. Already her maternal instincts had kicked into overdrive. “You still have not told me what you require my assistance with?” A question framed from equal parts curiosity and uncertainty.

Hm? What had Saoirse been up to again? She had been going… somewhere. Hadn’t she? Did it really matter? Somewhere, anywhere was good, as long as she was heading away from her old friends. (She’d cry and come back to make amends later, don’t worry. All will be forgiven for the sake of friendship.) But she hadn’t taken a single step and she’d already found a travelling companion, what luck! Then again she supposed a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt. “Ah, yes, yes. Thank you for reminding me. I am so very old, these days I grow forgetful as a little old lady,” she sighed. Cymbeline watched with round eyes as she hopped from one side of the road to the other where two junctions tapered off into different biomes - one a crooked path winding its way betwixt tree trunks twisted into unfathomable shapes, the other a straight and narrow road there was no coming back from as unnatural materials gleamed in the distance. “This, Cymbeline, you see this? These are the two paths one can walk to venture into the two Temples. This one here leads to the Temple of Silence while that one follows the Temple of Sound. But oh, I don’t know what to do! I simply can’t choose! I’m just a little old lady, where am I to go?!” And so on and so forth with her plaintive cries.

“You could tell me what the difference between them is first, perhaps?”

A chime of laughter rippled from Saoirse, a voice lost in the wind as she regarded Cymbeline. Still so young. Still so much to live for, and no doubt even more in this next life. She hoped she could be with them for their journey as long as it took. Her answer was to tug on Cymbeline’s paw and lead them to the densely wooded walkway to the Temple of Silence. “Listen.” 

And Cymbeline listened. 

And there was silence, but not completely. It was the pause in between birdsong, the space in which a breath is taken before stepping out into the unknown, a silent sigh that steams with contentment in the cold night air. Contentment but not complacency - anticipation rustles the leaves on the whispering trees, tickles every blade of grass with inexplicable, inexhaustible, peaceful and patient and above all irrepressibly optimistic hope. 

But that was not all. You could see the smile in Saoirse’s eyes from the way they crinkled up every so slightly. While Cymbeline still reeled from this unaccustomed tranquility, she led them down the runway to the Temple of Sound and placed a sage paw to their snout. “Listen.” And Cymbeline listened. 

And there was sound, but not completely. It was a lot quieter than either of them expected - but it was there nonetheless. A peculiar resonance emanated from within the Temple, neither welcoming them in nor pushing them away but simply making a sound because it could. Low and gentle it was but never steady; it jumped from wavelength to wavelength, tugging their heartstrings and teasing them by causing some indescribable emotion to stir. It was static, it was white noise, not thrumming tranquility but a tune that played itself with infinite variations on a theme, filling the empty space to ask: How can I fill the hole in my soul?

“Long ago and far away, when the earth cried as an infant, raw and new, the Mother found herself its sole inhabitant. Our Mother. Our nameless Mother. She was lost, alone, scared. So she ripped out her soul in the name of creation and the act tore the world in two. And thus the first of us were birthed to claim their own domains, and thus the earth took shape. But the oldest? Nay, they were born not of any spontaneous spark, nor to wander, but to save and revolve in orbit. Two remained with their nameless Mother, and of them the oldest boy gave his Mother a gift, a crystal, the heart of- but what am I saying? Of these they had two mothers, for when she could not love them the land did, and whereas the earth heaped blessings upon him for his dedication our Mother took the gift but rejected his soul. And then he was gone, gone, gone, the first of us to turn his back on his own transformation. But the other… Well. There are two temples for a reason.”

For the first time in a long time Saoirse’s dulcet voice sank into a harsh whisper. A rebellious song. Cymbeline stood as if the slightest touch would shatter them. 

“Our nameless Mother is not alone. Two others preside over the Temple of Sound and the Temple of Silence - changed, more, not necessarily better but more than they ever knew. Silence is Ist’s lot, Sound is Nur’s. They dwell within the soft places, the liminal spaces, and none save their Mother has ever truly known them. A child of fate and a child of innovation. Which will you choose, Cymbeline?”

Saoirse was old, very old, you see. It had been a long time since new life surged through the veins of her very nature and she had spoken for the Conservatory. Throughout this story Cymbeline stood transfixed, never once wavering but eyes lurid and luminous (with tears?) as they listened. What youthful wisdom might be encapsulated in that pale blue bosom? Only one way to find out. Now Cymbeline looked to the left and Cymbeline looked to the right. Only the slightest bit of hesitation haunted them as they took their first step over the threshold into the Temple of Sound. “You may choose otherwise, and I have made my peace with that. You know if you do, we will say farewell and depart as friends. You… You should come with me, though, I want you to. You can hear it too, I know you can. You and I hear it calling, and we want to listen in hopes it will listen to us.”

Though she herself knew not why, Saoirse was there at Cymbeline’s side in an instant, expending all that nervous energy into lithe leaps and bounds to keep pace with them.

She would follow Cymbeline, and they would get through this. Together. 

