An Offering of Echoes

Once the decision was firmly made, its finality became ingrained in Zen's very soul. It resembled a perfectly smooth, glacially cold stone falling into the inconceivably deep well of a forgotten well; it was silent as it descended and had a significant impact, bearing not only a great deal of weight and an indisputable coldness but also, ironically, a sharp, crystalline clarity. He would give this mourning area a memory, a piece of his soul. However, which one? The decision was a precipice in itself. It would be a blatant affront to the oceanic anguish that permeated every particle of this haunting land, a parody of its hallowed grief, to gift something insignificant, a petty bauble from his past. On the other hand, giving up a memory that was too fundamental, a pillar of his own identity, would have crippled his ability to function, to traverse the perilous journey ahead, and to finally complete the complex, silent job that Icor had so subtly, yet so purposefully, set for him.

Normally piercing and critical, his eyes now wandered, lured to a single, spectral light in the somber emptiness: a glistening, opalescent stream of rainbow light. In contrast to the hazy sadness that filled the air, this light came together, however dimly, to form the fragile, nearly translucent shape of a young girl. Her shape was just perceptible, a glimmer of a picture contained in the throbbing, lambent hues, yet she was unquestionably a focal point, the center of the field's unadulterated, infantile sorrow. With an instinct that overcame conscious awareness, he realized that he needed a memory that would connect with her fleeting spirit and the broken innocence she so poignantly symbolized. A child's unadulterated grief has to be echoed by something pure.

Zen started to go through the layers of his past with the methodical, detached accuracy of an experienced archivist choosing a rare, priceless item from a large and silent collection. This interior excavation was devoid of affection or sentimental warmth, merely the targeted purpose of his search. Then, like a preserved flower, a memory emerged from the deep vaults of his early years, unexpected yet remarkably clear. It was a snapshot of his own far-off youth, a period before Icor's shadow had cast its shadow over his existence, before the iron-clad discipline and unwavering serenity he now wore like a heavily guarded second skin.

The recollection was surprisingly straightforward in its structure, but it throbbed with the pure, unadulterated happiness that only a child can genuinely feel. He envisioned himself as a tiny person sitting beneath the benign, sprawling branches of a huge, sun-dappled tree. The sunlight was reflected into dancing patterns on the ground by its leaves, which were a vivid tapestry of greens and golds. He saw himself in a field, similar to this sad one, but its grasses were gentle, emerald, and hospitable, not brimming with the dormant hatred that characterized this location. Beside him was his mother, her face a warm, fuzzy blur in the memory, an image of her that was affectionately blurry, as so many of his earliest recollections of her had been over the slow eroding of time. A crown of wildflowers, a tapestry of blues, yellows, and reds gathered from the meadow, were being woven by her delicate and skillful fingers. The sound of her laughter, which he could almost feel instead of just hear, blended with the happy, busy buzzing of bees amid the flowers.

A glimpse of a perfect world that had not yet revealed its thorns or spoken its first disillusionment, the memory was infused with an almost palpable sense of safety and unconditional affection. Giving up this specific piece of his history would mean losing one of the few untarnished ties to a time when he was innocent and full of feeling, before the weighty burden of knowledge and all of its responsibilities had permanently fallen on his impressionable shoulders. He was aware that this would be a real sacrifice, a real part of who he was.

Zen said the word "Alright," which was less a spoken word and more a shaky exhale, a silent nod of agreement to the invisible powers of the field. Instead of closing his eyes in prayer or supplication, he did so in a state of intense, unshakable concentration, concentrating all of his energy and will on that one, sun-drenched moment from his distant past. He vividly recreated the scenario in his memory, hearing the resonant echo of his mother's soft, joyful laughter, seeing the delicate, colorful petals of the wildflowers, and feeling the phantom warmth of the summer sun on his child-skin. Then, with an intentional, conscious will that was like cutting a vital, life-giving thread in his own soul, he extended his mind's reach, shifting his awareness to the girl-soul's glistening, sorrowful light. Instead of aiming the memory at her like a projectile, he chose to open himself and let the very essence of that unadulterated joy, that deep sense of safety, that moment of untarnished being that was lost forever flow outward as a tender, heartfelt offering, a shared echo in the bleak silence.