Almost at once Saoirse and Cymbeline found themselves within the Tines, the first of many rooms the Temple of Sound offers to intrepid adventurers. Even where they have never set foot, the ghosts of humans linger, their presence a fixture amongst fantastical architecture. Yet there was nothing whimsical or mystical at all about the empty space our travellers encountered - at least, not in the traditional sense. A mix of jagged concrete, misaligned tile and some entirely unnatural smooth white foundation met them, artless, guileless, but deceptively simple. Barren. Brutalist. And strangely soothing, though neither Cymbeline nor Saoirse found it in themselves to know why. 

Liminality is said to disturb the comfortable and comfort the disturbed. 

It could’ve been mistaken for an airport. But if you believe it once was or could have ever been an airport, you are sadly mistaken. For there existed no silence here, only sound and its absence - which, as Cymbeline has found, is very different from silence itself. Did it occur to them and Saoirse that perhaps they were supposed to be the source of the noise? Every step they took squeaked, even floating causing the droning, humming air to whoosh and whir, and their soft voices rang out loud and true in this most peculiar room. An echo chamber. Noises both louder yet gentler. Resonance bounces around fractalled ceilings lit by some unknown glaring fluorescence, soaks into the smooth marble mosaics beneath their paws as wildflowers stretch towards the windows… 

How are they supposed to find their way out? Or, if they so choose, further in?

Wandering around and around to the odd beat of the Tines’ iconoclastic drum, Saoirse and Cymbeline could have walked for hours and hours. Days? Months? Years? Who knows? Time was irrelevant in spaces like these. All they knew is that they were going nowhere fast. Immense halls preceded corridors simultaneously unnervingly spacious and strangely small. No rhyme or reason dictates this layout; it is meaningless, all meaningless, no beginning or end in sight. Follow a walkway with yellow squares? It leads them straight to a wall. Hop on a travelator? Though it seems naught but a straight line, when you disembark it feels as if you are exactly where you began. Staircases of all manner of shapes and sizes take you to nowhere, the railings seemingly futile for a ramp an inch above ground but equally so for those suspended in the sky(?). 

Eventually Saoirse and Cymbeline found themselves walking, walking, walking, down an unending passage lit by whole rainbows of pillars glowing with soft yet harsh pastel light. Why? Because the sunlight was not enough - look out the window and you’ll see. Oh, the window! Not windows, I might add, but a single floor-to-ceiling window that went on as far as the hallway itself, reflecting the curious travellers who pressed paws and noses to the cool pane (the first they’d ever seen). The sky here is perpetually shifting, changing, clouds chasing each other over the horizon as pinks, golds and purples are always on the verge of a new sunrise. Or sunset, depending on who you ask. This among other things was a source of much speculation as Cymbeline and Saoirse chattered and wondered how much more there was to this place. 

Can you hear the humming?They’re finally coming. 

The Tines. It makes a sound. 

Saoirse was rarely if ever alone. Anything to not be alone. And whilst she gabbled and braided tiny tufts of Cymbeline’s fur, she was glad to have a friend to explore this weird wild world with. But their meandering took them deeper and deeper into the liminal lines of the Tines and she found… They were not alone. “Hello?” 

No echo this time. But something crackled to life high above them and answered with a chime of its own, half bell, half gong, a somber note giving way to sweet song. A single word formed in her mind: Come. 

You know, Cymbeline and Saoirse actually made a pretty good team. Cymbeline bolted at the otherworldly resonance, frightened by whatever it struck into their heart, and it took all Saoirse’s coaxing and reassuring and motherly snoot boops on the head to get them to return. But this problem had a quick fix: Saoirse shimmied up their fluff and perched herself once more upon their back, the captain of a very strange blue ship. Together they navigated the halls, Saoirse calling out and listening for the answering hum, then telling Cymbeline where to go. She was used to hitchhiking on the back of her larger friends - and this beat walking any day! Especially because Cymbeline being able to float made things less like swaying atop a seasick camel. How long they dwelled in the Temple of Silence, none can say. But at long last, they found their way into the heart of the Tines: rows and rows and rows of what once had a chance to be abandoned baggage roundabouts, still slowly revolving from nowhere to nowhere around rippling pools not quite liquid and not quite metal. It was here they found the source of the resonance, each ripple and splash melding together into one melodious chime. But why? And why did it call them here? Perhaps it knew deep down they were meant to be here all along. 

What is a carousel for other than to take you along for the ride? After exchanging long, meaningful glances, Saoirse and Cymbeline embarked on the travel belts to nowhere, making themselves comfy as round and round they went. Slowly shifting and revolving round this silver pool… What did they see in its depths? What would they find? As Cymbeline rested their nose on their paws and uttered a sad, sad sigh, they peered into its depths with a look of longing for something they did not even know they missed. And Saoirse? Her pansies skimmed the surface of the water as she wondered whether she could ever really face herself, stretching out a paw and dipping her claws in to break surface tension before plunging in with a SPLASH!

Exploring the Conservatory wasn’t so bad after all. 

She should really bring her friends here. She’d hate for the Tines to feel alone again. 

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https://www.deviantart.com/matcha-royaltea/art/It-Makes-A-Sound-898588310

Base Score: 29 GP (Writing: 2941 words)
+5 GP (Conservatory Bonus)
+18 GP (Storyteller Bonus: 6 GP * 3)
Total GP per submission: 52 GP