The transition was not marked by a dazzling beam of light or a dramatic, theatrical rush of energy. Instead, Zen experienced a quick, acute, and visceral agony of absence where the treasured memory had just been, a deep, even cavernous, hollowing emptiness that unfolded inside the darkest recesses of his mind. It seemed as though a tiny, well-lit, and cozy room in the enormous, maze-like palace of his mind had suddenly turned dark and freezing, and its priceless contents had disappeared without a trace. He took a half step and staggered as a dizzying wave swept over him. He had been able to tolerate the air's cloying, funereal richness, but now it felt more oppressive, nearly suffocating. Once merely a melancholy background hum, the melancholy, ethereal lullabies that constantly floated through the field now temporarily irritated him with a fresh, raw, and startling sharpness. His surroundings seemed slightly, but inexorably, changed, as though a vital hue had been permanently removed from the spectrum, leaving behind a more subdued, less colorful reality.

His eyes squirmed open as he forced them open, briefly blurring the scenery. The child-soul, the particular manifestation of rainbow light that he had directed all his energy upon, was nearer. From within the ominous golden expanse of the lethal wheat, it had drifted a few steps in his direction, its many hues pulsing with a gentle, repetitive, even questioning rhythm. The small, youthful figure in the light appeared to cock its head in a gesture of immature interest. The aggressive, almost tangible defensive aura of the nearby area felt... reduced, but there was no overt expression of thanks or abrupt, joyful change in the somber environment. Quiet. Like a wave pulling back from the shore, the tangible animosity had subsided.

Zen looked down at the golden wheat in front of him, the identical stalks whose thorns had seemed so obviously hostile, so ready to ward off. He held out a gloved hand cautiously, slowly, and with a lot of abun dance. The closest stalks, the ones that had whirled toward his first, insufficient offering of the stone, were motionless. Even though their thorns were still there, sharp and dangerous, they appeared less angular, their aggressive angles softer, and their predatory intent lessened. He brushed his fingertips against a head of grain with incredible care and the utmost gentleness. There was no burning pain. There was no further extension of the viciously sharp spikes, and they did not aim to punish his touch or his temerity. They just let it happen. A quiet, almost grudging, compliance.

A thin road, hardly wider than his shoulders, was starting to appear in front of him, a faint break in the thicket, heading farther into the glistening, golden, and sorrowful emptiness. With the towering stalks stooping slightly and their menacingly spiked heads now turned away from him, the wheat on either side of this new, ethereal trail was slowly, almost imperceptibly, dividing. Although it wasn't exactly a warm welcome or something particularly enticing, it was unquestionably an allowance. It appeared that a passage had been approved.

The eerie lullabies persisted in their melancholy refrain, which was still quite sad, but Zen noticed—or at least fervently hoped he noticed—a new, faint underlying note woven into their age-old lament—a tone of... acknowledgment? Or was that simply the result of his own passionate hope, an expression of his own deep relief from the offering's tremendous emotional and mental burden?

He stepped purposefully onto the newly created path, then again, feeling the strange sensation of the earth beneath his boots giving way. The earth felt unexpectedly soft, even inviting, underfoot. There was a localized truce in this field of sadness as the tall wheat on each side rustled softly, a sibilant whisper in the quiet air, its thorns still visibly retracted in his immediate proximity. Now he was really in the field, surrounded by the tall golden grain and the ghostly, gently throbbing rainbow lights of the countless Children's Souls. The cloying sweetness still pervaded everything, the air was still thick with silent loss, and the deep sense of ancient sadness was still very much present, but the immediate, aggressive, and defense had dramatically and locally subsided.

He had unquestionably paid the price, a piece of his own irretrievably lost history. It seemed that the path was suddenly open, at least for him and for this particular moment. In solemn, silent reply, the mysterious Garden of Lost Lullabies was allowing him a shaky, cautious sight into its very heart of sadness, and he had shared a priceless piece of his own long-lost innocence.